by Etzoli
“It’s the job. Do you have anything better to do?”
“Guess not.”
“Good. Now what’s for dinner? It’s late.”
“Wait a sec.”
“It’s your turn to pick, isn’t it?”
“Do you see me on the phone? Shut up… Holy shit.”
“What?”
This is the story of the last day of my life.
Yeah, it sounds melodramatic, but it’s true enough. I was in mental freefall through memories while I went through the motions of preparing myself for my final day on this planet. The sun was already dropping on the horizon as I worked, casting ever-longer shadows through the windows. I didn’t dare turn on a single light, even as I carefully picked up the shattered glass on the floor near the rear window I’d broken. I had to get it all before I lost the light entirely. It wouldn’t be good for my plans to get screwed up by something as simple as a cut to the foot by a wayward shard.
I’d tried to get Matt on board. I even went out of my way, wasting precious time to visit him at work, and he rejected me out of hand. I was disappointed, but I knew Matt too well to resent him. He needed more evidence before he’d commit to the plan. I could accept that. I’d bring him the proof tonight, and I’d bring him our way out. I wasn’t going to hold a grudge. Matt could come back with me.
Would Jen, though?
That thought really terrified me. I had to convince myself by the hour that Jen couldn’t possibly turn me down. I couldn’t bear to live in a world apart from her. Even if she rejected me, even if we never saw each other again, I’d just be happy knowing she’d come home. I could accept anything as long as she was back where she was meant to be.
Was that too presumptuous? For me to claim I knew where Jen belonged, I felt like I was also claiming I knew her better than she knew herself. It felt awkward. I didn’t know what to make of it. My gut feeling—overwhelmingly so, like a churning cauldron in my stomach—insisted that Jen must return to Cyraveil. I always trusted my instincts, no matter my doubts. They’d kept me alive through countless dangers and trials. This would be no different.
I continued to go over every inch of the small condominium. It was surrounded by thick greenery, which I assumed was maintained by a gardener based on how well kept it was. The interior of the place wasn’t nearly as neat and orderly. The garden also helped to muffle and shade the house from the outside world, in a perfect insulating effect. It almost felt like its own little private island, completely detached from the outside world once the doors were firmly shut.
I glanced at the clock. Time was running out. Had I set up the room? Was the door properly locked? Yes. Everything was ready.
After I got separated from Matt and Blake, and long before I met Reynir, I’d joined—and subsequently clawed my way to the top of—a small guild of thieves and mercenaries. We operated on a strict code of rules that kept us out of the public eye whenever the city guard came knocking. There were no signatures, no calling cards. Violence was avoided at all costs. We were as ghosts, taking only what we’d been hired for, and vanishing without a trace.
By keeping to the code for years, we amassed so much wealth that we became richer than the nominal lords of the city. With my newfound capital, I was actually able to apply some of my knowledge from Earth, working the market to manipulate traders and merchants little by little, until soon I had the entire economy dancing on my strings. My guildmates watched in awe as our investments doubled, then tripled. We ended up buying out the whole city, district by district, until we finally declared ourselves openly as the Lords of Candir.
This drew Reynir Cellman’s attention, of course, and his soldiers. Having your second largest city bought out from under your lackey’s thumb would be pretty shocking to most Emperors. I was fully prepared for him to send out his personal guard to kill the lot of us, but he surprised me that day. He came out to meet us himself, with only a single guard at his side, and made me an offer.
The rest is history. My history, as soon as I finished up here.
Was the line in place? Crudely, and without much subtlety, but I wasn’t exactly expecting resistance. Surprise was key. Surprise, and application of technology.
My mentor would have looked down on this. Old Fredrik always preferred using as few tools as necessary. If you relied solely on your own physical abilities and knew them perfectly, there were far less possible points of failure. How could you ever know the true capabilities of a sword, or a crossbow trap—tools that would weaken over time and with repeated use? He preferred the body as the ultimate tool, flexible enough for almost any situation. Fredrik could get in and out of any target with just a single lockpick and the clothes on his back, no matter how many people he might be forced to subdue inside.
