Grundolf sat high atop the town walls, watching as the outsiders became nothing more than a speck on the horizon. They had left as quickly as they had came. It had been only three days since they’d arrived, yet they were already off once more.

The dwarf was not alone on the walls though, others had also come to see the outsiders off. Though, in comparison to the town’s remaining population, they were few in number. After the outsiders could no longer be seen, everyone except for Grundolf descended the walls.

The sole remaining dwarf turned around and looked down upon the town. The streets that once bustled with life, were now void of it. It was a sad sight, but that wasn’t his reason for remaining on the walls when he had other duties to be attending to.

The old dwarf perched himself upon the edge of the wall, letting his legs dangle freely. He retrieved a journal from his belongings and gave it a quick look over. It was of a simple make, the worn leather that bound it showing its age. Apart from the blemishes and scratches, there were no other markings on the outside.

Grundolf opened the journal and began reading through it. He scratched his head after seeing the crude scribbles that covered the first page. Though they were in a language he knew well, the scribbles clearly showed the previous owner wasn’t very literate. Grundolf wasn’t fazed though, continuing on to read page after page. As he read on, the writing became more fluid and clear.

It wasn’t until he made it halfway through that the journal’s owner had started dating his entries, but Grundolf barely noticed their absence. The words in the journal revived memories that he had long since forgotten.

After reading the last entry, Gurndolf set the book down and looked over the ruined town with a solemn gaze. He chuckled softly as he spoke to no one in particular.

“Haha, I wonder how the townsfolk would react after hearing the town’s name was the result of a simple spelling mistake. One day I’ll be joining you, until then, rest well my old friend.”

…..

“Oh scheiße!”

“Oh god, not again!”

Hans and Jack screamed out as they were sent head first into the metallic ceiling.

“Wut? The…*hic*...you poor ba...bastards can’t handle a...a...a…*hic*...few b..bumps?”

The outsider’s were currently riding through an almost endless field of snow. With Vasily—who had already had more than a few drinks—at the wheel, the ride was not going smoothly. Normally one would avoid driving quickly over small bumps and hills, but Vasily had found that torturing the two extra passengers was quite amusing in his drunken stupor.

Without seats to sit in, Hans and Jack had to find someway to endure the uncomfortable ride. A task that Vasily was not making easy for them.

Zhukov sighed with his hand on his face as he watched the spectacle. It wasn’t the sorry state that Hans and Jack were in that was getting to him though, instead it was an event that had occurred just before they left the town. Zhukov let his hand slide down his face as he recalled the event.

It had occurred just after Sergei and a very drunk Vasily returned with the tank. Zhukov had been looking over the new plate that had been installed to cover the hole. Though he was slightly unsatisfied with the workmanship, it would have to do. The town didn’t have any access to welding equipment like they would’ve normally used to fix up such a hole, so they had to make do with shoddily attaching the plate to the chassis.

It was then that Vasily had the bright idea of banging on the plate with a sledge to show how durable it would be. This, Zhukov didn’t have a problem with, it was Vasily not holding on tightly to the sledge that had him worried. When the sledge connected with the plate, it was sent ricocheting out of his hands. While the others around dove for cover, Zhukov was too dumbfounded to move.

The sledge that soared freely through the air had its journey abruptly shortened after connecting with Zhukov’s body. The burly Russian fell to the ground clutching his stomach, but not before letting a stream of spittle spew from his mouth. Zhukov’s agony didn’t end there though, following up by emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground, then falling face first into the newly formed puddle of bile.

Vasily blinked rapidly, sobering up quickly after realizing the consequences of his actions. Instead of waiting for Zhukov to recover and extract his vengeance, Vasily hastily dove into the tank. He resurfaced with multiple bottles of alcohol in his arms, then leapt from the tank and ran off into the streets.

Vasily didn’t make it very far though, stopping after he dropped one of the bottles. A single tear slid down his cheek as he watched the liquid spill out from the broken bottle.

“Noooooooooo!”

The outsiders who were standing nearby lowered their heads in unison, each one letting out an exasperated sigh. A few of them gave a quick glance over to Zhukov, who was still laying in his own puke, they decided against attempting to lend a hand—in fear of further rousing his anger.

Just as the spectacle was coming to a close, Grundolf popped over to check up on the outsiders. He raised a finger and was about to question why there was a man drowning in his own puke on the ground, but decided it would be better not to ask any questions. Rather, Grundolf decided to bring up another topic of interest.

“Say...about those weapons of yours. Would perhaps be willing to sell some of them to us?”

“I don’t think that-”

“Shush Igor, how much we talkin here my dear friend?”

Igor attempted to refuse the deal, but Sergei jumped into the conversation before he could, his eyes were sparkling with greed.

“Well, I’ll pay you for anything you’re willing to part with, in gold of course.”

“Gold!”

