The Church of Ward was, in George’s eyes, a very normal looking church. It was a mostly wood structure with brickwork on the outside and a tall steeple near the middle of the main roof. The entryway was separated from the rest of the building by a set of wide doors which had individual arches that met about halfway down the middle slope.
On his left was a heavy looking shield mounted to the wall. It was thick and fully metal with the same crest that he saw on the guard’s tunics outside. It was also as big as his torso, shoulder to shoulder and looked like it would cover past his waist as well. Perhaps too big to be a shield. At least, for a normal person.
George couldn’t escape the hidden reality that a new world like this had to have magic. He already experienced it once, with the Goddess. That was some kind of magic, a power he didn’t understand that did something he couldn’t explain. If it was advanced technology like the idiom claimed then it could have been clearer with its choice of words.
He imagined what kind of man would be able to wield a shield that size. It was impossibly heavy looking. The mounts that it rested on were bent at the joints. The wooden pegs were nearly coming out of the wall with how much weight was pressed on them.
Behind him the wall was a bit more plain. There was a shallow indented shelf with a piece of paper secured under a shallow wooden frame. He went over to check it out, absentmindedly assuming that he could read the world’s language just because its people spoke English.
It looked English, but it was also in such stylistic cursive that it could have been Hebrew or Thai. He recognized a few letters but not the greater picture. The formatting of it, however, was more placeable. It looked like a schedule, with blocks separated by larger print headlines that correlated to days.
George was shaken so hard his gun-hand flew out of his pocket when he heard the creak of the large wooden doors open. He turned and tried to hide his gun behind his back again from whoever was interrupting him.
“Oh, hello,” a kind young woman said. She was dressed like a nun but with soft colors, not harsh black and white. She had a headdress, like a very long hat with zero rigidity that ran down around her shoulders like a pair of curtains. Her regular dress was collared all the way up to her neck and had a frill of fabric that cupped the underside of her chin. The same frilling came out at her wrists, and the rest of her dress belled out at her hips to cover her down to her feet.
She was pretty. George made a note of that. She had a small, perky nose and wide eyes but a small, smiling mouth with naturally glossy lips. Her eyes were deep blue, and strangely her pupils seemed to blend into her iris to the point where it was hard looking at them where one began or ended.
“Are you well?” she asked kindly.
George realized he had been caught staring at her and shook his empty hand. “Oh, no no - it’s nothing. Nothing like that, actually. I - I was just -.” George interrupted himself with a tap from behind. He felt the gun nudge up against his lower back, which terrified him, realizing what it was and how close it came to his spine.
“Uh, well,” he began again, “the truth. The brutal, honest truth: I’m homeless. I’m not of this city, or this land even, and am seeking shelter and, if it isn’t insulting or too overbearing, some food just for a day so I can get by until I find work that I can do with my, um, lameness.” He waved his free hand up and then showed just the elbow of his other arm. It was brutal, but not strictly honest.
“I see,” she said. “An unfortunate soul passes here, in search of protection. Ye’ve chosen well, between us. The Church of the Round across the river may’ve given you work at the cost of yer soul, but they’d just as likely seen yer ailing and turn’t you here before thy hand could meet a single blessing.”
“I was told to come here,” he said, “but the man at the trading lodge. He suggested that my circumstances would be best understood here.”
“Please come in,” she offered. “I shall seek a place for ye to stay. In the name of Ward and all are sheltered.” She guided him into the main hall. It was a church, plain and simple. Rows of pews faced an alter at the forefront where a more practical looking, old and battered shield basked in the light of a window high above.
The roof was low, which led him to believe there was a second floor where the gong tower was accessed. The devotee continued to lead him through the empty church. She stopped in front of the altar and held her hands out, palms forward, and slowly pushed until her arms were fully extended. Once she made her gesture to the shield, she turned left and headed for a door in the back.
The shield was more impressive up close. It was realistic - George felt like he was looking at a museum piece. The symbology on it was different from the marks on the flags and tunics. It was more ornate and precisely drawn. It seemed like the city’s flag was based on the original design of the shield and simplified for mass production.
