Cryo Knight

by Tim Johnson

His love, Iryna, formed in front of him. Dark hair, blue eyes and high Altai cheekbones. She smiled at him. Behind her was their old mountain town. With its square blocks of old-world Soviet apartments. Beyond it was rich and green forests, before that final winter.

  It all seemed so real. He wanted to hold her and tell her that he was sorry. But he couldn’t. He was stuck out in the black. Like he was floating in space and she was a projection in front of him.

  Behind her, winter enveloped the town. The trees and houses all froze white. The buildings morphed into burnt-out frosted shells. Beyond, he could see incoming missiles carve through the sky.

  Christian tried to warn her. He tried to shout, but he couldn’t make a sound. Then finally, she turned to see the missiles as they fell on the town. She faced Christian and let out a silent scream.

  The missiles exploded and let out a wave of ice.

  Christian watched helplessly as the hair of the woman he loved turned to frost, her skin blanched and her eyes froze to pallid whites.

  Just like the way I found her.

  Christian woke again. Reborn. Ejected forward, this time he stayed on his feet.

  He checked his chest where the blade had gone through him. There was no damage.

  He recalled Alexia’s words. Game world. Wanderer’s are like players. That’s what Alexia said.

  The familiar gold writing appeared.

  Quest: Escape the Kingdom of the Red Fist (again).

  This time, you are an expected visitor. Escape with your life or become Sark’s prisoner.

  He was back in the basement of the castle. He carefully crept ahead, this time ready for trouble.

  “I see him,” a voice shouted. Christian turned to see two burly men of the Dark Brotherhood following him. They were carrying clubs. One lifted a small horn to his mouth and blew it.

  Christian heard shouts echo through the distance.

  Shit.

  “Don’t make this hard,” one of the men shouted. “Don’t run, wanderer.”

  Christian turned and ran as hard as he could. He rounded the corner of the corridor and clattered into two more men.

  “Get him.”

  One tackled Christian. Christian spun out of the man’s grip and kicked him in-between the legs. But the other guard swung his club.

  Damage: 18 HP

  Christian’s Health: 82/100

  Christian spun into the corridor wall. The men caught him from behind and forced him down to his knees. His arms were tugged behind his back and he felt metal shackles slide over his wrists and another set over his ankles. A hood was secured over his head.

  Quest: Escape the Kingdom of the Red Fist (again).

  You have failed.

  Yes, obviously, Christian thought.

  He tried to struggle and was rewarded with a hard kick to the ribs. He flung his head back, catching one of the guards in the face and for a second their grip loosened, and he thought he was free.

  That’s when they really laid into him.

  He couldn’t see where the blows came from. White flashed as they punched and kicked him.

  Finally, it was over.

  He was dragged up to his feet and tugged along through the castle. Hooded, blind and with his ankles shackled with a short chain he had to be careful not to fall.

  As he was marched forward, he racked his brain.

  I’m in a world that runs on game mechanics. That’s how Alexia could be so strong. How Sulfur was so quick and had a laser in his sword.

  But Christian was not a gamer. He was a soldier. He needed to make sense of this place and fast. With each step he fell deeper into their clutches. He scanned his mind for everything he knew.

  Firstly, those men had been ready for him each time he died. There must be a time lag between dying and being brought back here, he realized.

  Next, Alexia said that people like them, those that came from different worlds to Valeria, were known as wanderers.

  So, if I have died and been brought back here… then perhaps Alexia has as well?

  Thinking of Alexia made his gut twist with guilt. He had left her exposed and she had paid for it, sliced to pieces by a man made of shadow.

  Add him to my list, Christian thought.

  It was a mistake to have let his temper get the better of him and trying to fight Sulfur. Sulfur had moved quicker than anything Christian had ever seen.

  So much of what he knew of real war didn’t apply here. Swords couldn’t fire lasers in his world. In his world, if you stabbed someone with a dagger in the artery, they usually screamed a lot and then died.

  He had also hit Sulfur with Ice Strike for what good it did. But he recalled the shock on Sulfur’s face, and that rush of power. The knight wasn’t expecting Christian to have that ability and it had caught him off-guard.

  There was something there.

  He needed more of that ice power.

  The guards hauled him up a spiral staircase. He realized he must be climbing one of the spires of the fortress. He tried to do the math on his location, counting the steps up and remembering the layout of the castle he had discovered before escaping the first time. Had he seen three spires, or four? In his mind’s eye he guessed the distance from each one to the gate he escaped from previously. If he had a little more information, he would have himself situated. Know where you are, and the next step is escape.

  Some of the guards were already out of breath, suggesting their lack of physical condition. Another thing to be filed away. The Dark Brotherhood weren’t elite soldiers. Not like the men at the Hobgoblin Inn.

  If I get killed again, I won’t be caught so easily.

  Someone banged on the door, while the whole group waited in silence.

  Christian sensed the atmosphere shift; the guards straighten up.

  The door creaked open and Christian heard the distinctive voice, “Well, well. Here he is.”

  It was the same posh accent. Sulfur.

  Christian was shoved forward into the room and he heard the door behind him slam closed.

