Sand. Sand everywhere. It feels like I’m back on the beaches of Palestine. The major difference is the startling lack of explosions. I open my eyes, and the sharp sun is just as painful as the Middle East. If only I had my sunglasses. Blinking, I realize I’m still holding my duffle bag. I’m flat on my back, bag under my right hand, staring directly into the sun.

Sounds rushes back into my head from everywhere at once. Cheering. I hear a large crowd cheering, something like a football game or some other stadium sport. I pull myself up to my knees, and rub some of the pain from my eyes. Somehow, the migraine is mostly gone, but it could just be the shock.

“Is any of it real?” I wonder aloud. I’ve had flashbacks before, but never this vivid. A typical flashback is always more emotion and raw energy than something like an honest hallucination. It doesn’t feel right. Then again, not much inside my head has felt right for a long time.

“Get down!” someone yells behind me.

I don’t have to be told twice. I roll over onto my stomach and cover my head with my hands. A second later, some unseen projectile whizzes over my head. I hear it collide with something solid, and then a blast of heat rolls over my back.

“Fuck.” Another war. But it feels too real. I’m here, not just imagining things. “I better get another pension…”

Finally, a bit of my training kicks in. Assess the situation. Identify hostiles and friendlies. Get to safety. Return fire. I take a deep breath and peer up from my stomach. I’m in some kind of arena that reminds me of the Roman Colosseum before it was destroyed in the war along with the rest of southern Europe. People, tens of thousands of them, scream in the stone stands. The remnants of a fiery blast still smolder on the nearest wall.

I grab my bag and roll over again, quickly fumbling with the zipper. Shit. Nothing is loaded. My fingers find the rifle tucked inside my bag just as my eyes finally take stock of the entire situation.

“What… the… fuck…” None of it makes sense. I’m in an arena—that much is correct. But it isn’t from my time. Nothing lines up with the year 2036, at least not 2036 A.D. A group of soldiers dressed in leather armor with spears and full-body shields is locked in combat against a towering beast, some kind of mythical sea creature with three heads that I don’t recognize.

The voice that warned me to get down shouts again. It comes from a man maybe ten feet away and dressed like a cartoon wizard. “Come, to me!” He waves his hand, clearly beckoning for me to join him.

“Hell no,” I muttered back, but I know the man can’t hear me over the din of the battle.

Seeing no immediate threat to my life, I rip the rifle from my bag and fish out a box of .45 ACP, quickly loading five rounds into the magazine and jamming it home. I rack the bolt, then scramble up to one knee and quickly get a sight picture.

One group of soldiers fights the multi-headed monster at forty yards. A cartoon wizard thinks I’m his friend about three yards to my left. To my right, another cartoon wizard is performing some kind of dance at thirty yards, waving a gnarled staff above his head like a madman.

“Watch out! Duck!” the friendly wizard shouts.

A heartbeat later, a huge ball of fire hurdles over my head, singing my hair. “Fuck this…” I exhale a long breath, align my optic over the fire-spewing wizard’s head, and pull the trigger. The man collapses in a heap, and his staff rolls a few yards from his fingers.

I swing back to the soldiers and the sea creature, but none of them seem to have noticed me yet. Then I pivot to the ‘friendly’ wizard only a few feet away. “What the fuck is happening?” I shout.

The man puts up his hands, the universal sign for surrender. Then he beckons me once more. “Come, come!” He points to the sea creature with obvious fear shaking his limbs. “Kill the beast!”

I don’t know if I can believe him. But I have at least a little bit of time. Keeping one in the chamber, I drop the magazine from the receiver to load more rounds. As long as no one seems to be actively attempting to kill me, I might as well get ready for that eventuality. I load a full magazine, thirty rounds, then take aim back at the beast. The soldiers with spears aren’t faring well. They’re down to just two, and it looks like six others were already turned to corpses before my arrival.

I give one final look to the friendly wizard, and he only nods. Two quick shots below the creature’s heads drop it to the sand. To my surprise, the soldiers don’t instantly turn and charge me next.

“You did it!” the wizard shouts. “We won! We Won!”

“Won what?” I yell back.

Just then, a huge red banner unfurls above the crowd, and blaring trumpets fill the stands. The noise of the fanfare combined with the roar of the crowd is deafening. I don’t want to take my hand off the rifle, but I have to cover my ears. Luckily, it doesn’t last long before everything quiets down.

