by RW Krpoun
“Two on line with each other a mile apart suggests a boundary or border,” Jeff said thoughtfully, looking at the broad smudge of smoke that marked the town in the distance. “This feels…different. From last time, I mean.”
“You mean the guns and clothes weren’t enough?” Shad said reflexively, but his heart wasn’t in it; the Shootist was deeply uneasy. The others were in good spirits, except for Fred who was working to contain a homicidal rage, but he felt like his marrow had turned to frozen lard. Going into yet another hostile environment after he had thought he was done with the entire business was weighing on him like a Shetland pony carrying an NFL defensive lineman. He did not want to be here, and he did not want to have to lead his friends into danger for the third time in his life; once had been plenty.
“Someone’s been hunting buffalo,” Fred pointed ahead and to the west where in the distance a number of figures were clustered around downed bison. The herd had edged away a few hundred yards from the area but otherwise were going about their business. “The herd’s upwind-buffalo rely on smell and sound, their eyesight is short.”
“Let’s stay on the ridge,” Shad eyed yet another marker a few hundred yards ahead. “At least until we know whose markers these are.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Jeff agreed. “I’m going to have to get a duster,” he slapped at his coat sleeves. “I thought they were just for Spaghetti Westerns, but these damn horses kick up too much dust for a man of breeding.”
“Lucky for us we didn’t bring a man with breeding,” Shad observed drily. “Are you going to whine for the entire trip?”
“I might.”
“I wish I had had enough money for a telescope,” Derek grumbled. “That doesn’t look like a hill,” he jerked his chin towards the settlement.
The figures gutting and skinning the downed bison stopped their actions and scattered when they observed the four riders.
“Human,” Shad adjusted the lay of his hat. “Men, women, and kids.”
“They’re all wearing brown smocks,” Jeff observed. “No weapons, just tools.”
“You notice that at least half were black?” Derek rubbed his jaw. “Do you remember many black people in our first trip?”
The others considered it. “Yeah, I saw one or two,” Shad said thoughtfully.
“Not many, though, and we visited two major cities, one going through boom-town times,” Derek pointed out. “We just saw more black people down there than I remember seeing in months in the other place.”
“So?”
“So that’s a major variance.”
“Maybe the descendants of Africans mostly ended up somewhere else-like you said, we only saw a small part of the world,” Jeff said.
“What difference does it make?” Shad asked. “We didn’t see any sort of racial tensions last trip; not between Humans, anyway.”
“I just was pointing out something different between trips.”
“Fair enough,” Jeff conceded. “If a lot of people here are descended from African banish-ees that could be a point to consider. Anyone know anything about African culture?”
The other three shook their heads.
“You ethnic-centered bastards,” the Shop teacher threw up a hand in disgust.
“Do you know anything about African culture?” Shad snapped.
“They place great value upon water and growing things. If you offer a stranger water or compliment his crops it is a great honor.”
The Shootist studied the Jinxman. “I have no proof, but I believe you just made that up.”
“Hey,” Derek’s voice was high and tight. He had turned in his saddle and was watching behind them. “Horse cavalry might not worry you, Shad, but those guys are riding raptors.”
Shad dismounted and dropped his reins, turning to watch; the horse stayed put, looking bored. “Pretty cool. I’m going to name it Buttercup.”
“Buttercup?” Jeff looked surprised. “Its brown.”
“Fallout Three and Four.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And she’s a mare,” Derek observed as he dismounted.
“That only matters to you,” Shad grinned. “Keep your body parts away from my horse.”
Derek sighed and flipped him off.
Dismounted, the four watched the half-dozen riders ascending the slope towards them. Their mounts had a passing resemblance to the raptor dinosaurs of Hollywood, except that they were larger, easily able to carry a fully-grown man, and they were a mottled dun brown which blended well with the sunburned prairie grass.