  The hood was tugged off and Christian had to squint against the brightness. Sulfur smiled at him and casually threw the hood onto a table.

  They were in a large circular room high up in the fortress. There were four other soldiers in the room and as Christian looked at each one, their name and level popped up. All were level 25 or more.

  The morning sun blazed into the room through large stained-glass windows. Beyond, Christian glimpsed woodlands and ice-capped mountains.

  Beside Christian was a large platform, it looked like it was made from stone with dark metal melted over it. On top of it was a chair, with menacing looking straps that were meant to loop around the throat, wrists and ankles, like a medieval electric chair. Behind it the wall was covered in slabs of thick metal sheets, all heavily scarred.

  It was a torture room. He knew that much.

  At the back of the room was a crate that was six-foot square. Whatever was inside was hidden by rough thick beams of oak siding. Through the slits of the beams something moved.

  Sulfur stood directly in front of Christian; a small smile played across his lips. His light eyes shone, and his long blonde hair was pushed behind his ears. His armor was polished. A great sapphire pommel in his sword caught the light and sparked its refraction around the room with every small movement.

  “Well, I have to say. This is all rather exciting. I mean, at least for me.”

  Christian was dressed in Leon’s clothes which were now torn. He was cut and bleeding at the knees and elbows from his fight with the guards. His eyebrow throbbed where they had struck him with their club.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Christian said.

  Sulfur leant back on the table. “That will be for Sark to decide. I imagine we’re going to find out who you are, what you are doing here and, for a short while, make your life a living hell. Let’s get you tested, shall we?”

  Sulfur’s soldiers grabbed his arms. With a crushing strength
they lifted and secured him into the chair. They pulled the metal latches closed.

  Christian could only move his eyes, the sensation of restriction reminding him of the freezing ice of cryo.

  Stay calm. Stay smart. You need to talk yourself out of this.

  The door banged open and another man entered, flanked by a matching pair of seven-foot guards. He was the same height as Christian and had a slim, sinewy build. He wore black, shining armor, the surface of which moved, like it was made from living steel. His hair was black and flecked with gray on the sides; he had a tidy, short beard and small eyes that were dark. His eyes were lit with a shimmering intelligence that seemed to match his armor. A short curved sword was on each hip. The swords were black.

  And he had seen those swords before. This is the bastard that killed Alexia.

  Everyone in the room snapped to attention. Including Sulfur.

  It’s Sark.

  Sark moved as fluidly as he wielded his swords and began examining Christian as though he were a fine painting.

  “You are Christian.” Sark’s voice was intense, clipped and careful, unlike Sulfur’s posh drawl. “You’re confused. Wondering what’s going on. I understand you managed to escape when you first arrived. That showed skill.”

  “So, you’re Sark,” Christian said.

  “Knight Lord Sark.” He corrected. The Knight Lord’s title appeared above his head. He was level 50. Something about the script seemed different, the 50 was in bold and had more of a decorative edge. “You’d do well to address me by the title I’ve earned. This is my Kingdom and soon your world will be mine too. You will help make that happen. We shall be… working together.”

  Christian didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.

  Sark seemed to be weighing something up in his mind as he inspected Christian. He lifted a gloved hand to Christian’s cheek. “You’ve been a soldier before, haven’t you? None of this is new to you. I don’t see the panic. I don’t smell the fear.”

  Sark nodded. “That’s good. We will need that. Soldiers know how to obey, how to fall in line. They know it’s better to be on the winning side. I think, eventually, you will have a bright future with me, Christian. Or, if you defy me, a dark one.” Sark tittered. “The choice is yours.” He turned away to leave and gave a gloved finger a little spin. “Sulfur, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  Sulfur straightened up. “With pleasure, my Lord. Men, bring out the witch.”

  8

  Sulfur’s men sprang into action and pushed forward the strange crate from the back of the room as others drew their swords and set up a perimeter. The crate had battered wheels that squeaked and rattled as it rolled towards Christian.

  Finally, the crate was in front of his platform. Behind that, near the back of the room a massive female knight unclasped a case and began lining up shimmering green bottles. A squat man with a double-headed ax on his back, like a Viking, set up a chalkboard with an old sand-timer.

  What is going on here?

  Christian strained against the metal band that was secured around his forehead.

  In front of Christian was the crate. Behind it, fanned out in a protective semi-circle, were Sulfur’s men. The woman had unpacked the glowing green potions until they were set out in front of her in neat rows. The Viking had a piece of chalk and a chalkboard now fully set up. One soldier, wearing the mask of a samurai, edged towards the platform.

  The soldiers seem poised, but tense.

  All eyes were on the box.

  On the side of the box was a rough iron bracket with a shimmering thin gold chain wrapped around it. Sulfur un-wrapped the chain and then secured it several times around his armored fist.

  Everyone seemed ready.

  With a small nod of assent from Sulfur, two soldiers pulled out the pegs from each side and the front panel slammed onto the flagstones.

  A smell of urine stung the air. The gold chain swung slightly from Sulfur’s fist. It was about the thickness of Christian’s pinkie finger but had a strange sparkle to it. Christian followed its length into the darkness.

