by S. K. Holder
And the Darque Goblins were right.
The rainbow stood in the sky for four days. On the fifth day, it faded as a smile fades on the lips, spitting fire and rock. It carved a great crater in the north. It poisoned the Garn Ocean and the Hizsen Sea. Many died. All lost their homes.
The surviving Gamnod people and the Darque Goblins appealed to the King and Queen of Baruch to give them aid, to let them seek sanctuary within the Kingdom.
King Kalgar and Queen Irentha believed that because the Poison Rainbow had wreaked so much damage over Garnorm and Hizsen, the Gamnod people, and the Darque Goblins must have done something terrible to anger their Gods. They also deemed that their customs and religions had no place in the other regions of Narrigh. Hence, the King and Queen granted them little aid and refused them entry to the southern, eastern and western regions. They also had their Score Army erect a barrier named, Shile Point to prevent their passage. A gate to the north, it sat on the edge of the Dead Forest.
The Darque Goblins and the Gamnod were hurt and angry that the King and Queen had abandoned them. Evil rose in their minds and consumed them. They sought an alliance with the Traceless and the Drone Elves to help them gain vengeance over the Baruchians.
And so the Age of War came.
From this war sprung two factions: the Furnace and the Storm.
The Furnace Faction of the North formed the Blade Army. The Blade Army invaded the Kingdom of Baruch and thus a great battle ensued between the Furnace Faction and the Score Army. The Score Army were outnumbered. The kingdom was defeated and the King and the Queen put to death. The Furnace held the kingdom for three years until the Storm Faction formed of Garnorm humans, Theria Elves and dwarves, drove the Furnace’s Blade Army back north and restored the kingdom back to the Baruchians.
Hizsen became known as the Great Northern Crater and the races of the North became fewer and scattered.
After the Age of Wars comes the Age of Trepidation.
The Shardner government seeks to protect the races of four regions: Theris, Olvastan, Baruch, and Narrul, who remain forever wary of the north. They believe its lands are cursed. The threat of another northern invasion hangs over them. The fear of another Poison Rainbow weighs heavy on their minds.”
“Far beyond the Poison Rainbow, lies the world of Odisiris, predominately occupied by a race known as Citizen. It is from here that the Poison Rainbow evolved. Unbeknown to the races of Narrigh, the rainbow created a rift between their world and the world of Odisiris.
The creator of these worlds knows of the rift and seeks to use it to his advantage. He hopes others do not seek to do the same. For he holds in his possession, a great artefact that if wielded, could disrupt the balance of the two worlds and ultimately lead to their destruction. ”
Connor hastily scrolled through the game’s background story. ‘I can’t believe they try to hold up your game play with this crap.’ He took a slurp of drink from the can. ‘We don’t need to know all this stuff.’
He set to work creating his own player character: a human warrior with his own suit of leather armour and a Lightning Sword to help blast his enemies to smithereens. He knew Warriors fought a lot and were brave. There was no time to read up on any other Professions. He would have to pick the rest up as he went along. He had not forgotten that his mum, who had returned home from work, was taking a nap and could wake up at any moment.
‘Can’t we just play your brother’s character, Duffy?’ Riley frowned at the screen. ‘It’ll save time.’
‘Rookie mistake. If we don’t want him to suspect anything, we need to create a new character, one we can delete when we’re done.’ Not that his brother would ever suspect him of foul play.
Riley guzzled from his can of soda. ‘What good is that? We’ll have to start all over again, every time he goes out. Just play Luke’s character.’
Connor scowled at him. Riley was taking away all the excitement with his moaning. ‘No. You don’t mess with another player’s character. You don’t do that. Don’t you know anything about the sacred code of gaming?’
Riley bowed his head. ‘Only what you teach me, O Great One.’
Connor smirked. He didn’t know anything about the sacred code of gaming either. He knew he didn’t want to snatch Luke’s personal victory away from him; he just wanted to beat it. And in time, he would. His brother need never know. ‘Okay. I’ll create a new character and I won’t delete it. If he sees it, he’ll think Bat put it there.’