I admired that philosophy, but I had to apologize to him in spirit this time. I didn’t have the physical ability anymore, nor even the muscle memory or training for what I needed to get done. I had to make up for it with my knowledge and my access to machinery he couldn’t even have dreamed of. Fredrik didn’t even believe in magic , not until I’d returned with Jen. He’d always assumed the rumors from the frontlines were straight bullshit.
I swear, his moustache practically fell off when he saw Jen lighting candles with a snap of her fingers, or lazily floating food across the table to herself.
I grinned at the memory. I looked forward to seeing the old fart again, and hearing his endless grumblings on the state of affairs in the Empire—err, the Kingdom, or maybe it was the Republic now. We hadn’t really settled yet. I wondered how Fredrik was getting on though, after the Cellmans were deposed. We hadn’t had the chance to meet up after I sent my guild out of the city.
Fredrik’s little cottage on the outskirts of Candir. That was the very first place I was going to visit when I returned. I’d bring him as much sylvandine as I could carry, every single drop I found along the way.
***
The sun had set completely by now. I was just inside the front door, sitting in a little side closet. I wasn’t sure when I needed to be ready, but I’d rested as much as I could during the afternoon. Now I was stuck waiting, but I could handle it. I’d learned patience.
I spun a pen idly in my hand, flipping it around my thumb in neat quick circles. It was nice to see I hadn’t lost all my dexterity. I wish still had the strength and endurance I’d built up over the years. I’d worked hard for it, and Earth had taken it all away again.
This was why I was so furious at Matt, at his blasé attitude to the possibility of return. We’d earned our lives there, through work, blood and sacrifice. Didn’t we deserve to keep them? Or at least be offered the damn choice?
More importantly, who wouldn’t want to live in a world with magic? Magic , Matt. Earth felt so boring and empty by comparison. Hell, we still hadn’t even found a single piece of evidence of other sentient life anywhere in the known universe . It was just so limited and painful and small. Meanwhile, a beautiful world full of opportunity and mystery and wonder waited for us, a step away if only we could find the door.
I ranted at him in my head, over and over, the words I wished I could have said but never worked up the courage to voice. I didn’t want to just persuade Matt, I wanted him to see the merits for himself. I wanted him to agree with me. I wanted us on the same page, without having to drag him there. If I had to talk him into it, I could never truly believe it was his honest desire, and without that, I’d always feel a twinge of guilt about possibly tearing him away from the life he truly wanted.
I didn’t want that. If Matt really wanted to stay, it wasn’t my place to interfere.
At the same time, it certainly wasn’t his to prevent my own crossing of the dimensional line once again. Matt had to make a choice. I didn’t want to, but I sure as hell would force him to choose if it came down to sides.
Jen and I could return without him, if we had to.
I heard a car door slam. I tensed, as I had for every other car door. I couldn’t af
ford to relax for a single one. Only one opportunity, I reminded myself. Don’t miss it.
Footsteps. Those were footsteps, weren’t they?
Was I really this bad at recognizing footsteps now?
My heart was racing. Somehow, I knew this was the moment. I felt my adrenaline surge. My vision pulsed with the blood pounding through my skull. I felt every muscle in my body loaded with anticipation, waiting to strike. I was a coiled spring held tight against the floor, a snake about to hurl itself at its prey.
The door handle twisted. The room was pitch black, the sun completely gone, and the moon along with it. He hadn’t noticed the street light behind him covered up in black tape.
There was no light to help him.
The door swung open, and Daniel Whitman stepped inside.
I tensed up. Every millisecond suddenly felt like hours.
He took another step forward. In the near-total darkness, his eyes hadn’t yet adjusted, while mine were as good as could be. He didn’t expect anything. He walked forward, to where he knew the light switch would be. Not a care in the world. Just an ordinary night for him.
