Arrival

  As for the family, the father was a perfect match for the horses. Somewhere in his mid-30’s, he was of average height but wide, and he looked strong as hell—like, “World’s Strongest Man” strong. He carried a two-handed hammer that could probably have vaporized Mark in a single blow, and he was utterly unbothered by the rain despite it falling in sheets that poured off his oilskin poncho. The woman’s size, in contrast… zoinks. If these two were a couple, Mark didn’t even want to think about the mathematics of procreation in their relationship. She stood under the awning behind the wagon, utterly dwarfed by the size of the thing, and had her arm around her son, who was already taller than her despite still being a child. Mark’s best guess placed her at no more than 4-feet tall. Between that, her narrow features, and a set of slightly pointed ears, Mark was left wondering if she was human at all. He hoped so, because she was staring at him with such intense anger that Mark was growing worried that she was about to reduce him to ashes with a thought.

  “Gods, lad,” the man said, pulling Mark’s attention to him. “You’re a sight, ain’t you? What are you doing in those woods? Damned close to the fog to be wanderin’ about.”

  “It, ah, wasn’t by choice,” Mark said. Realizing that ‘I came from another planet’ probably wasn’t an ideal explanation, he decided to wing it.

  “I was on a class quest,” Mark said, hoping the last message he’d received was part of a universal pattern in this world. “I had to go into the forest for something and, well, let’s just say it didn’t end up how I’d hoped.”

  That seemed the right thing to say because the woman’s face bloomed with sympathy.

  “Oh, you poor dear,” she said. “What kind of sadistic class sends a singl’d into the forests of the fog coast on their own? If the mists had rolled in, you might’a wandered into the mad fog itself!”

  “Now there, Rosie,” the man said. “You know not to be askin’ a man about his class path. Whatever it was, I’m sure he realizes it ain’t worth it and will avoid such foolishness in the future.” He glared at Mark with an expression that left no questions about his own thoughts on the matter.

  “Will I have to go into the forest when I’m Level 6, da?” the boy said, his voice fearful.

  “Of course not!” The man said. “A Blacksmith does his quests in the forge, not the forest.” He grimaced. “I wouldn’t want any class that forced me into forests like these. They’re a nasty place, infected with wraiths and carrids. Whole packs of them.”

  “I thought you said wraiths weren’t real!” the boy exclaimed.

  “’Cause I didn’t want you sleepin’ in our bed for the next month!” the man said.

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry your head, Gavin. You’ll be fine,” the man said. He looked at Mark. “You’ll be wanting a ride then, I’m guessing? If so, I’d like to know your name.”

  “Mark,” Mark said immediately, his voice full of gratitude. “Mark Sullivan.”

  “Sullivan, eh?” the man said. A hint of suspicion entered his tone. “Not a name I’ve come across, and I’ve come across most of ’em in Palmyre.”

  Mark grimaced, his mind racing. “Yeah, that’s not surprising. My family is new to Palmyre. Truth be told, none of us have even been there before. I came this way without them because of the quest, which I think we can all agree was an exercise in stupidity.”

  The man grunted in agreement. “You’re refugees then?” the man said.

  “No, nothing like that,” Mark said, although it was something to make a note of. Refugees meant bad things happening elsewhere in the world—he’d need to make it a priority to get abreast of local events. “We just found ourselves in a situation where moving on would be better for everyone.”

  “Can’t say that surprises me,” Rosie said. “Lots of folks come to Palmyre if they find themselves out of work elsewhere. Probably even seems like a good idea at the time.” She was about to say something else, but her husband waved her off.

  “Now there, dear, he’ll find out soon enough. As for you, lad, you look like you could—”

  “Enough with the questions, Darius,” Rosie said, patting Mark on the back. “Let’s get you in the wagon and give you a bite to eat.”

  “That’s what I was about to say!” Darius shouted.

  “Well, you didn’t say it fast enough!” she shouted back, whacking Darius in the leg even though she had a twinkle in her eye. “Lad, you climb into the back of the wagon. I’ll see what we can share.”

  Mark smiled in thanks and headed to the back of the wagon, only to stop in his tracks when he discovered that the massive size of the wagon meant that the tail was at eyebrow level. How in the hell was he supposed to climb up? There weren’t even any ladders Mark could see, so he either had to make it up on his own or ask for a boost, but Rosie has specifically said to climb up, and the last thing he wanted was to seem like an incompetent burden on these people.

  With a grim frown of determination, Mark tossed his staff onto the ledge and jumped up, flinging his arms over the ledge, barely managing to stop himself from sliding right back onto the ground.

  Now dangling with his chin on the back of the wagon and his arms outstretched on the rough wood, Mark’s legs flailed wildly as he tried to swing a foot up onto the ledge. It wasn’t easy, but Mark eventually managed to get his right foot on the wagon tail. He pushed with the foot and was able to get almost all the way up, but his body wanted to swing under the wagon tail when he got to the lip, so he adapted by mashing his face into the wood and basically log-rolling the rest of the way onto the hard platform, flopping onto his back and panting wildly.