Sergei nearly started drooling at the dwarf’s words. He quickly ran over to the tank and started stripping it of any weaponry that he felt they could do without, which was essentially anything they had looted since coming to this new world.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Grundolf’s eyes went wide after seeing the pile of munitions, containing weapons from both the German and Italian militaries. He sorrowfully pulled a small pouch from his waist and opened it up. Though before he went to retrieve their payment, a sly looked flashed across his face as he was struck by an inspiration.

“Hmm, how’s five gold coins for the whole lot sound?”

Grundolf retrieved the shimmering coins from his pouch and held them up for the outsiders to see. They were around the same size as coins in their own world, perhaps just a bit larger. There was also the face of a pretty woman on the coin, one they couldn’t recognize of course.

Sergei’s face went hard after seeing the coins.

“My friend, I feel we are on the losing end of this transaction. These weapons are deadlier than you could ever imagine. As such, I feel ten of those gold coins would only be fair…”

The dwarf appeared to be distraught after hearing those words. He sighed and pulled out a couple more coins, though not enough to satisfy Sergei’s request.

“I’m afraid ten gold coins would simply be too many for this transaction. Not to mention, those weapons are simply extra baggage to you right now. So, how about seven?”

Sergei grinned after seeing that his bargaining was working. He clapped his hands together and looked toward Grundolf with a crooked face.

“Look here my friend, I’m even throwing in the ammunition for these weapons. You’ll be able to use these firearms hundreds of times!”

The Russian was trying to take advantage of the dwarf’s lack of knowledge in the field, but he hadn’t realized that it was Grundolf had already taken the reins.

“Tch fine, you got me lad. I’ll pay you eight gold coins. No more, no less.”

Sergei smiled gleefully as he took the money and left Grundolf with the pile of weaponry. He was pleased, thinking that he had been the one to get the most out of the deal. Yet it was the dwarf who could barely contain his happiness as he rounded up some of the locals to help him move his new toys.

After the dwarf left, Sergei looked around mischievously before trying pocketing the money for himself. Though, under the intense gazes of his companions, he eventually broke.

“What? I’m just holding on to it for now, there shouldn’t be any issues with that, right?”

After the deal Zhukov was eventually roused from the pile of his own misery, though not in a very gentle way. Yakov had poked him until he woke, using Zhukov’s own rifle. Apparently without even bothering to check whether it was loaded or not.

Though Zhukov wanted to immediately give chase to the drunk who had caused this entire mess, he decided against doing so. Not because he had forgiven him, but because he was still covered in last night’s dinner. Also, he had a few questions about about the dwarf and villagers who were walking off with their weaponry. After Igor told him what had occurred, Zhukov’s rage was once again ignited.

“First my greatcoat and now this!”

“W..w..wait, I...how did you…”

Sergei began stuttering under pressure of Zhukov’s fury, eventually giving up and trying to escape. Zhukov wasn’t going to let another escape his vengeance today though, reaching out just in time to grab Sergei by the collar. Zhukov planned on just bashing his face in, but he was enlightened by a better, more devious, idea. He looked over to where the puddle of puke was and a smile crept over his face.

“Oh god, you wouldn’t!?”

Zhukov ignored the pleas and threw Sergei into the puddle, laughing maniacally as he listened to the screams of his victim.

“Oh...oh gawd. It’s in my nose!”

Feeling satisfied, Zhukov left to go find a place to wash off.

…..

Zhukov’s memory ended there, the events that had transpired afterwards were forgettable. He let his hand slip from his face and let out another deep sigh. Sergei had sold the MG38, the Breda 30, and all the Carcano rifles—along with the ammunition.

The worst part about it all, was that Zhukov had a sinking feeling the dwarf hadn’t given them a fair price. From what the others were saying, Grundolf was more than willing to part with the money, despite having shown reluctance in the beginning.

While Zhukov was grumbling about the transaction, Sergei was losing himself in some of the journals he had been collecting. One was from the German officer, the other from the man he’d killed in the first village. Though he was unable to read either of them, the man in black’s journal had a variety of intriguing sketches.

Some appeared to be of plants, other of strange creatures he had never seen before. Such as a beast with the head of a lion, body of a goat, and some sort of snake for a tail. Another was some sort of demonic looking chicken, as ferocious as it appeared, Sergei couldn’t help but chuckle.

In the Sergei middle of looking through what was essentially a picture book, Vasily went full speed over yet another bump, sending the German’s journal out of Sergei’s lap and directly into Hans’ head.

Once Hans recovered from the painful blow, he started looking through the journal. Unlike Sergei, he was actually able to read the contents.

Hans quickly skimmed through it, blatantly ignoring most of the man’s life story. Eventually he came across the later entries, which were dated 1942.

“Vhat!?

Hans shout startled most of the crew. They looked towards the German with confusion.

“The hell’s wrong with you cabbage?”

“Zis entry, it is from 1942. How is zat possible?”

The only one who understood what Hans was saying was Jack.

“What, 1942...that would be two years in the future…”

“The fuck, you too Jack? 1943 is the current year, that’s one year in the past. Not two in the future you dumbfucks”

“Vhat, no no. Ze year is 1940. It is you who are confused.”

Everyone went silent as they all came to the same realization.