Dryfu pulled back on his flight and pointed at a rock and then its match on the other side of the path. “Don’t cross that line.”
An inscription lit a phrase in Adiba… he thought, though the flame born letters inscribing into the rock didn’t translate into anything he could grasp.
One ring to—
“No one reported that happening,” Dryfu said, violet eyes locked on Tim in a glare softened only by the luck of revelation, “though none who tried survived, so…”
“That’s comforting,” Tim said from a safe pace away. Curiosity burned in his chest, drawing him into investigation so intensely he feared denial would result in actual fire. “Did they have Pilk’s Mantle?”
Dryfu shook his head.
Tim knew the difference lay within.
“Maybe we’re good.” He had only just started translation work with Jil, but nothing like necessity being the mother of invention and taking a crack at Stargating this questionable vision into access and treasure beyond. At some point, he’d have to master Abida so he could unlock spells requiring translation, but for now he had Hur’s Encyclopedia and its section on basic grammar, “Languages and Aura Spells.”
“Wanna help?” Tim asked, flipping to the back and its index of common misspellings and potential root forms.
Similar to Hebrew, you couldn’t always go by the first letter to identify the main word, and some of the advanced syntax helped them identify the first word as “Winged.” From there, Tim guessed “Feet,” and that matched the root. Once they had the root words, Dryfu highlighted the pre-fixes and other rules to arrive at: My winged feet rise in you.
A forcefield buffeted Tim like a gust of wind born. The burst whistled into his ears and forced his eyes closed, lifting him into weightlessness. Bright blinding light provided warmth and space–a broad, comfortable plane stretching into infinity–and when it passed, he blinked his lashes clean and was set down with the gentleness of a light brush stroke.
The door had cracked open, revealing the room within.
“Welcome, Commander Leifman of the First Fleet.”
Absolute agreement carried Tim into the house–nay, mansion. Defying belief, and yet real to the glistening reflection of chandelier light on golden latticework plating and ivory-built overlooks. Above the inner courtyard, white clouds on blue skies danced on a stream flowing along the ceiling with such majesty, it could be real and not the painting it had to be. Right?
You’re telling me.
Did we die? Tim stepped onto the lush fibers of the sea blue entry rug, its follicles massaging his–bare feet… when did…
A jolly man in with a fat white mustache and a simple beige robe emerged from a hallway, face beaming with joy despite the suffering etched lines in his dark toned skin like cracks over a volcano. “Come. While it is a blessing to see this day, prophesying is wearisome business.” He waved them to join him at the wide intersection into a superstructure compared to the hovel they saw from outside. His countenance exuded the patience of one who’d done this his whole life.
“Things are not always best seen from the outside,” Pilk squeaked. He pounded his chest and cleared his throat. “Like I said,” he continued, lacking the power of his pronouncement earlier, as though seeing the actor backstage after the makeup’s been cleaned off and they just want a taco. “Like I said,” he repeated, now more sure his phlegm was under control. “Prophesying is wack, yo.”
“What?” Tim said, chuckling and bewildered.
“You’re from 2023 right? Boy did you dodge a bullet. My glimpse of your world includes a thrown from a train style recap, so I may miss context clues.”
He’s a seer? Tim thought.
Apparently.
“No matter,” Pilk continued. “If I’m off, your grace, please sir.” Pilk kept up the pace in his stride up the second set of mini stairs. Paintings of people and creatures of many colors decorated the walls with the honor of a kingdom in its heyday. None appeared from Earth or resembled historical figures he knew.
Tim spotted a troll among the painted. Right shoulder prominent and tattooed by godstroke, the troll glowered with his last broken tusk painted in starlight. The legend’s plaque read “Zevrij - Level 37 Troll Shadestriker.”
“Do we have allies among the Trolls?”
“I hope we will. Look hard and deep for the friend who may be, but also set your feet for escape. Trust Him to guide your feet and discern the path as it appears. This way.”
Tim joined beside him on a patio overlooking a bay, white sunlight affixed to the morning horizon like an otherworldly torch. Green water as vibrant as the heart of a jungle grew across the blue ocean, spreading like fingers to feed the world below.
They reached the railing and shot up on an elevator for the sky. Tim gripped the rail and tested its strength for the ride. Clouds parted to reveal a special orbit’s view of Vignyia’s sea set continents. “You need to see this the way I have. As commander, you’ll rule fleets across dozens of continents.”