The riders were man-sized and proportioned but not Human, lean humanoids clad in loose tunics and leggings of undyed cotton, fez-like hats of tan felt, and tall boots. They carried long slender lances with easy familiarity, and their saddles supported javelin-cases and clubs flanged with jagged plates of flint. Their skin was somewhere between tan and pale orange, coarse and hairless save for the scalp, where the inky locks were cut short save for a long thin braid at the base of the neck. Their mouths were wide and nearly lip-less, and their cheekbones were broad and hard, matched by a shelf of bone over their eyes that reminded Shad of drawings of Neanderthals. Their eyes were pale, almost white, while the whites were thickly blood-shot; their ears were simple curves of cartilage lying neatly against their heads.
All six had BB-sized pale pink stones centered over their left eye, while the lead lizard-rider had a slightly larger, slightly darker stone to the left of his pinkish stone and an inch-wide blue stripe encircling his tunic just below the armpits.
“No metal,” Derek muttered to the others, his Spencer carbine in the crook of his arm.
“Decent teeth on those mounts, though,” Jeff replied through a friendly smile.
The blue-stripe rider closed to within a few feet of the Talons while his fellows hung back two lizard-lengths. He hissed something in a sibilant language, exposing teeth which had been filed to sharp points, while gesturing towards the nearest marker with the tip of his lance.
“Yeah, we get it: stay out,” Shad nodded. “Now piss off before we have a lizard barbecue.”
“Shad, these guys have some mojo going,” Derek warned. “Magic.”
“Will it stop a bullet?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then screw ‘em,” Shad stared contemptuously at the rider as the lizard mount hissed, ropy drool dripping from its half-open jaws. “I didn’t want to come here, I don’t want to be here, and I’ve got zero compunctions about killing this backwards lizard-riding Neanderthal and all his Stone Age buddies.”
Fred thumbed his Sharps to full cock, the two machined clicks clearly audible.
The rider grinned, showing all his savage teeth, and said something which none of the four understood, but all four were confident was not a compliment. Jerking his head, he turned his lizard and set it to a slow walk down the slope, trailed by the other five. As they rode away the Talons could see that each had the same complex symbol in green and red across the upper back of his tunic.
“Shad, I don’t think he was intimidated,” Jeff said thoughtfully. “And they understand what guns are.”
“Which makes no sense,” Derek uncocked his carbine. “They ought to have some knowledge of metal-working living near a culture with guns. Trade goods, at least. Especially since they appear to be advanced enough for a uniformed military.”
“We’re in another freakin’ world with classes and levels and you want it to make sense?” Shad swung aboard Buttercup.
“Look, other than a couple things it mostly does, or at least did in the first go.”
Shad rubbed his face. “You’re probably right. I got an hour of sleep after working eighteen hours, and now we’re here. I’m in a seriously bad mood.”
“Tough shift,” Jeff commented as the Talons resumed their journey.
“Yeah, I’m starting to wear down.” After returning from their first otherworldly jaunt Shad, who had been managing a security systems company, attended th
e Peace Officer’s academy at night, and then made an uncontested run for an empty Constable’s seat. It was a dollar-a-year job (albeit with health and dental care), and the other three Constables were retired officers who were happy to let Shad serve all court papers and orders, each of which carried a fee and expenses. Shad tended to work long hours when he worked, but overall the money was very good. “But it’s mid-afternoon to judge by the sun, so hopefully I can get some sleep soon.”
“Another mile to X, which is good because we’re running out of ridge,” Fred observed.
“That’s not a hill,” Derek suddenly pointed. “That’s a pyramid!”
“Bullshit,” Shad shook his head.
“No, it’s not like Egypt, it is stepped, and it has trees on the lower level.”
The four halted their horses and studied the matter.
“He’s right,” Jeff admitted. “Its kind of like the ones in Central America, except the…layers, I guess you would call them, are taller.”
Fred was measuring with his thumb again. “It’s pretty damn huge.”