Someone official looking descends from a separate booth in the stands and approaches the railing. The friendly wizard waves to me again, obviously wanting me to follow him, but I hold my ground. Finally, he realizes I’m not interested in joining him, and he approaches the official in the stands with the two remaining spear soldiers dutifully in tow. I get the feeling that the friendly wizard was battling the other one that I killed, and our side just won.

My suspicion is readily confirmed. The official makes a few grand announcements to the ground—his voice amplified by some unknown means—and then places a crown of laurels on the head of ‘Sir Vasily Gnomeslayer, the Petulant Scourge of Inktown.’

“Hell of a name,” I mutter.

When the fanfare concludes Sir Vasily finally approaches me. He keeps his hands where I can see them and wears a smile, so I decide not to put a round through his head… for now.

“Ah, my wonderful familiar! You did so well! Perfect! Fantastic! A spectacle to behold!”

Some of the crowd has stayed behind, and they fight each other to get close to the railing and reach out to Sir Vasily.

I decide that the man thinks I’m a friend and lower my rifle. I don’t bother with the safety or even take my finger off the trigger, but I can at least point it at the sand. “What the hell was all that?” I demand.

Behind me, a few people dressed in old time peasant clothes have entered the arena and are dragging away the dead wizard’s body with very little decorum.

“We won, my familiar,” the man says, repeating the strange term.

Am I the familiar? What is a familiar? I don’t respond.

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He spreads his arms like a conniving street salesman trying to peddle me a piece of tourist junk I don’t need. “Ah, but alas, your summoning is not permanent. We will not be together long.” His voice mocks sadness. “I won the spell scroll at last year’s Inktown City Tournament, and it has made me a four-time champion! Four!”

He snaps his fingers.

Nothing happens.

His face quickly rolls through a series of emotions before settling on confusion. He looks to one of the spear soldiers. “The scroll… I am out of mana. The familiar should dissipate, right?”

The man nods. “Yes, my lord. Once your mana is depleted, as it is now, the spell cannot be maintained. The familiar will return whence it came. That is how the spell was written.”

Sir Vasily Gnomeslayer takes another step closer, close enough to touch me. I raise the rifle again, and he jumps back. “Ah… my familiar… I do not understand why you are still here, but no matter! We shall return to my villa and celebrate all the same!” He gives an apathetic shrug, clearly not understanding the severe threat I pose to him and his crew, then turns and starts walking away toward an exit.

As far as I can tell, Sir Vasily thinks I’m his familiar, and he’s responsible for bringing me here… however that happened. And it appears that a familiar is some kind of beholden servant, perhaps a slave. He doesn’t fear me because he thinks he controls me or at least that we’re allied. Honestly, I don’t know what else to do other than follow him. Where would I go? What would I do?

I sling the Vector in front of my chest and quickly gather my duffle bag, then strap it on my back as best I can. I decide that following Sir Vasily will at least get me out of the sandy arena, and it might net me a few answers as well. Or, more likely, one of the other soldiers will explain some things.

I fall into step behind the ground, a hand still on my gun. “Psst.” I tap the nearest spear soldier on the shoulder.

The man fixes me with a confused look. He’s probably forty, sports a healthy gruff of a beard, and there’s blood on both his arms, though it doesn’t appear to be his.

“Uh, can you tell me what’s happening?” I ask.

“I’ve never heard a familiar speak before,” he responds. Somehow, I’m surprised we share a language. The man looks human enough, sure, but he certainly sports a swarthy complexion. If I had to guess, he looks North African. Algerian or Moroccan, maybe. Jessica and I spent some time in Tunis before shipping out through Egypt, and the man would have fit right in.

“Yeah, about that. What’s a familiar?” We walk through a raised iron portcullis and then begin descending a narrow hallway lined with torches.

He sighs. “I guess… Man, you shouldn’t be able to speak! Its unsettling. Anyway, Sir Vasily summoned you. He won the Inktown City Tournament last year, and a summoning scroll was part of his winnings. He was about out of mana against Sir Barton, the wizard you killed, so he used the scroll to summon a familiar. And wow, I don’t know what kind of magic you have in that wand of yours, but I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Sadly, his explanation didn’t provide a heck of a lot of clarity. “I’m a familiar. Does that mean I’m his slave?”

The man shakes his head. “You shouldn’t even be here still. Once a wizard runs out of mana, their familiar should vanish. I’ve seen it plenty of times before. Summoning a powerful familiar is hard, and it takes a lot of mana, but Sir Vasily is one of the best wizards around. I’ve seen him do it in practice before.”

Something else the man said clicks in my head. “You said I killed Sir Barton. What do you mean?”

“Oh yeah, you got him good. Some powerful magic there.”