Riley gave a nod and two short burps. ‘Then I want my own character too.’
THREE
The world of Narrigh is alien to Citizens. Where they come from technology is ubiquitous. They rely on it for their very existence. How well they can cope without it, in these extraordinary lands, only time will tell.
Skelos’s moment of glory had almost slipped through his fingers like the intangible dreams of the wretched victims on which he conducted his experiments.
Almost.
He was in the Shardner’s custody, exiled from Odisiris to a foreign land. They had put him to work on the Herming Moth Wings. Supposedly, his predecessor’s invention was faulty. What did they expect when he had specimens no bigger than lizards on which to test them?
The Shardner will keep me here forever, out of sight, but unfortunately not out of mind.
He wiped the sweat and grime from his face and threw another metal Wing into the crate, sneaking a glance at the door where two guards were stationed. Half-crazed with weariness, they were still upright. Their shift would end in twenty minutes. He would get five minutes respite before a new set of guards came on duty, and he could get little done in five minutes, very little in this pitiful excuse for a lab. The laboratory was not designed with comfort in mind, nor was it designed to allow a scientist or his designated assistant to indulge in their scientific passions. The furniture was conventional, the utensils basic. There was a standard lab table, a double bowl sink, two stools and shelves stacked with beakers, test tubes, flasks, spoons, tongs and one microscope. In the corner stood a tall glass cabinet, which housed three groups of specimens: orange lizards, snout-nosed Ticket shrews and miniature red frogs.
Bored and agitated, Skelos lined-up the beakers on the nearest and lowest shelf to him. He had sent his assistant home an hour ago.
He had chosen to wear his favourite purple silk-lined robes rather than don the clinical black coat more suited to his Profession. The robes hid his widening girth, which was about all they were good for. He had tripped over and snagged the fabric more times than he could count.
Truth be told, he had no idea how to fix the Wings, and furthermore, he did not care. He was done with all this. He was superior to the races of Narrigh, a Citizen. First Status. Why should he work for them?
He strutted up to one of the guards and tapped him on the shoulder. The guard swatted away Skelos’s fat finger with the steel baton he clutched in his hand, his face a rigid mask. He was a burly fellow with cauliflower ears and a crooked mammoth-sized nose. His ill-fitted black tunic bulged at the seams. Another Unmarked One[1], mused Skelos, who didn’t see fit to bow.
‘What?’ said the guard.
‘I wondered if you could fetch me something from the Stores.’
‘Ain’t no fetcher,’ said the guard.
Skelos gazed at his companion who shrugged. ‘You’ve been given everything you need so get on with it.’
The other guard was a Second Status Citizen, with all the arrogance of a First. He had dark skin, an athletic build, sinewy muscles and an angular jaw. Now he could prove to be a problem.
‘And how would you know what I need?’ Skelos asked, inwardly seething.
The guards kept quiet. Skelos knew what was going through their minds. The store was ten minutes away at a jog. A Citizen might make it there in three minutes. However, once there, they would have to wait for him to find what he needed in the extensive storerooms, get security clearance and sign the logbook. All of which took time. Their sh
ift would overrun and they were not getting paid overtime to babysit.
‘My assistant forgot to bring me a valuable ingredient,’ said Skelos, ‘and these Wings won’t wait.’
The guards looked at each other. The Herming Moth Wings were a priority, every serving member of the Shardner knew it.
‘We’re not to leave our posts,’ said the Burly One.
‘Perhaps one of you can escort me to the Stores.’ Skelos stared hopefully into the Burly One’s eyes. Please let it be you.
‘You go Vastra,’ said the Burly One to his fellow guard. ‘Make it quick. I want to be out of here on time.’
The other guard cocked his head at Skelos and pulled open the metal door. ‘Let’s go.’
The guard, named Vastra, hurried Skelos down the passage. ‘What’s the matter with you? Can’t you go any faster?’ he barked, waiting for Skelos to catch him up.