  He could see two eyes in the gloom staring back at him.

  Whatever was in there let out a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from a creature far bigger than anything that could fit into the chest.

  Christian strained against the confines of his chair.

  “Don’t be shy now,” Sulfur said to the creature and he tugged it forward into the light.

  Christian expected some kind of beast, but instead got a glimpse of matted hair and rags. The chain was secured to a golden neck cuff around its neck. Two claw-like hands went up to the chain. Upon contact the flesh of its hands crackled and hissed, burning like the chain was coated with acid. The monster let out an inhuman scream, like a thousand out-of-tune violins going off at once.

  It was only when it faced Christian did he realize it was a woman.

  Two dark eyes shone out of her deformed, grubby face, it looked like the end of her nose had been sliced off, the nostrils now just two punctured holes in the skull. A deep scar laced down the side of her cheek which pulled her left eye down. She looked about desperately, squinting in the light. Gold writing hovered over her:

  Name: ???

  Witch

  Level 28

  “She was a formidable opponent once upon a time,” Sulfur said, “but we have her quite under control now.” He pulled again at the chain and the witch hissed at him. “Behave hag. You know what to do. Don’t go light on him.” Sulfur shot a look to the large woman, Kari, at the table.

  She gave Sulfur a short nod back.

  Christian swallowed. He didn’t like where this was going.

  “Well,” Sulfur said, “let’s begin.”

  The witch stood in front of Christian.

  “First we will test him for Blight.”

  Blight? What does that mean?

  The witch lifted her palm and a glowing red wisp shot out of it – the putrid stench of rotting flesh ebbed across the room with it, towards Christian.

  Christian squirmed in his chair, trying to break the iron loops around his wrists. But it was impossible.

  “Let me go!” he roared.

  The Blight spell hit him. Christian gasped. It was like he had been doused with a megadose of radiation. The skin on his hands and wrists bubbled up with raw blisters. Immediately notifications flooded his vision.

  Critical Hit!

  Damage: 95 HP

  Christian’s Health: 5/100

  He tried to shout but his tonsils had filled his throat and his tongue had swollen, feeling like a pus-filled slug.

  He looked down to see the blisters on his forearms burst, oozing green bile. Great rotting holes appeared in his arms as the flesh wasted away.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  Beyond, he could make out Sulfur’s wide grin.

  The Samurai leapt onto the platform and Christian felt his jaw pulled down. A green bottle was shoved past his swollen gums and he was forced to drink it down.

  Strong Healing Potion

  Health: +100HP

  Christian’s Health: 100/100

  You are cured from Blight.

  At the top of Christian’s vision, he saw a bar appear and fill with green, as it did the horrible experience ended as fast as it had come.

  Christian arms had healed, fingernails and all. He took a huge breath, sagging in his chair, the potion dripping from his mouth.

  That was horrific.

  But the deep sickness that had destroyed his body was gone. He clenched his fists. His eyes darted around. The witch stared up at him, the expression on her mutilated face dark and unreadable.

  He swallowed. Barely believing he was fully cured, but he was.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  His outcry was met by silence.

  At the back of the room, the Viking scratched notes onto the chalkboard.

  “He has a weakness to Blight,” the Viking said.

&nbs
p; “Clearly,” Sulfur said. “That was… dramatic. Let’s see how he does with this.” He turned to the witch. “Fire.”

  Oh god.

  The witch flicked her palm forward and Christian had half a second to watch the flame erupt. He let out a shout as the flames enveloped him.

  He endured moments of agony as his hair burned, skin melted, and his Health Bar emptied. Then it was over and as before he felt his chin tipped back and the cool washing of a Healing Potion hit him again.

  He forced himself to straighten up in the chair. He couldn’t show weakness to these people.

  “Let me go, you bastard,” he shouted at Sulfur. He tried to sound commanding, but his voice came out in a desperate rasp.

  “No chance,” Sulfur said.

  “A weakness to Fire as well,” the Viking said.

  “Such a weak constitution. It’s amazing you didn’t die on the walk up the stairs.” Sulfur laughed. “Gosh this is fun. Ice!”

  The witch cupped her hands together, conjuring a great ice-ball.

  Christian stared at the growing ball of ice-magic.

  Ice magic…

  He could feel the deep cold pit in him open up as the ice-ball grew; he could tune into the power and feel it radiate from the witch.

  There was a weighty, cold heaviness in his body that almost took his breath away. He tried to focus on it. He could feel it so clearly – it was like a new sense had blossomed inside him.

  The ice-ball was in the air, hurtling towards him. He focused on it. He felt, for just a moment, a deeper connection with the ice, like it was under his control for just a fraction of a second. But it wasn’t enough, and the ball smashed into his middle like being hit in the chest with a bowling-ball.

  Frost Bolt II

  Damage 35 HP

  HP: 65/100

  60% reduction in damage due to Ice-Affinity.

  Although it was painful, he was alive. Christian sucked in a breath, winded and angry. He looked around him. Shock registered on the faces of Sulfur’s men, who murmured around him.