He stroked a hand in a ring around the western circle of islands from a little south of Childockia to up and out from Hai Trade Company’s northwestern point of the collection of lands known as the Pillar. He slashed a hard line from HTC northwest and a fissure erupted across a northern peninsula, separating land from the two countries into the sea.”
next strokes cut clockwise around the continent, marking five X’s on the map, starting in Kiber on the east coast, then south across the bay to Witesbu, west through Brec and up into Childockia before stabbing a spear into the forest north of Padstoligan and the lava crusted, pulsating heart of the black diamond garden. He spun the world into a scroll with a single flick of the wrist, tied it in a blur of green sash and sparkle dust, and handed it to Tim. “The burden is yours now, but so is the strength. May God guide you.”
Tim accepted it into his hand. A whomp of strength pumped into his chest, somehow constrained within his spirit, yet shoving him so forcefully that a gust of breath coughed out. Gratitude peaked among the emotions swirling in the disruption to center. Fear held on tight to its coattails.
Tim started to put the scroll in his pocket.
“Uh-uh.” Pilk shook his head, then pointed at his open mouth and clicked his tongue through a cheeky grin. “You must always eat the scrolls, priest. You will live by the wisdom and strength of the spirit within you. Your people will gain strength by your suffering and resolve not to be broken in it.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and settled into parade rest.
Am I here for your amusement? Tim thought, then repulsed with guilt.
Pilk smiled gracefully. “You’ve felt the strength. Now you know where it comes from. Be blessed,” he said.
Tim had already sworn to take the mantle. No going back. He swallowed, opened his mouth to take the first bite and… wow. No magical shortcut on this one, apparently.
Tim chewed through the brackish paper until the bitter pulp was done and Pilk bowed.
“Set up Enclave Gates at the countries marked in your map, and once complete, take the one that leads to the Riftlord. Don’t try to take him out too soon or our era will go with you. This world will buckle under his dark magic, and if they , our hope will be blacked out.”
Oh…kay. Fitting for prophecy, I suppose. “Who’s the Riftlord?”
“The one who rules the space between dimensions. His class is hidden, though most assume a variation of wraith. He rules the nation of Ulnyr by spirit and proxy. His ricken spill out from his Gateway between wherever he’s hiding and the rift in the caverns deep below Padstoligan.
“Oh good. I was already on my way there. No problem adding defeating the lord of the space between dimensions. It really doesn’t sound that bad when you say it aloud.”
Pilk glowered. “His manipulation over void-aura has created horrors across these lands, many hunting gatekeepers like us who seek to protect the denizens of worlds he threatens. Gatekeepers are given a limited power over passage between them, but Hist rules over the one between us and the Cosmosis, or the wider net of all possible dimensions. Hist’s eyes are set on Earth next. This is the mantle you wear.” Pilk’s mood softened. “I’ve seen what he’s done and could do to Vignyia. The same poison they’ve left in their wake across numerous galaxies is about to ruin both of our home worlds. The Mist Lands are critical to our defense. This is your burden now, I’m afraid.”
Pilk’s cheeks pressed his eyes to thin slits of warm friendship through dark eyes becoming familiar as they shared his passion. His smile landed well, like a hug passed by their spirits. Instant, and weightless, like the relief meant to deliver. “You won’t go alone. Not always. A friend is waiting for you. When you see the coil of blue thorns, the enclave will grow. You must not enter until all the others are complete, but it will be a sign that the Enclave Seed is ready to plant.”
Dryfu and Tim’s research into the Enclave Seed spell described the expansion of his Enclave as a treelike network born from the planting of a seed where the first Enclave Gate will sprout. Like a mighty oak with a tunnel in the middle of its trunk wide enough for a passenger train, the Enclave Gate was his number one priority spell to earn. Now that Pilk brought it up, Tim’s conviction strengthened. He opened his mouth to ask how he could plant the seed, when a pummeling of wind and gravity drove Tim down from his lofty perch, scaling the mountain’s cliffside upside down.
“That is for the Whisper to grant the when and the how,” Pilk said as though beside him and miles away instantaneously.
Tim landed and scrambled over into the side of his tent. Had he dreamt that whole—a gurgle deep in his burgle forced him out of bed for the nearest can spot.
At the most in opportune time, a vision swept his spirit into Mach 4. A caravan of Drakkon and war elephants with barrels stacked eight per and the legion twenty or more deep. Their head rode a beast mashup of a tiger Kraken big enough to crush a bus or leap its length to blindside you with a lethal claw swipe. The name written over its rider said “Dar Evn - 1st Seat Principality of Mevelius”. Across his full body armor, magical shingles flapped shut with the cadence of his beast’s stride. The aura recycling produced between his familiar’s power-generating steps combined with a filtration system feeding into his personal defenses and a secondary layer expanding like an egg around the tightly packed convoy.