His foot caught the taut fishing wire.
I watched him fall, and I made my move. His hands obeyed his instincts and flew forward to catch himself, and I struck. I took out the object I’d been saving for this very moment.
The buttons squeezed in and the stun-gun crackled to life. In an instant, the contacts found Whitman’s falling neck.
His body spasmed. It was mesmerizing to watch as he slumped to the floor and began twitching. This sort of power, in my hands at the touch of a button, was beyond anything short of magic I could ever accomplish, even in Cyraveil. I held it on him as long as I could while he fell, trying to ensure he was completely incapacitated. Seconds later, he was groaning on the floor, still twitching uncontrollably.
Might not be as clean as you like, Fredrik, but you can’t deny it’s effective.
I dragged Whitman through to the back room, which he happened to have already lined with blackout curtains. A sort of low-budget home theater setup. I’d made a few modifications to block out sound as well, and rearranged the furniture a bit. I hoisted his limp body onto the chair, and quickly wrapped his wrists and ankles with plastic zip-ties.
This was all precautionary, of course. I didn’t actually intend to harm him. Well, nothing more than the stun-gun, but as I understood it, the voltage was low enough that there shouldn’t have been any permanent damage. Barring a medical condition I couldn’t know about, he’d be just fine. I knew everything I possibly could about Daniel Whitman. I was confident he’d end the night in perfect health, except for the scrape he’d gotten from the floor as I dragged him in.
Now, I just needed to wait for him to recover.
He’d know what I needed to do. He’d practically confessed to it. Out of all the people on the internet, a man who happened to live close enough that I could reach him by bus had shown some actual knowledge of my world. Of Cyraveil. But through whatever reluctance or paranoia, he’d decided he didn’t trust me. He wouldn’t reveal the details I knew he must be concealing.
Whitman had to talk.
Is this wrong? A voice had popped up in the back of my mind. I’d forced my way into his home. I’d assaulted him. I’d crossed a line here, and it was one I couldn’t easily walk back from, if I didn’t get the information I needed tonight.
The thought only redoubled my determination. I had to get results. There was no turning back.
***
I’d expected it to take Whitman ten minutes or so to recover, but he was still out of it after twenty. Was his constitution really that weak? Or maybe I’d misjudged the strength of the shock? I was beginning to worry I might have caused some permanent damage.
To my relief, he started to move more deliberately. He was getting control of his body again. Time to start the real work.
“Daniel Whitman.” I stood behind him, while his chair faced the television, tuned to a dead channel. The dancing snow of signal noise on the screen played out on the walls as a flickering light show around us. It was all a show, all an act, but one I could play well.
Whitman tried to twist his head around to spot me, but he couldn’t quite turn far enough.
“The fuck is going on?” His voice was surprisingly low pitched. A deep baritone that might have worked wonders on a radio show or a podcast.
I wanted to intimidate him. I wanted to get the information I’d come for, and nothing more. I wasn’t trying to make an ally, I wasn’t trying to create a new resource or contact. Under normal circumstances, this was usually among my very last options, but in this case, I didn’t much care what happened to Whitman in the end.
“You live alone. Probably a poor choice.”
“Uhh, okay?” He continued to struggle in his chair. I stayed calm behind him. I was confident in the restraints, at least for the length of time I needed. He wasn’t going anywhere soon.
“It’s time for you to start talking, Daniel.”
“About what?” He sounded less confident now. Good. He was wearing down.
“You’ve been emailing with someone lately.”
“I email a lot of people. That supposed to mean something?”
“About a certain fantasy world named Cyraveil.”
Whitman stopped struggling. “Wait, you’re that guy?”
“Yes. So start talking.”
“Dude, what the fuck is this? Some kind of hardcore RP shit?”
“You think this is roleplaying?” I snapped. I felt my temper flare. My chest got hot, my face burned. I didn’t move on him yet, but I thought about it.