‘No I’m afraid I can’t.’ Skelos hunched a little and coughed, an act, which seemed to infuriate Vastra further.
‘It’s a good thing you’ve got brains or the Shardner would have been rid of you long ago. Now hurry the blazes up!’
Skelos refused to be rushed. The Avu’lore he had hidden in his robes was slowing him down, making him hobble; making him wish he had lifted a few more weights and eaten a lot less pies. He could not leave it behind. It was his most prized possession.
As Vastra said, he had brains.
FOUR
Connor trudged deeper into the forest. Alone and exhausted, he clambered over mounds of soil and stumbled over gnarled roots. I’ll find a safe place, and then I’ll stop, he told himself. But nowhere seemed safe. The trees towered over him, casting eerie shadows, taunting him with their silence.
No ordinary forest, he reflected. The air was dead. Lifeless. If he was in a game, where were the Quest Givers? Where were the markers in the sky prompting him in the direction he needed to go?
He had called his player character, Connor the Brave. He didn’t feel like Connor the Brave now, more like Connor the Coward. He could already feel himself welling up. He was surprised he hadn’t wet his pants. He may have. It was hard to tell. His clothes were damp with soil. They clung to his skin, numbing him. There was no sunlight to dry them.
As he stumbled wearily on, he clung to the hope that Riley or his brother, Luke, would appear or even better that he would reach the edge of the forest and find himself back in his bedroom.
The pain in his leg had ebbed away, but his head had not stopped hurting since the beast had struck him with its beak. He rubbed a numb hand against his forehead, hoping some friction would ease the pain. It did not. He tilted his head. Grains of soil fell out of his ears. He dug the rest out with his fingers. And that’s when he noticed the black and inky blue scar on the palm of his right hand. He stared at it goggle-eyed. It didn’t hurt. That didn’t mean it wasn’t poisoned, or worse, the beginnings of some hideous transformation. He noticed that his arms were bony and his ribs poked from beneath his shirt. What was happening to him?
Whispers.
He snapped his head up. He could hear them clearly. He was not alone.
The whispers brought him to a clearing in the forest, where there stood a circle of trees knitted together to form an immense pen. Unnatural light streamed from the enclosure. The men, who had taken up residence inside it, had invaded the eerie silence of the forest.
Connor forgot about the scar on his hand. He found a small gap between two lofty trunks and peered through it.
Several stones littered the muddy bottom of the enclosure. They gave off a dim light. He blinked four times. He could not believe his eyes.
He counted forty or so riders mounted on sturdy grey horses. The riders were armoured, clad from head to foot in silver. Silver helmets covered all but their eyes, jaws and mouth. Their fine cloaks flowed about them like silk. Three of the riders dismounted. They spoke amongst themselves, heatedly, in some peculiar tongue.
Connor’s eyes swivelled up and down, left and right. The riders were human. It brought him little relief. Not all humans in Narrigh were allies. And as far as he knew, there were no Silver Riders in The Quest of Narrigh game. He glimpsed a small figure sitting hunched at the foot of a tree, draped in fur, their face concealed.
Most of the enclosure’s branches arched inwards, shutting out the daylight, but some low-hanging boughs fell outside the cage.
Connor considered climbing along one of the boughs for a better look if he could find the strength. He was too tired and anxious to feel the familiar pangs of hunger in his belly. Nonetheless, he felt the cold in his veins.
He crouched down on his stiff legs, kneading his ankles with his balled fists. He felt pinpricks in his feet, nothing more. He blew on his hands and then rubbed them together until they were hot. He opened up his bag. Inside he found gold, silver and bronze coins, an apple, strips of dried meat, two leather flasks, a folded piece of parchment, a small grey stone and a slow-burner[2].
So I am in a game, he thought. He had twenty-two pieces of gold in all, sixteen silver coins and twelve bronze. He had unloaded his more valuable items into the City of Rint vaults. The coins were loot he had gained from defeating his enemies. The food was all he had left over from an inn he had visited in one of the villages. He didn’t know where the stone had come from. He didn’t even remember winning it. It could be that it found its way into his bag by accident. If it was a magic stone, he had no idea how to use it. He shrugged. He was sure to figure it out in time.