George caught up with the girl as she led him into a back room with firm, cushioned benches arranged against walls and separated by standing racks with curtains. It was like a very easy to escape jail cell. But it was a roof over his head.
“I’ll bring ye a food,” she said as George tested the bench. “Do you feel the guiding grace of Ward surround you?”
“Y-yes,” George said. “I feel….safer in here.”
She smiled pleasantly and went on her way back toward the main church. George leaned back against the wall and let his right arm droop out onto the bench. He barely felt the gun in his hand anymore until he looked at it. Then all the weight seemed to hit him at once. It was just a simple, blocky pistol but it was heavy.
He looked at it again, closer, at a thumbprint-shaped indentation on the left side. He made sure his index finger was straight and touched it. With a hard tap, the magazine slid out and clattered onto the hard wooden floor. He scrambled to recover it and looked at it.
There were holes on the broad side that faced him with number labels. 12 holes, with only the factors of 3 being labeled. He had 12 shots. It was fully loaded. He stuck the magazine back into the slot on the grip and slid it carefully back up. It didn’t quite click when he reached the end so he slapped it straight like they did in the movies.
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Then the slide shook a little. He noticed that it came backwards and exposed a small part of the barrel that was normally flush against the squared off front edge of the gun. He drew the slide back even further until the ejector was exposed. Then his grip slipped and the slide clacked as it snapped forward.
He tried to do it again, but noticed the obvious change. There was a bullet in the chamber, ready to be fired or ejected. He let the slide snap back in place before the bullet jumped out. He just learned how to reload and chamber a round of his gun.
The next mechanism that caught his eye was the tiny lever just above the fingerguard for the trigger. He instantly understood what it was supposed to do and inspected it closer.
Which way is on? He wondered. He flicked it to the up position with his fingernail and tried to get it to go further up. It had three modes, one in the middle and another further down. The only way he could test it for sure would be to try squeezing the trigger. If it was on it wouldn’t budge, if it was on but in a certain mode it might be harder to press. If it was off….
George froze up. He only moved when he heard footsteps coming back. With the gun in uncertain firing capability he shoved it back into his pants and huddled up against the wall while the kind church watcher came back with some food.
She had a gruel of some kind, like a chicken-broth porridge, and a little hock of some kind of well-grilled grey meat.
“Thank you,” George said. “Uh, it looks - what is it?”
“Tis a simple meal,” she said. “Only a fatty stew and rabbit’s leg.”
“Oh,” George said, forcing a smile. “That’s very charitable of you to give me….that.”
“Ward protects us from much,” she said, “but for what is within. Tis a mercy of what goes without, it is. We co-exist with the Round as they protect the insides of men in their ways.”
George set to eating with one hand. He took a flat wooden spoon to the gruel and eyed down the rabbit leg while he half-chewed the viscous meal. He nodded along with her as she talked.
“The King,” she said, “is a mighty, noble man who Ward has recognized. Ere since the founding of this land, the Kings hereof give their souls to Ward so they may shelter and protect us. It is by their will which we live defended always from attack. The bastion of Dossulacrum was a gift earned by the Mountain God who revered the king’s way of defending others, as he was like a mountain himself.”
There are many Gods, George realized. Which one sent me here?
“Uh,” he began, “does Ward - Forgive my ignorance. Does Ward have a body? An appearance? Like, among the Gods, if they were all lined up in a row, how would I recognize Ward at a glance?”
She smiled patiently at him, like she was lecturing a child. “It is the shield,” she said. “Simply is.”
George nodded. “I didn’t want to assume that,” he said. “I’ve seen, uh, depictions of Gods of all kinds. And some looked human. Maybe it was just an artist’s whim, but that’s where my mind is.”
“Where’ve ye seen these visions?” she asked, intently.
“Uh, back home.”
“Where do you call home,” she asked, “if ye be homeless now?”
“Uh,” George grunted. He forgot whatever town it was that he claimed to be from before. Having warm-ish food of dubious origin was all his mind could think of. He’d been stupified by the thick broth and clean, lean meat that tasted surprisingly close to chicken.
“I see,” she said as she stood up. “There may be a pain lingering in yer mind about what home ye’ve left to find a way here. I won’t pry further. Please, be restful in yer stay here. Ye’ve come a long way, I shan’t keep you from good sleep while in Ward’s blessed shelter.”
