“Seros is my Melan name,” said Bertrán as Fran followed him. The streets got smaller and more crowded as they moved further out from the square, but biggest ones compared to the avenues of a modern Terran city. “I used to see this girl who called me Xerox instead of Seros, she thought it was hilarious. She stopped doing that after we were leaving our inn outside the Mirror Prison one morning. The old woman coming in to clean the room stopped and said “You're Terran too? There are so many of you lately. Your energy is infectious.” We played dumb and let it slide but the New Alliance's rules are very clear: We should have found a way to interrogate her and write a report. That's one of the problems of the NA these days: The waste of so much energy on security and not enough on discovery. They only play defense.”
“As far as you know.”
“You're not wrong there. I've met dozens of NA members in Mela, and I have to wonder if one of them was a member of the Inner Ring.”
They entered a three-floor inn built in durable brown oak wood and decorated with symmetrical roof stylings in red. The Home Away. Inside, the large open floor was full of tables, chairs, and some sofas too. Every table had a tablecloth and a winejars made of glistening steel. No bagcutters or ruffians in sight. The patrons were a mix of rich traders and men of action with the look of mercenary captains. They all had their back turned on the guest that stuck out like a sore thumb: A skeleton from whose empty torso flowed a neon blue light that pulsed its way through his body. His eyes were blue circles that ebbed and flowed with the blue energy. He waved at Fran with a bone hand whose arm was covered by a blue and red tunic.
“Kid! It's so good to see you. Come join us, it's warm here. You look exactly the same, it's incredible.”
Fran walked up to him in a state of shock and awe. Five minutes later, they were chatting like old friends.
“I figured it out when I woke up a couple of days ago, you know what I mean. I'd made up my mind to leave the marsh or die trying. I couldn't stand it anymore. Last week was the worst of my life. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, and I was a disaster at work. Sneaking out of the marsh failed. It was like the zombies could guess my next step before I did. I cried and wept, and then I just lost control of my emotions. I’d had too much. The zombies surrounded me and I shouted ‘I wish you'd all just get away from me!’ Imagine my shock when they all turned around and did exactly that.” The man's bony hands slapped the table. “I'm a necromancer, Dhenn. How about that? The marsh is all mine and the zombies serve me. As soon as I accepted that, my flesh burned in a glorious fire and I became the Melan you see before you today.”
“That’s, that's great, but I didn't know that you could arrive, you know, in a different form. Every Terran I met was, you know, human,” Fran whispered.
“Many are non-humans,” said Bertrán. “It's a 50-50 thing. You're the strange one, based on what you told me. We all arrive with certain proclivities and an extraordinary facility for certain aspects of Melan life. Like our friend here waking up in control of a marsh full of zombies. Bro, that's the exact opposite of the cozy life.”
The necromancer's skull seemed to smile.
“I think I like it.”
“You need to try different activities, Dhenn. But with intention, not like you're trying every dish in a buffet. Just put yourself in situations and go with your gut.”
“Going with my gut as an inexperienced adventurer sounds like a recipe for a quick death.”
“That happens too,” Bertrán admitted.
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The others hadn't arrived yet and Bertrán doubted that they ever would. Sancho was more optimistic. The man exuded positivity now his deathtrap had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
“Zombies are misunderstood,” he said. “Do you know what it feels like, to be responsible for their lives or whatever you call it, and for the marsh too? I have no words, Dhenn. What an honor. It's a shame they cannot leave. Their flesh would rot immediately.”
“That might liberate their souls,” said Seros the lion.
The necromancer's blue light eyeballs moved left and right as he shook his head.
“They're tied to the land.” He tapped his bony ribcage. “The knowledge entered my heart the moment I assumed control of my domain. The marsh was once a town of islands and bridges, a modest Venice. Like early Venice, back when it was just a bunch of Romans putting some distance between themselves and a revolving door of barbarian raids. Same here, and they succeeded too. Things were looking up when a new loothorde arrived on the shore. Barbarians don’t know the first thing about naval warfare, they thrive on the steppe and the plains. Usually, they would have turned around, as others had done before. But their leader did the unthinkable and hired a cleric of a god whose name is forbidden. The god of negation.”
Bertrán slapped his forehead.
“A barbarian did that? They hate spells and magic objects.”
“That's the reason they dared. Anybody else would have known to stay away from the forbidden god. Not these guys. To them, he couldn’t be worse than any other foreign god. So, the cleric had them find a hundred hostages. He sacrificed them on a huge pyre on the beach across the floating city. The earth shook, the waters began boiling and the cleric laughed madly. Then, the earth shattered, swallowing the barbarian horde, the city and the islands. Everything. it turns out chaos had corrupted the priest and spreading pure destruction was his only objective. The marsh was the result. But that’s over now. My zombies feel safe there. Safety was all they ever wanted from their city. Now it's my job to grant them that.”
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“Does that mean you're leaving us?” asked Fran.
“That… requires discussion, kid,” the necromancer said. “I know my heart's desire, but I also know the NA was right about the risks of idleness. The marsh would be my cozy life, I guess.”
“We have so much to do,” said Fran.
“I know.”
Bertrán slapped the table with both hands.
“Difficult decisions can wait until tomorrow. Heed this advice from a seasoned dreamer: Start every Melan week doing something fun. You never know if it will be your last. So, how about this? Let's finish this warm-up round and go for some serious drinks somewhere less uptight. There's inns for sleeping and then there's inns for partying. Drinks are on me, I imagine being a zombie shepherd doesn’t pay.”
The necromancer hurried to show a purse almost as big as his head.
“My zombies are loaded! They still remember the location of the city treasure.”
