by Tim Johnson
That wasn’t the strangest thing though.
What held Christian’s attention was a note, stabbed to the wall by a hefty iron dagger. One weapon of the collection had survived then. The hilt was made from twisting iron with a blue gem inlaid in the pommel, unlike anything Christian had seen before.
A creeping sensation curled in Christian’s stomach. He’d found this room, sure, but still nothing made sense. He stepped over the power cords to the note, pulled out the dagger and took the scrap of paper in his hand.
The rushed scrawl read:
Dear Christian,
If you are reading this, then everything I feared has come to pass and I desperately need your help.
Please activate the spawning plinth by pressing your palm against the hand-scanner below and then step onto the podium.
Whatever happens, do not panic.
I’m sorry it has come to this.
Your uncle,
James T. Lee
P.S.
Take the dagger.
If he had questions before, they had just multiplied tenfold in his mind.
Spawning plinth? Bring the dagger?
He re-read the note. Below, on the console, was another hand scanner with a red blinking light.
Some kind of communications tool?
He thought it through. This seemed like very advanced tech. Perhaps his uncle had discovered something he shouldn’t and had needed to go into hiding. The plinth could be some kind of comms device that hacked into intelligence services or perhaps military hardware. Had his uncle been abducted to replicate the technology if so?
Christian shook his head. What would a dagger have to do with any of that?
Christian looked at the weapon. Like the helmet, the dagger was legit. Plain steel, sharpened to a fine point and evenly weighted. It was significantly longer than his military-issue knife. This dagger was made for killing men.
Christian had seen his share of close-quarters combat. More than he cared for, in the war-torn towns at the edges of the great republics. He had eventually scaled the ranks in the special forces before being promoted to captain and running his own ill-fated mission.
Having a weapon in his hand brought the memories back, wrapping his heart like barbed wire. He shut his eyes. But in his mind, he was already back there, running uphill, screaming her name, knowing it was too late. His lungs burned against the acrid stench of the town and his breath came out in great clouds against the cold.
Panic rose in him.
I won’t get there in time.
He shook his head and grunted. After a moment he found his hand holding the dagger trembled slightly, his knuckles white. He swallowed hard and blinked the nightmares of his past away. The red light from the hand scanner mentioned in the letter blinked below.
I won’t let my uncle down as well.
He pressed his hand against the scanner. It lit green.
The podium in the center of the room began to power up, lights around the base of it flicked on and the white glass top begun to glow with a bright white light. Christian felt the room lift with static energy.
His mouth went dry as he stepped up onto the plinth’s surface, still gripping the dagger tightly.
What is this thing?
Just then, he felt a pressure on his foot. He squinted down to see that a white material was enveloping his foot; he tried to lift it, but it was stuck down to the platform. His other foot was stuck as well. The white material advanced in angular leaps up his ankle then shin. He swiveled round, like a skier, his feet trapped in the forward position. It looked like a kind of matte paste that was emanating up from the base. It passed his shins, up to his thighs and when it got to his waist, he tried to stab the dagger into it to lever it off. Instead, it locked his hand in place and continued to advance its way up Christian’s right arm and chest.
Shit.
He had a flashback of being pushed into cryo-sleep, the guards holding him under the water until the case slid back over his face and the water began to freeze.
He thrashed as best he could, but the white cement only crawled farther up his torso, encasing him like the rough angular mold of a statue. His arms were now immobile, and it jumped to his neck.
Christian clamped his mouth shut as it covered his face. He tried to stretch against it, but the material was like iron and it locked him in position. He felt the material shoot up his nose, then it encased his eyes, and everything went black.
3
Christian felt himself fall into the blackness, a gut-wrenching plummet. Then suddenly everything went bright, and he felt himself ejected forward, like he had been launched from a slingshot.
He stumbled, falling to the grass on his hands and knees. The dagger was still secure in his right fist.
Gold writing scrolled across his vision. Overlaid on what he was seeing, like some kind of heads-up-display.
Welcome to Valeria.
Quest: Escape the Kingdom of the Red Fist with your life.
From the Red Fist Kingdom, you must escape, or live to rue this mistake, for here you have no friends, and all shall seek you for their own ends.
What the hell? He looked up.
The first thing he saw was the arrow point. Behind it a small man in medieval armor with a nasty boil on his face was staring Christian down, his bow pulled taut.
“We’ve got a wanderer,” he shouted out. “Fresh as a babe!”
As Christian stared at the archer, the same gold script appeared above the man’s head.
Gary Colebottom
Archer
Level: 4
Around the archer, were the walls of a medieval castle that were in the process of being reinforced. Hundreds of workers stopped to stare at Christian. Atop the walls he could see other archers, some rushing to draw arrows on him.
He glanced behind him and saw a huge circular white orb of crackling energy retreat to a white stone circular disk. The disk was the size of a round table, a mirror image of the one he had stepped on in his uncle’s study.