“Th-thank you, I -.” George tried to work in some additional explanation, but the woman left him. She didn’t even give her name, and he didn’t give his. They were total strangers, and despite that she was still very good to him. George felt like he couldn’t finish his dinner.
He did, every bite, even the parts that felt too chewy and rough to swallow. The rabbit meat, despite his initial judgement, was just fine. All he needed was something to wash it down with. There wouldn’t be any taps for water, so he got up to check if there was any being stored. Or better yet, alcohol.
If ren faires and fantasy shows taught him anything it was that booze was more readily available than water in those times. It wasn’t good for him, but neither was a bullet to the face and he lived through that. Somewhat.
His hovel hall of the church had a back door into a small partition of a yard. He ducked his head out just to check around, hoping for a water pump or a well or just about anything. The river was just outside the front door but he knew better. There were probably laws against drawing buckets from the all-important city-splitting water way.
George stuck his head out and felt a sharp push against his hip. The same weird magnetic force that tried to keep him out of the church wanted him to stay out. He was strong enough to resist it but it was persistent. Every time his hip turned it was yanked by the gun.
He settled on stepping outside to look a little further and saw something like a well back in the yard. He walked over to inspect it but was disappointed. It was just a shrine, a small walled off pit with a few broken shields tossed into it. Offerings or effigies but no water.
When he turned around he noticed that he was no longer alone. It wasn’t the nun, but a nefarious looking man. He was cloaked in a ratty cowl and covered in dirt. He snarled with jagged, browned teeth at George from the corner of the church lot.
“Evening,” George said pleasantly.
“Is it?” the strange man said. He started walking forward, briskly.
George felt the pull of his gun from his pocket. Every part of his mind and body were yelling at him to defend himself like never before. He backed up into the shield pit and shuddered his legs to the ground from the shock. He was on his butt as a mean looking stranger bore down on him.
“You Wardens,” the strange man said, “owe more than you can repay.”
“Hold on,” George quietly pleaded. “I’m just - I’m not part of this, okay?”
“Coming out of that hall,” the man said, “and you say that?” He held out his hand. It was at the end of a long, thin arm where muscle that was once grown had withered away, like it was sucked out. Then he turned his hand, backside facing forward, and slowly curled his fingers.
A hilt appeared in his hand from nowhere. No sleeve, and his cloak of a cape rested over his slumped shoulder. He twisted his wrist a bit and a shimmer of metal appeared in a thin, silvery line. When he twisted it back, palm forward, he clutched a dagger in his hand with curved edges. A Kris, a ritual dagger shaped like a slithering lightning bolt.
George took out his gun and held the man up. He held the grip in both hands to try and stop the shaking but it didn’t work.
“What poor thing is that?” the man asked. He flourished his dagger with a quick swipe through the air, a practice run for George’s throat. “Too short, stubbed - broken? Is that all you have to wield at me? No Quartery? You won’t raise your precious shield to shelter yourself from my blow? Will you? Will you not?”
“I -,” George began. He gulped and straightened out his voice. “I’ll shoot.”
“My pact,” the man said, “was made to turn your Ward into a yesteryear’s memory. To stab at the heard through its hardest defense. Raise it!”
“I’m warning you,” George said as his voice shook. He could already hear it. He didn’t want to feel it. He didn’t want to do it. But he had no choice. He squeezed and then thought,
Is the safety on or off?
He heard the answer. It was the second loudest gunshot he ever heard. Surprisingly, the one that killed him was louder, despite being further away. Maybe it was the way the gun faced. Or that he had prepared himself fully before he fired. It was his gun, and he was in control. That made the blast more tolerable.
The man he shot fell over. He released his dagger into the grass and it slowly faded away. Once it was gone, the man made a final blood-soaked gasp. Then, everything went silent. The long echo of the gun through the city’s back streets echoed to a stop. Even George’s heartbeat stopped for a few seconds before it kicked back up again.
He shot the man in the chest and he fell over and died within seconds. Way faster than he expected. It must have been the first gunshot that his new world ever heard.
He made the world listen.