“Dhenn's the one in luck, then, because we’re not letting him pay. Time to drink!”
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The other tavern was rowdy, crowded and noisy, and Seros the lion was the kind of person to bring fun wherever he went. It was a perfect combination. Surrounded by drinks, adventurers and bards, Fran told Bertrán and Sancho about his encounter with Merkes’ group. The lion roared with laughter and pointed at Fran. “That, my friend, is a talent. You upturned an ambush by three NA adventurers and stole a rogue's purses! I wonder what that makes you. An arena fighter? You’d be in luck again. Fighting competitions are the main entertainment in so many kingdoms, and the Empire itself is fond of gladiatorial games.”
“That sounds terrible. I don't want to kill people for money.”
“Understood, but you need to find a specialty and you need to find it fast if you want to get good. There's only 51 weeks left.”
“What about you?”
“Me? Throw me into a melee and I'll show you what I'm made of. Form a shieldwall with a hundred men and I'll smash it like a wrecking ball, they’ll fly in every direction just like that! The problem’s that adventuring isn't the best life for me. Lots of fighting but very few battles. I would have joined a barbarian lootband, if they weren’t all about stabbing old villagers and burning the mayor’s feet until he confesses where’s the money. Fuck them.”
Bertrán explained that he’d tried to make the best of the New Alliance but found himself resenting the opaque ways of the organization. Information traveled upwards only, and everyone kept tabs on everyone else. But he’d met good people there, too, and found great solace in being able to discuss Mela, its joys, and the impact that returning to Earth had on everyone's psyche. He also found amazing women. After two months, he'd had enough conversations to understand that the NA's activities went far beyond what leadership would admit. A lover explained to him that Mela was just one side of the coin. She repeated that three times, then made him swear he'd never repeat it at an NA meeting. He didn't fully get it until he led the charge that culminated the month-long siege of the castle of Eachen. It was a rescue mission. The count had become obsessed that his king was denying him the recognition he deserved and sought the help of a chaos cleric.
The lion had arrived to extract the bard troupe that had been entertaining the court on the day when the chaos cleric had made his move. He’d performed a day-long ceremony that turned every soldier in the fiefdom into a chaos daemon. A siege followed when the king found out.
The bards Seros rescued were more than happy to improvise a ballad eulogizing their leonine rescuer. They were also NA zealots to the core. Things ended the way they usually do, and the morning after, the lute player and the singer sleepily mentioned that they hadn't been on a New Alliance mission in months, nor did they expect to. They had a deal, you see. Singing from county fair to knightly tournament was all they did. For them, Mela truly was a dream, unlike Earth, where they worked full-time for the New Alliance. Banking stuff. Had he heard of private banking and offshore accounts? The bards worked in an even more exclusive version of private banking. They specialized in designing corporate structures so labyrinthine that tracking their owner became effectively impossible. Leadership had been looking for someone like them for ages. They were right to. They needed help more than the president of a banana republic needs a second passport and a dozen offshore accounts.
“I guess it's a matter of probability, right?” said Bertrán. “We're going to get homeless dreamers and we're going to get rich dreamers. Filthy rich. The rumor is, someone close to the top is a billionaire. Leadership fast-tracked him into the Inner Ring and now they all get to live in luxury and strategize about Mela full-time. It's part of the reason they became so paranoid: Mela is their job now, back on Terra, where every conversation about the dream is a Russian roulette game waiting to blow your brains. I can relate. Mela becomes utterly absorbing but you can't mention it to anybody in Terra. It’s no good.”
The Bertrán/Seros dichotomy became a mental health problem for him right after breaking the castle’s siege. He’d become a hero, and in a part of Mela where lion men were almost mythological beings. Everywhere he went, in even the most isolated hamlet, peasants wanted to buy him a drink and told their kids to shake his hand. A week of that and then back to a job where the boss gives you the evil eye when you use the bathroom too often. Bills to pay, crowded subway rides and gym trainers suspicious about your gains. “Hey big guy, it's time we discuss the dangers of certain substances. They’re not worth it.” Bertrán fell into a depression and his mind channeled that negative energy into an obsession with the New Alliance.
He'd decided it would pay to be strategic about it. He volunteered for every mission, sucked up to the bosses, smiled at everyone in the meetings and learned as much as possible. It wasn't enough. Even the local chapter leaders knew nothing about what was really going on. For instance, if Madrid metro has about 5 million people and about a hundred adventurers, what does that make the world population of Melan dreamers? The excitable girl and the hard-eyed old man refused to speculate. Well then, how many dreamers fall outside the New Alliance, either because we miss them on their first day or because they never show up for a meeting? Not our problem was their reply. After a few hours like that, all that Bertrán had learned was that the woman was in charge of Madrid's organization. The guy was her right-hand man, probably an enforcer of some kind.
Bertrán finished his beer and signaled the waiter for another one. He looked serious now, like a man who made a decision he’d postponed too long.
“I did learn one more thing. After the siege, when I became the New Alliance's star pupil, Sandra the manic woman took me out to dinner at a restaurant's private booth. Things didn't turn out as she expected and she made it seem like sex was all she wanted, but I know better than that. She’d mentioned Azgadal. I'd been here a couple of times, which made her very happy, and then she mentioned casually the difficulty of finding trusted people for highly sensitive missions. Assignments that would get you tons of brownie points with leadership. Top secret and all that. She didn’t wait for my reaction and jumped into a speech about the mortal danger represented by Melans who knew about Terra. In the end, she wanted me to assassinate some poor cleric who might have heard about our world. The request disgusted me. I played dumb and she changed the subject, but there are things you can't unsay. Others must have rejected the mission, because the priestess remains alive. Tomorrow, I want you to meet her.”