This can’t be happening.
But yet it was. The archer, Gary, edged towards Christian. He gave Christian a cold smile, showing dirty brown teeth.
“Don’t try nuffin and ya won’t get hurt.” He looked to one side. Christian followed his gaze and saw a huge knight in blue armor rushing towards them.
Their boss.
Christian didn’t care what the archer said about not getting hurt. He didn’t trust this asshole as far as he could throw him, and it didn’t take trained instincts to know this place was not friendly.
Across the castle courtyard he could see a gate. It was his shut.
But his window of escape was closing. The massive knight was almost upon him. He wore plated armor and had long white-blonde hair swept back off his face. From his scabbard, he pulled a huge one-handed sword in a smooth, fluid movement.
Christian looked down at the dagger in his hand.
Fuck this.
The archer’s head was turned; Christian went for it.
He darted to his left, took two steps and got knocked back on his ass. An arrow was embedded in his chest, through his gray sweatshirt. In his vision the gold script flashed.
Critical Shot!
Damage: 97
Christian’s Health: 3/100
“I warned ya, wanderer,” the archer shouted. Christian heard another arrow being pulled.
Christian tried to stand but could only manage to push himself up to his hands and knees. Blood dripped down the shaft of the arrow.
He was too late.
The blue knight reached him and used the tip of his blade to raise Christian’s chin. A pair of cold blue eyes looked down on him.
Above the knight’s head, gold script fanned out.
Sulfur Osgoode
Paladin Knight
Level: 30
Sulfur spoke. “A fresh wanderer indeed. From the Artificer’s world, just like Sark promised us.”
“Shall we take
him in?” the archer said.
“Let’s not waste the potion, he’s already done for. Send word to the Dark Brotherhood that a fresh wanderer will be reborn in the dungeons any moment.”
The knight’s sword swung down on him and then his world went black.
Gold writing traced across his vision.
You have died.
4
Christian floated in the black once more. He dreamed like this in cryo. His memories would slide into each other, morphing from fantasies into nightmares. The blackness melted away and revealed Iryna’s sleeping form next to him.
He was back in the Altai Mountains.
He lifted the thick covers and got out of her bed. The cement of her old Soviet dwelling was cold against his feet. She shifted in her sleep. Christian pulled on his combat boots and shouldered his rifle. She stirred and turned to him, smiling. Her clear blue eyes made warmth blossom in his chest.
She had changed everything for him and turned him from a tool of war to a person. She made him feel like he was worth something.
He went to try and speak to her, to tell her to go back to sleep but found he couldn’t speak. Then he realized he couldn’t even breathe.
He desperately fingered at his mouth and could feel it plastered over with that strange white chalk.
For a moment he was confused. Then he remembered everything.
The cottage windows burst in, and a chalky white water poured through them like they were the portholes in a sinking ship. He tried to rush towards her, but he was too late.
Christian opened his eyes as he fell forward and slammed onto a stone-flagged floor.
Laying horizontally, he blinked. The pain in his hands confirmed that he was no longer in a dream and he wasn’t dead either.
Writing scrolled across his vision.
Quest: Escape the Kingdom of the Red Fist with your life.
From the Red Fist Kingdom, you must escape, or live to rue this mistake, for here you have no friends, and all shall seek you for their own ends.
This again?
He pushed himself up, one hand still balled into a fist around the dagger. At least he had that. The room was made from stone and lit by flickering candles.
He wasn’t alone.
Two men were in the room as well. They wore white robes with the image of a red fist in a circle emblazoned in the center. Their noses were flat like a pair of boxers and they carried clubs and shackles.
Christian read their descriptions: Dark Brotherhood Priest, level 3.
One pointed at Christian. “There’s the wanderer!”
“Don’t just stand there, get him,” bellowed the other.
That was all Christian needed. He wasn’t going to be taken prisoner and he’d faced worse than these two. Between the men was a door. It was thick wood, braced with black iron.
The first priest moved to grab him, but Christian swiftly moved under the man’s arm, grabbed him by the collar and shoved him backwards. The man tripped and hit the wall.
You threw the Dark Priest against the wall.
Damage dealt: 6
Christian ran towards the door, while the other man went to lift a horn to his lips, but Christian had the dagger and pushed it to the man’s throat and ripped the horn from his grip.
“Get back,” he commanded.
The man stepped backwards with a sneer. “You won’t get far,” the Dark Priest said.
“Yeah, we will see about that,” Christian replied before darting out of the room.
He grabbed the door and pushed it shut. His hand found the bolt and he slid it home, locking the robed men on the other side.
The men pounded their fists against the door.
“You won’t get away!”
“Give yourself up and pray for Sark’s mercy!”