Their progress through tight corners while also climbing up toward a village in the highlands impressed Tim with their stealth and precision. What they wanted from the shanty town of a thousand or less people, twenty miles from the border with the Dutchy, Tim had no idea. The vision forced him to pay attention, regardless of his death-scabbed over feeling begging to take it easy.
A tag appeared in his HUD, naming the village, Chiltonton–possibly forever after nicknamed Chilltown in Tim’s mind–which was about to get unchill in a hurry.
The vision drilled closer, refocused, and pictured a camp of soldiers lying in wait in the tiny village center and its brick-built shadows painted on water leaking, skin and multicolored patches of rooftops and siding.
The perspective panned out again, swirling Tim’s stomach as it shifted over the valley farmland to the sun rising over the east. Red colored Shuepaya trees spread thick across the hill tops leading to Padstoligan, like fingers rotting into pointed claws, and as large as pipes fit for giants. He’d caused their first leaf to fall, now they had a show to perform. Their gloomy caricatures impressed a warning of the season to come, then the view veered back around and narrowed on Squire’s Castle.
Tim followed the glowing track highlighting the curves of the road to Chilltown and north through Dutchy lands to Mevelius, a country among the northern most lands where the vision showed the peninsula was severed and cast to sea. Two countries were cut to make this new landmass, and Mevelius was one. On the southward slant of a hill a sapling sprouted and split the earth, expanding light into aura tracks.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
The vision squeezed shut and cast Tim from its darkness. His stomach clenched into a knot, doubling him over. He moaned until the spasm let go enough that he could grab a rag and start cleaning himself. Dryfu helped with flying the filthy rag back to the darkening water in the pitcher by his bed.
Tim relayed the visions from the mission to Chiltonton and ending with the aura tracks in Mevelius and his calling to build some there. “I don’t have any longer to sit around,” Tim told Dryfu.
“I’ll round the troops,” Dryfu said and flew out.
Tim’s time for party pants was over. With a cool sheen on his goosebump riddled flesh, he slipped into his battle gear.
Gregor met him on the way to their men and Tim started catching him up. He cast Battleground and Keeper on all the men and animals before they hit full gallop. In the milder pace, Tim tested his Aura Bow and its Greensight targeting system on potential prey spreading out from the thunder of their horse hooves. The sun’s rays reflecting off the multi-colored leaves of the forest ahead disrupted his crosshairs from locking.
Lovely.
His Riding skill was still low. The jolting to his insides triggered his aura fatigue, and he gave up on practicing.
Murphy shat a few aura dookies in his travel carriage. They bounced wildly yet held to the magical axle they paid to upgrade. The hoof stomped dookers produced a roiling stench which also calmed his aura fatigue in flowing measures. Much like being in the throes of his vision. It spoke of the cost of service, but also that he’d been the one to choose a donkey for his aura generator prisoner. Now he was paying for that in the wafts of repulsive air from a low-level healing-regen skill.
“Last night me and a few others were trapped by Feranand’s Blues,” Gregor said. “They’re this region’s warlord crew. Chiltonton is one of their Eiyero farms. The small population helps him keep security tight. I didn’t see Feranand, but if he’s still around, we must capture him. He’s our most immediate threat.”
Tim released Josim the wraith from his short sword, Farji. His ghostly pale head emerged from the pearl luminescent dome on his gotr blade. Sun rays shone through the wisp of grey-blue smoke as his wraith slithered free. Before he fully formed, Tim pointed ahead. “Search the village for Feranand and report back any weaknesses we can exploit. Double quick.”
Wraiths were only 20% effective in the day, but Tim didn’t need him for an assault, just recon. As long as he made it back to Tim’s blade within twenty minutes, the wraith wouldn’t suffer fatigue debuffs.
The other reason he wanted Josim to lead the way, aside from speed to reach the 8k mark on elevation this village rested at, was how Tim could cast Danger Sense onto Josim’s coattails. He loosed the spell before the misty form surged forward in a freeze frame connection with the extent of their view. Josim disappeared into the forest shade and foliage.
“Dar Evn helped my men when Feranand’s crimoan had us, but disappeared before I could ask why,” Gregor said. “Could be he’s coming to meet us or carve a path to his own kingdom with the weak Prince Lyle muttering about.”
Fricken Prince Lyle. Worthless pig…
Dryfu cut himself off. Sorry. I shouldn’t curse into a priest’s mind. Don’t want a lightning bolt up my heyo. Anyway, Prince Lyle makes an artform out of wasted opportunity, but he’s also not in an easy position. Plenty of princes have spent their whole measly lives running the Principality without seeing the reward of passing to the Dutchy Throne. At this point, the posting is more an indication of one who’ll never become king.