“I bet lizard-boy and his buddies are from there,” Derek nodded.
“Well, they had castles and cities last time,” Shad shrugged.
“But little or no organized religion, remember? And those fortresses and cities were built by Humans or Dwarves,” Derek shook his head. “This is another major variance.”
“I don’t know if ‘more black people’ counts as a major variance,” Jeff said thoughtfully. “But the pyramid is something different.”
“OK, we’re close,” Shad said tiredly. “Fred, no killing anyone until we know what is going on. I know you’re pissed, but we’re here to learn.”
“What about afterwards?”
“Whatever you can live with is fine by me. They roped us into this, after all. Jeff, you do the talking, I’m in no mood for interaction.”
“When are you ever?” Jeff rolled his eyes.
“Bite me.”
“Seriously, I can’t believe you keep a girlfriend as long as you do.”
“Me and that Sharps have a lot in common: long barrel, deep penetration.”
“Thanks for ruining this rifle for me,” Fred snapped.
“That would explain it,” Jeff conceded. “Your complete lack of people skills would have to be overcome by something major.”
“Dude, Gandhi wishes he was like me.”
“Alive?” Derek asked.
“Yep.”
As the Talons descended the declining slope of the ridge’s south end they observed a dark carriage parked on the prairie a half-mile distant. Four horses were picketed nearby, and two armed men loitered near them. Some distance from the carriage a man sat in a folding chair reading a book, a bottle and glass near to hand on a folding table. A quarter mile further south a creek in a deeply eroded channel meandered across the plains like a scar, its banks lined with brush and small trees.
“I guess that’s X,” Jeff jerked his chin towards the seated man.
“Cecil, if he wrote our note,” Derek nodded.
“Let’s do this,” Fred urged his horse forward.
The two armed guards stayed put as the Talons rode up, and the seated man carefully inserted a marker into his book and placed it on the folding table, standing as the Talons came to a halt on line in front of him.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he smiled, bowing slightly. Their greeter was a lean man of indeterminate years with carefully groomed hair and wearing a dark suit cut like Jeff’s but of obviously higher quality. He was dark-skinned and handsome, and reminded Shad a bit of the Indian actor who played Tim on the comedy Rules of Engagement.
“We’re not happy to be here,” Jeff said bluntly. “Or about the kidnapping, or getting blackmailed into working for someone else. So you would be well advised to get to the point.”
The man bowed again. “I understand. I am Amid, the representative of he who summoned you. I would first like to assure you that the child was returned unharmed, and was taken in such a way that she was not subject to the time difference between our spheres.”
Jeff nodded and gestured for Amid to continue.
“My master, Cecil Standbry, summoned you because he has reached a point of desperation. He believed you would not come willingly.”
“He is powerful enough to bring us here but not powerful to deal with a problem that four low-level types can solve?” Jeff took off his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “That makes no sense.”
“My master’s skills are not suitable for violence or derring-do.”
“There’s no locals who know how to fight?”
Amid sighed. “My master’s task requires discretion and a certain level of excellence. He is aware of your actions within the Prison and feels that it is your intangible qualities which let you accomplish what you achieved, not levels or class choices.”
“The Prison?”
“Our terms for the primary place of banishment.”
The Talons glanced at each other. “Wait a minute-are you suggesting that we are not currently in the Prison?”
Amid nodded. “Precisely. We call this place the Realm. It conforms to the much the same laws that govern the Prison. Before your actions it was connected to your world by the same roads that connected your world and the Prison. Enough of the roads remained between our Realm and your world for my master to call you forth.”
“So if this isn’t the Prison, how did it come about?” Jeff asked.
“The historical details are inexact, but a faction who were banished to the Prison attempted to use the Old Powers to return themselves en masse to your world. Their effort failed to effect a return, but they created the Realm, which is much closer to your world. Their efforts also dragged along tens of thousands of bystanders, as it were, from the Prison. The effort warped the survivors of the faction and their descendants into something that is less than Human.” He gestured toward the west. “No doubt you saw the pyramid. They are known as the Tek: idolaters, sorcerers, slave-keepers and practitioners of sentient sacrifice.”