Christian threw the horn to the ground and ran up the slope, his mind spinning. The corridor was made from stone and was lit every hundred paces by a burning lantern. Clearly, he was in some dungeon, probably in the very castle he’d first arrived in. Wherever here was.
He ran the length of the corridor, with the dagger in his hand and his body jumped-up on adrenaline.
When he glanced down at the blade a small piece of golden text floated above it.
Simple Iron Dagger
One-handed
Level requirement: 1
Damage: 7
That damn writing is everywhere I look.
He had to push away his questions for now and focus on escape. The blue knight, Sulfur, had killed him, and said the Dark Brotherhood would come for him in the dungeons.
And there they were.
So, I’ve come back to life? Uncle James, what the hell have you got me into?
He continued his run before he came to a fork with three corridors to choose from. He chose the corridor that angled upwards, given he needed to head up to escape. Eventually the corridor opened into an area with stacked crates on one side and, on the other, a woman dressed in a smock struggling to pick up a basket.
Christian crept behind, staying hidden in the shadow behind a crate.
He gripped his dagger tightly as he watched the woman lift the basket and waddle off. Up ahead, he heard the distinctive clang of a gate and felt a breeze. He took off at a run, sprinting up the corridor to find a sturdy gate ahead. He forced his breathing to slow down and pulled back the gate.
It led into a courtyard surrounded by the high walls of a castle. This must be where he’d first appeared. Exiting to the courtyard, he was greeted by cool night air. He tried to move casually, so his movements didn’t attract attention, and leisurely pushed his dagger into the waistband of his jogging pants. He pulled up the hood of his sweater, wishing it was a darker color.
On one side of the courtyard was a flickering fire surrounded by soldiers. Like the knight who had killed him – had he really died? – earlier, these men wore plate armor, with a mix of swords, war hammers and axes at their sides. Horses snorted nearby and he smelled the rich scent of meat cooking.
Then he noticed the same blue knight as before. Sulfur.
He stayed focused and crept past. Christian clung to the darkness and made his way to a large portcullis with a small door to the side of it.
The battlement ramparts provided a shaded overhang. Christian stayed underneath, forcing himself to amble towards the gate. His sweats would give him away while surrounded by everyone in medieval dress, but he knew in this low light it would be his movements that would betray him first.
He caught snatches of the soldiers’ words. Sulfur seemed to be holding the attention of the others. He was even taller than Christian, six-foot-seven at least.
“And that’s when I said, ‘no, let’s save the potion’ and I ran the wanderer through,” he roared with laughter, pounding an armored fist to his thigh as the rest joined in.
“You should have seen this wanderer,” he went on. “Fresh to Valeria, no strength, no experience. I’ll take him to Sark once the gods shit him back out.”
Christian kept to the shadows until he reached the postern door. He gently tugged at the handle of the bolt which let out a low scrape as it slid back. He slipped through to the other side and carefully closed it behind him. For a few heart-stopping moments he froze, expecting one of the men to have spotted him or heard the sound.
But there was no lull in their conversation and when he heard another round of laughter, he knew he had escaped unnoticed.
For now.
His prison plimsolls made a crunch in the gravel as he walked out of the castle gates.
I’ve escaped.
The path was clear, with no one in sight, just a rough cobble and sand road. The moon shone brightly, and Christian could see well enough.
He took a few paces forward evaluating his options.
As he did, the sound of trumpets rung in his mind and gold writing unfurled in his vision.
Quest: Escape the Kingdom of the Red Fist: Success!
Level Up!
Congratulations you are now level 2!
+5 Stat points to distribute.
What the hell is this writing? Level up?
Ahead the path traced into the distance and he sprinted along it, his crappy prison-issue sneakers slapping the ground as he got his thoughts in order.
My uncle must have invented a god-damn time machine.
That could be the only sensible explanation.
Christian had gone back in time, possibly thousands of years. He needed to find his uncle fast and figure out what was going on.
But I was killed and came back to life. How is that possible?
Other questions bubbled up. The men in the keep had tried to capture him on sight and called him a wanderer. What does that mean? And what is with the text I keep seeing?
He turned and looked back at the castle, and the sight caused him to stagger to a halt. The part of the fortress he had come out of was only a tiny segment of it. The rest of it loomed in the distance, towering tall and dark with spires that seemed to go up forever. Bright pinpricks of light denoted rooms and halls. Scaffolds lit with lamps etched across the outer walls as the building continued. It was an awe-inspiring fortress that spanned the entire horizon. The size of a city.
Christian turned his back to it and kept running. The Dark Brotherhood men had been set on capturing him. If they were raising the alarm how long did he have until those soldiers got to him? They had horses too.
His measly dagger would be no match for men in plate armor on horseback. Out in the open like this, they would run him down in seconds.
But he was a special forces solider. He knew what he needed to do and being 1000 years in the past didn’t change that. He needed a way to blend in, and a place to figure things out. Up ahead the road split and he came across a wooden sign.