“Wait wait wait. Don’t tell me you actually believed all that?” Whitman said, his voice uneasy. “Okay, kid, listen. None of that was real, all right? I was just messing with you. Ha ha, good times. Now, untie me, okay?”
“ Tol deka danedek so vei! ” I roared. I’m sure I got the pronunciation a bit wrong, but it wasn’t like Jen was around to correct me.
“Uhh… what?”
“Don’t you fucking lie to me.” I punched him in the back of the head. Not too hard, but enough to cause some pain.
“All right, kid,” Whitman snarled, recovering faster than I expected. “Soon as I get out of this, you’re in a world of pain.”
“Whatever you say. Now, talk to me about Cyraveil.”
“It doesn’t exist, you idiot.” His head twisted back and forth, but he still couldn’t turn far enough to see me.
He was lying. He had to be lying. My mind would accept any other conclusion.
We could be here a while.
***
It went on for an hour at least. I would ask him to elaborate on some part of Cyraveil, reveal more of his knowledge. He’d claim ignorance, or spit some insult, or after a while, he just stayed silent. I didn’t threaten him physically, or attack him again after the first strike. I hadn’t intended that. I wished I hadn’t escalated so quickly. I might have gotten what I needed much faster, with much more cooperation, if I hadn’t been so reckless.
I knew if I could just outlast his patience, I would win out. I wouldn’t allow Whitman any sleep, or any respite whatsoever from the questioning. I’d done this before, more than once. Sooner or later, he’d have to give in and answer my questions, and I’d be on my way home.
“Did you ever come across any of Feindorf’s Tablets?”
“Nope.”
“When you crossed, did you end up in Caladi or Laodrannen?”
“Crossed what, the Willamette?”
“Did you ever meet up with any Sylves? Maybe get invited to their forests?”
“Depends, were they cute?”
It continued like this, flippant responses that irritated me, but didn’t set me off. I had interrogated men before, and I had the patience necessary for this kind of work. Men always broke, given enough time. Some men required far more work than others, but it always came down to finding the one thing they couldn’t live w
ithout. Could be physical, could be emotional, but every man without exception had a weakness. I just had to uncover it, through sheer force of will.
Jen and Matt could never know, but I’d engaged in some less… noble tactics while we were campaigning, both on Reynir’s side and on theirs. It was a fucking war, okay? For all Matt’s sentimentality and righteousness, he was a fool when it came to gathering intelligence. Sure, he might win the hearts and minds of the people as we “liberated” villages, but it was thanks to my men and my network that we weren’t ambushed in the ass at every turn. Reynir and I played the same games. Hell, he basically taught me how to wage war. Fight smarter, not harder; that was my shamelessly stolen catchphrase.
Smarter was the key, and getting intelligence came down to two simple steps: Find the person who knows what you need to know, and get them to tell you. Could be anyone, and here’s where most people screw up: it could be absolutely anyone. Nobody’s out of bounds. The hooker hanging out by the tavern, the kid playing on the street corner, the old hag who rarely leaves her front porch. Any of them could be valuable, and I couldn’t afford to have reservations about who we picked up and… questioned.
I wasn’t needlessly cruel. Most of them got off pretty light, unless I had reason to suspect they knew more than they were letting on. Even the ones we had to slap around a bit were returned to their lives as if nothing happened. No, it was the small few, the true loyalists to the Cellmans near the end of the campaign, who brought out the worst in me.
I’m not proud of it, but it got results. It probably shortened the war by weeks, if not months. It was worth it. I saved lives, sent men home to their wives and families sooner, prevented pain and tragedy. I don’t regret what I had to do. One of those interrogations lead me to Jen, deep in the Pit at Vennenport. I’d rescued her against all odds, on a longshot hunch and the mumbled confession of a man who’d just lost every single one of his teeth.
I’d never regret that man’s death. I couldn’t forgive myself for not moving on him sooner .
I was beginning to get impatient with Whitman, even as I continued to ask him question after question about Cyraveil.