  “You don’t look well,” Rosie said, sitting calmly beside Mark’s head. He sat up in surprise at her presence, just in time to see Gavin swing down a small ladder that was mounted to the side of the wagon before scampering up beside her.

  Son of a…

  “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Rosie asked, sparking Mark out of his reverie.

  Mark grimaced. “Um, four, maybe five days?” he said. “Could be more. I was, uh, unconscious for a bit of it.”

  The woman sucked air through her teeth. “Five days!” She dug around in one of the crates and pulled out a small hunk of cheese and some bread. “Eat this. Not too fast, mind you. Otherwise, you’ll just throw it up. We’ve got some ale here as well to wash it down.”

  Mark smiled thankfully and took the food. Unable to help himself, he immediately ripped a huge chunk of bread off with his teeth, only to receive a hard slap to the back of the head for his efforts.

  “What did I just say!” Rosie snapped. “It’s our food. You want to eat it? You eat it like I tell you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mark said sheepishly.

  She smiled and nodded. “That’s more like it.” She nodded to her husband, and he disappeared around the side of the wagon. There was a brief tilt to the vehicle as the large man climbed into the driver’s seat, then the wagon started moving. It couldn’t have been very comfortable for him up there in the rain, but he hadn’t seem bothered by it earlier. It probably helped that the wagon wasn’t being slowed down by the rain, thanks to the Roman-quality road they were on. It would have been murder trying to get a wagon like this down a dirt road in these kinds of conditions. The place would be a mudball.

  The child tapped Mark on the shoulder.

  “I’m Gavin,” the boy said. “I’m six years old. I’ll be seven next month.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “You’re only six? I would have guessed ten, at least.”

  Apparently, that was the perfect answer because the boy beamed in response.

  “I know! Everybody says I’m big for my age. I like it. You have to be big to get the Blacksmith class so you can use a hammer all day. And if I’m big, then I can have a big successful business with my da and we can work together until we both die and turn into worms.”

  Mark blinked a few times and glanced at the boy’s mother. She simply shrugged as if t
o say, “eh, kids.”

  Mark smiled at the boy and then refocused on his food, making sure to eat it in slow, measured bites like the woman had instructed. She’d only given him a small amount, so it didn’t take long for him to finish, but he felt full nonetheless. When he completed his meal, she handed him a waterskin, which he took gratefully. It held some kind of light beer that had an unusual consistency. Like a wheat beer but without the citrus taste. It was okay, but would take some getting used to. And Mark figured he’d have to do just that. Given the somewhat medieval nature of this world, a beer like this was probably what they drank instead of water.

  Oh well. No matter how it tasted, a beer for breakfast was better than dysentery for dinner.

  Mark smiled at Rosie and Gavin when he finished his meal.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. “For the food and the ride. I honestly don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t run across you.”

  Rosie smiled at him kindly. “That’s okay. It’s not an easy world out there. Us peasant folk? We stick together.”

  She slapped him on the knee and continued. “See, in Palmyre, there’s only three kinds of people: The peasants, the criminals, and the Families—who are just another kind of criminal when you get down to it.”

  “Mama, you shouldn’t say that,” the boy said. “What if he’s with one of the Families?”

  Mark looked at Gavin and saw real fear in his eyes. Whoever these Families were, Mark didn’t want anything to do with them.

  “Don’t worry, my love,” the mother said. “You know I could tell if he was.”

  Mark looked at her and saw a sparkle of… something in her eyes. It was simultaneously off-putting and reassuring, which left him with an odd sensation. He didn’t know what it meant, but it did answer one question: Whatever this woman was, she was not entirely human.

  Mark forced himself to smile. “No, I’m not with any of these ‘Families.’ Truth be told, I don’t even know what they are.”

  The woman cackled. “Oh dear, lad. You will soon enough.”

  Mark tried to smile again at her comment, but the way she said it was a tad too disturbing for real mirth.

  “Ah grob fenk—”

  Mark immediately cut off his speech when it came out garbled.

  “What’s was that?” Rosie said, but Mark was already focusing wholly on his hand.

  It had started to twitch.

  No. No-no-no. Keep it together.

  Mark was well aware of how epileptics were treated in olden times, and it wasn’t good. He had no idea if the same prejudices held here, but he desperately didn’t want to be cast aside by this nice family, so he shoved his hand under his cloak, hiding the spasming from view. Internally he kept chastising the limb, trying to will it to stop its motion.

  Gavin said something, but Mark couldn’t understand; the seizure twisting the boy’s words into something unintelligible.

  Now both Rosie and Gavin were looking at Mark with concern. He knew he would be in a full-blown grand mal soon, and the last thing he wanted was to fall off the back edge of the cart, so he pushed backwards, only for his unwrapped hand to bump into the staff he had tossed up earlier.

  Immediately, Mark felt a powerful connection to the staff that hadn’t been there before. He knew this feeling, this resonance. The wood cried out for that turmoil inside him, and Mark instinctively fed that desire, pushing the building storm away from him and into the wood.

  Threads of resonance ripped free of Mark, sinking into the staff and opening a path to freedom. A way to make it through the seizure's onslaught without being overwhelmed, like a surfer who ducked beneath the waves and only padded in the troughs.