You needed a special kind of flint to light slow-burners, not magic. He rooted through the bag and checked his pockets. He didn’t have any flint, which was probably a good thing. He had never lit a match in his life. He wouldn’t want to set fire to the whole forest.
He chewed a corner of the dried meat. It didn’t taste too bad: sweet, salty, and as tough as rawhide. He opened one of the flasks with some difficulty. The lid seemed to have frozen to the rim. Once he had tussled off the lid, he put the flask to his lips. The liquid was clear and tasted of ginger beer and lemon. The beverage instantly warmed him up. He didn’t stop drinking until the flask was empty.
He unfolded the piece of parchment and found it was a map of the Lands of Narrigh. He could find his way out of the forest and return to the place in which he started out in the game: Undren village. He could probably make it home from there.
He rearranged the items in his bag, taking care to place the map at the top where he could easily reach it.
He wiped his mouth and set about selecting a low branch, one he could reach without difficulty before his sore muscles gave out. Fighting weariness, he grabbed a fistful of leaves for advantage. He secured one foot on a stump, the size of a large potato, at the base of the trunk and hoisted himself up. He moved slowly, hindered by the pounding in his head. He clutched the flat green leaves and scaly bark. The cold nipped at him, stabbing at his fingers.
He was making good progress when he suddenly heard an almighty crack. Something hot coiled itself around his neck and yanked him to the ground. It squeezed his throat. His eyes bulged and watered. His scream came out as a gurgle. The veins rose in his temples. He bucked and thrashed, digging his fingers into the thing wringing his neck. The hot choking-thing.
He heard a coarse laugh, and then he felt the choking-thing grow cold and slack. He clutched his throat, coughing and gasping for air.
Through his distorted vision, he saw the shape of a man standing over him, telling him pointedly in English to rise.
Connor did not rise. He lay on his side staring into the face of a Silver Rider, who glared at him malevolently through the eye-slits in his helmet. In his gloved hand, the rider held a small silver barrel. From it came squirming silver tentacles. The rider raised his hand and the tentacles fizzled and died.
‘Alone are we?’ asked the rider.
Connor tried to open his mouth. His head swirled dizzily. He forced himself to sit up and take notice of the man who spoken to him. ‘Who are you? What
do you want?’ Except the words never left his lips.
‘Now what to do with you?’ The rider ran one hand across his exposed stubbly black chin. His lips curled into a smile.
Another of the Silver Riders drifted towards Connor like a pale ghost. He towered in height, dwarfing his comrade. He met Connor’s gaze. His eyes were the same colour as the deep green leaves of the forest and as cold as the ice that clung to them.
‘What do ya reckon to this one, Osaphar? Shall we leave him here? Let the Dal-Carrion have him for breakfast?’
‘Imbecile!’ said the Tall Rider. ‘Do not speak my name.’
The Tall Rider knelt over Connor. Connor flinched and shuffled back on his knees. His head smacked the bark of the enclosure. He saw the silvery outline of an eye stitched into the fabric of the rider’s cloak, where it draped over his left breastplate.
Osaphar tilted Connor’s chin with his hand. He stared at Connor’s neck. A look of wonder shone in his pale eyes.
Panic seized Connor. He was sure the Silver Rider had seen his Egg pendant and meant to take it. What Connor didn’t see was the dark rims on his neck, left by the hot tentacles, fade then disappear before the rider’s eyes.
With his stiff-gloved hand, Osaphar proceeded to rake at the chain around Connor’s neck. His fingers fastened around the pendant.
The Tall Rider twirled the pendant between his fingers. Connor wasn’t about to let him take it. It was the only thing he knew how to use. He snatched the pendant clean out of Osaphar’s grasp and hugged it to his own thumping chest.
Osaphar frowned and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘He’s to come with us.’
‘Gods save us!’ said his companion. ‘Surely our undertaking doesn’t include that of a half-starved boy.’