“They don’t seem to be a big threat,” Derek observed. “It doesn’t look like too large of a holding.”
“That pyramid is just one of many,” Amid spread his hands. “However, the Tek are not the issue other than as a general hazard to your operations. The Realm has been invaded by those we call Death Lords, masters of necromancy who seek to turn the Realm into a grave-land under their control.”
“So the Death Lords aren’t from the Realm?”
“No.”
“You aren’t expecting us to repel an invasion, are you?” Shad snapped.
“Of course not, although we understand that while in the Prison you faced the full range of necromantic forces and prevailed. That experience will be extremely useful.”
Shad rubbed a scar under his shirt collar. “Prevail might be a bit strong.”
“We arrived with guns, primitive by our standards, but good weapons,” Derek observed. “Your guards have similar weapons. We faced the Undead with cold steel in the Prison, so your forces should have little trouble facing Undead with firearms.”
“Or the Tek,” Shad added.
“The Tek have the best grasp of magic in the Realm, and Mankind is beset by other forces, notably the Horde to the north, as well as internal divisions,” Amid explained. “In addition, weapons such as you carry are extremely expensive; they must be created by specially-trained magic-workers known as Crafters. The firearms in actual manufacture are less effective than the ones you carry. Still, our use of gunpowder has allowed Mankind and its allies to hold the Horde and the Tek in a balance of power. It helps that the Tek and the Horde hate each other as well.”
“How did you end up with firearms in the first place?” Jeff asked.
“Several groups banished after the creation of the Realm were sent here instead of the Prison, and brought an understanding of gunpowder with them. Since we are much closer to your world, we can occasionally
obtain…well, knowledge. We cannot exceed what was known to those banished here, nor can we send knowledge to the Prison.”
“I noticed your system of magic is more difficult than that in the Prison,” Derek pointed out.
“It is due to our proximity to your realm,” Amid explained. “Certain other things are possible or easier, but magic is weakened.”
“So what did you bring us here to do?” Shad asked.
“My master’s one true beloved went with a group to attempt to close the ‘road’ or passage that joins the Realm to the Death Lords’ world, much against his wishes, I might add. The group has not returned, and my master fears for her safety.” Amid removed a portfolio from his jacket. “Here are the details of the case and a drawing of the young lady in question. This small orb will alert you when you are within a mile or so of her physical being. Your task is to bring her back.”
“What if she’s dead?” Shad was getting restless.
“My master knows in his heart that she lives,” Amid assured them. “However, in the unlikely event that she has perished, please recover her remains; the orb will detect her whether she is alive or deceased.”
“Again: why us?” Jeff asked. “Secrecy isn’t impossible to maintain, even with locals. And we had a lot of help in the Prison.”
Amid sighed. “You are outlanders. There are certain minor rules which do not apply to you, as I’m sure you observed in the Prison. Rules that apply even to the Death Lords. A lunar cycle after your arrive no one can track you by enchanted means, and you are less susceptible to the illusionary effects of necromantic enchantments. My master feels these advantages, coupled with the characteristics which led you to victory in the Prison, will grant you the greatest chance of success.”
“We have five tattoos,” Jeff held up his left arm in emphasis. “If we have one job, why not one tattoo?”
“Those are wards, not body art,” Amid corrected him. “It is possible for certain practitioners here to obtain information from the Prison; easier than getting knowledge from your world, in fact. We know that many outlanders in the Prison, yourselves included, found the means to free yourselves of the wards. Five wards are not a guarantee that you cannot escape without my master’s help, but it raises the bar to the point where it would be easier to do as he requests. There are no dragons in the Realm,” he smiled. “Now, if you will follow me, I will lead you to an excellent starting point for your venture.”