  At first, Mark was in awe of his good fortune. But as the power fled him and built within the staff, he felt a resistance form. In horror, he realized that what he was experiencing wasn’t solace, it wasn’t a reprieve. At best it was a delaying tactic. What’s more, with every thread of resonance he pushed into the staff, the more resistance he felt. What started out as feeding a desire became rolling a boulder uphill. Yes, the storm was still being pushed into the staff, but now he had to actively hold it there, to keep it at bay. And if he let go, the entire thing would crash back down on him in a single, simultaneous torrent that he very well might not survive.

  “You don’t look too good, Mr. Mark,” Gavin said.

  Mark’s eyes flicked over to the boy, and he forced out a smile. “Just a bit chilled,” he croaked.

  Rosie seemed less willing to accept his answer. She tapped him on the sleeve and held out her hand. “That’s the dehydration. Here, give me your hands. I’ll give them a nice warm rub.” The words were kind, but there was a serious set to her expression.

  The force building in the staff was becoming a challenge for Mark, and he was growing concerned that he had made a terrible mistake.

  “I don’t mean to alarm you,” Mark said, gathering his courage. This was happening, whether he wanted it to or not. “I have a condition called epil—”

  “HOLD!” Darius hollered from up front. His voice reeked of concern.

  Rosie’s eyes snapped over to Gavin. “Into the trunk.”

  “Yes, ma,” the boy said, immediately diving into a container hidden amidst the ingots and barrels. Rosie turned to Mark.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  Mark tried to ward her off. He could feel his control slipping, and it could doom the whole family if they were relying on him. “I’m not very good in a fight—”

  “You’re good enough for my food!” she snapped. “You’re good enough for my wagon! If you’re good enough to take from us, then you’re good enough to give.”

  Mark stared at her in shock. Then her words sunk in, and he nodded. “Us poor folk got to stick together, right?”

  She gave him a stiff nod, jumping off the wagon and into the rain. Mark couldn’t help but notice that she had no weapons whatsoever. Definitely a caster. All Mark had was his staff and a pair of hands that were shaking with increasing frequency, building in unison with the anxiety he felt in his chest. Still, she was right. He had accepted their help; he needed to at least try and reciprocate.

  Mark held the staff tightly, uncaring that the lines raced visibly across wood and flesh in response to his touch, the storm of his seizure causing the whorls to trace an agitated frenzy that glowed with a shifting rainbow light. There was nothing he could do about it, though, so Mark turned to drop himself off the wagon tail, only to see Gavin’s saucer-wide eyes peeking out at him from under the cracked-open lid of the trunk.

  As soon as the boy realized he’d been spotted, he let out a small yip and closed the lid with a slam.

  Well, that secret’s out.

  Not that Mark had a choice. The only weapon he had was the staff, and he was pretty sure that if he let go, there would be serious repercussions.

  Hopping off the wagon, Mark landed on the wet stone and took a moment to brace himself before walking into the rain. He needed to maintain control, and with every second, he was pouring more of the chaotic storm within him out into the staff, increasing the difficulty of holding it back.

  “You can do this,” Mark said, begging his body to listen to his brain.

  With his hands clenched around the staff, knuckles starch white wherever they weren’t covered in madly racing lines, Mark stepped into the rain.

  The downpour drenched him instantly, splattering his face and slicking down his hair. Despite this, he didn’t pull up the hood of his cloak. Maybe he was soaked to the bone, but at least he had his peripheral vision. It seemed Darius agreed with Mark’s assessment—when he stepped around the back of the wagon, the man had his hood down as well, his head scanning intently up and down the road. When he saw Mark, he nodded, though his eyebrows pursed together when Mark spasmed and dropped to a knee in the middle of the road.

  Mark braced himself against the wheel of the wagon, his whole body shaking as though he’d just been pulled from an icy lake. He s
tared down at the road beneath his feet, at the drops of rain impacting the puddles in the cracks between the cobblestones.

  Back on your goddamned feet! Mark roared at himself from within his own head.

  Driving the butt of his staff into the ground, Mark pushed against the seizure, forcing it into the staff.

  Even as Mark’s shaking slowed, the weapon began to glow with vibrant racing light, the lines like cracks in the prison wall of a rainbow sun. Mark ignored it and forced himself to his feet. He was barely able to manage the task, but he raised his eyes to look at Darius regardless.

  The man stared at him incredulously.

  “Please tell me yer a caster,” he said.

  Mark gritted his teeth and dodged the question. “What is it? Bandits?”

  Darius shook his head. “If only. Bandits I can handle, but bandits don’t spook the horses. This—”

  The big man held up a hand. “Shh…”

  Everyone held as still as they could, but the falling rain and the whinnying of the nervous horses conspired against their attempts to stay silent. Mark glanced at Darius and Rosie. They both looked deeply concerned. To Mark’s surprise, Rosie’s eyes flashed a golden colour, deepening into a solid bronze, and she swept them across the forest, walking slowly down the road as she looked for whatever had spooked the horses.

  Rosie got maybe a dozen metres down the road before she spun back towards the wagon and screamed, “RUN, GAVIN!”