“And he’s dead?”

We emerge from the tunnel into a grand entryway of sorts, and Sir Vasily stops to mingle with the remaining crowd like an athlete signing autographs. “Yeah, he’s dead. You got the hydra too. And so fast!”

Well… I’ve only been here a few minutes, and I’ve already murdered a guy. But no one else seems to be too bothered. And, after all, he did shoot a… fireball… at me. Self defense, right?

“Alright. I killed Sir Barton. Cool. And the hydra thing. Creature. Whatever. And according to you, I shouldn’t be here because I’m a summoned familiar, and Sir Vasily is out of mana. Did I get that right?”

The soldier laughs. “That’s right! Now we’re going back to the villa to party! Four-time champs!”

I remember the numerous corpses dressed just like my new friend. “What about your other compatriots? The hydra killed them, didn’t it?”

“Eh, it happens. Last year we lost thirty-six. This year was only nine. Not bad!”

Holy shit. These people are insane. “Wow. Alright. Time to party at the villa. By the way, where are we?”

He looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “Inktown. Where else?”

“Sure. That explains it. And you’re not the least bit fazed that I just killed a guy out there and could easily kill you too?”

Our group slowly moves beyond the crowded wellwishers and exits the arena into a bath of warm afternoon sun. The buildings are all mud brick and stone, very little wood, and very little glass. People are everywhere. Some stop to wave at Sir Vasily, other stare and gawk from across the street, and the vast majority just go about their business.

“Hey, we’re on the same team, remember? And Sir Vasily is the strongest wizard in Inktown. He just proved it. No way you’d be able to do anything he doesn’t want you to do.” The man’s smile is unsettling.

I feel more and more like a slave, or at least like they think I’m going to be a slave. Well, the twenty-eight rounds in my magazine will certainly put down any of those thoughts. But right now, I’m still not convinced that anything is real. The stone street beneath my boots feels real, the people sound real, but I’m not convinced.

“Hey, whatever your name is, punch me in the shoulder, will you?” I ask.

The man snorts a short laugh. “You’re a weird familiar,” he says, then slugs me in the shoulder. He’s stronger than he looks, and I feel it just as I would anyone in real life taking a shot at me. “And my name is Cornelius. I’m Sir Vasily’s Captain of the Guard. I train the infantry. We’ll be hiring tomorrow, if you know anyone. I’d say we have about nine slots open for next year!” He laughs at his own poor joke.

“You’re a prize fighter. That’s all you do, year after year.” A shudder runs down my spine. It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it. I knew a few soldiers like Cornelius and Sir Vasily. Actually, I knew a lot of soldiers like them. Prize fighters who didn’t care which side they were on so long as they got to kill. They were murderers and war criminals in my eyes, not heroic celebrities. I shake the thoughts from my head and realize the last remnants of my migraine have receded.

Our small entourage boards a large carriage about a block from the arena, and no one seems to mind the startling number of empty seats. The drive cracks a small whip, and we rattle down the road at a leisurely pace. With no top on the carriage, I take in all the city skyline of Inktown has to offer. Most buildings are single story, rudimentary structures with smoking chimneys and plenty of people hurrying about. A few blocks in the distance, a clocktower rises above the other roofs and I catch the time. A few minutes before five.

We round a sharp curve, and a breathtaking vista greets my eyes. A river runs through the heart of Inktown, spotted with stone bridges and speckled with floating boats. The opposite bank rises sharply from the blue water, then gives way to sprawling vineyards. At the highest point stands a huge castle, a fortress of stone towers, curtain walls, and bristling embattlements.

“Please tell me that’s the villa,” I say to the other soldiers.

Cornelius laughs, and the others just give me confused looks, likely still trying to figure out how or why I can speak. “No, no, of course not. That’s Castle Murblood. The queen lives there—”

“Long live the queen!” the other soldiers say in unison.

Cornelius clears his throat. “Yes, as I was saying. The royal family lives in the castle. Gnomeslayer Estate is just… there.” He points to a massive mansion surrounded by well manicured gardens just across the river.

“And what exactly is a gnome?” I know the answer back on Earth, but here, I’m not so sure.

Cornelius holds up his hands about two feet apart. “You know, short little bastards, about yay high, always scheming and plotting and snickering. Real vermin, that lot.”

I don’t know if the men simply hate gnomes or if they really are some kind of pest here, and I’m not sure how to ask. Instead, I decide to relax a little and take in the sights. If Inktown is really just a fever dream born from the vile union of migraine and PTSD, I might as well enjoy it, right?