Thanks for the info. Your insight there as a former guide in the Dutchy may prove invaluable.
That’s not all. It brings to mind something I’ve studied in the rules on new nations. Your Politician skill set is pretty decent. This is where you can scale in leaps and bounds.
Sounds like Lyle could use a backup plan to the Dutchy, and we could use an ally in his position. Could the vision signal a split with him on our side? If so, the larger part of the nation remains on the mainland.
The vision of the map showed a haze over the names, as though through many possibilities.
For now, he had the entrance to the village and several red blotches on his Danger Pings. He had Dose ready with a poison bomb, but these idiots had to show him they still wanted a fight. If he spooked him with his wraiths, that would be provoked aggression; it seemed fitting as the new constable of the region that he announce his presence and offer them a chance to surrender.
The nearest red blotch in his Danger Sense lay behind a rusted pickup truck with overgrown weeds and shrub trees beside a worn path leading into town. Only one form hid behind the strange model of truck, its base an amalgamation of different pieces as though born from an incomplete dream. Does this world have cars?
Not all Gatewalkers are Gatekeepers, Dryfu said. Some have tried to recreate Earth’s prosperity to disastrous effect. You’re looking at the extent of that technology’s effectiveness.
Does that mean there’s danger to me singing Chemical Brothers?
Will it be out loud?
Haha. You know my c-mana flows better when I’m not burdened with your musical criticism.
Oh, the burdens we bear. As long as you don’t try to manufacture a piano or electronic speakers. It’s complicated, but in your head or even whistling and singing is fine, as per your Cultivation gifting.
Thanks, buddy.
As soon as they were within earshot of the vehicle, Tim cast another Danger Sense over the farm to the left and the front row of houses fifty meters beyond. Dar Evn was at least 400 meters from Tim, on the other side of the city, approaching from the northwest and a similar entry to the road’s edge. Across the river winding east to west through the village, the houses on that side were a second generation of wealth. Farmland newly groomed took position on the left side, with just as many Danger points as if Dar took the city route. He’d picked the road in, with the shortest path to the bridge and clearest road to Tim’s south side. The roads leading to the castle in the east were blocked by narrow alleys and street market vendors.
Vendors who busied about as though nothing were wrong when Tim first approached were now hiding. The village a sudden ghost town. Even the birds and various forest creatures called the enthusiasm in their song. No more laisse faire, but shorter, purposed signals as though they too were preparing for Tim’s advance.
Tim slowed their horses and trotted to the lead. His natural habitat bonus still worked this high into the mountains as they remained within deciduous forest range. His Tracking allowed him to identify over 800 souls, with threats in the low hundreds creeping underground and exiting in hidden tunnels to lay wait in the farms and behind buildings. His Flee skill would work best if alone, but he didn’t want to flee. Something was brewing in there, and the prophecy wouldn’t let him go. Regardless of their poor odds and the enemy’s defensive advantage.
At twenty feet from the still bushes lining the path, Tim announced, “There are some who call me Tim!” He waited in case any were from Earth and might see that as an olive branch.
“You sound like an idiot!” one of the men said.
Fair enough.
I’m liable to side with them on that one.
“You can leave here today as friends or as dead weight,” Tim said.
“I’ve got your dead weight right here,” the same rough voice said, adding a colorful array of nicknames Tim wouldn’t repeat. Fikrilled Lateralhammer was an interesting one.
Not in the way you’d enjoy.
A head popped from a tunnel Tim hadn’t seen in his Danger Sense cloud. In stretching it into the farms, he’d missed or failed to penetrate the tunnel below that copse of trees. The soldier owning that head kept hunching as he crossed the treeline toward Tim’s side. Seven more like him followed suit, armed with magirifles tucked close to their sides.
“I knew a guy named Seth who would love to trade blows with your creative wit. Me?” Tim said while sending a signal behind him to Gregor and the impending ambush. He found a well in the road deep enough to dive into when the firefight broke out.
Murphy, get down.
Tim cast Battleground and Protection into the space between them, then swung off his horse and dove into the eroded tracks still wet with mud. Pellets of magical gemstones shot tracer lines into the heated air above him, sizzling as they swam through his aura dome.
His horse spooked and raised its head above the dome. A beam pulsed through its head before Tim could expand the surface area to defend. Crap! Their Earthish tech seems to work pretty okay to me.
They don’t always. Be careful of backfire craters.
Tim crab walked from the moaning animal and rising shadow. Something punched him through the ribs. Fire flashed tremors into his toes. Rounds of magifire split the horse’s legs like firewood, collapsing the poor creature into a heap of its own mess. Tim gave his friend the honor of not watching his shame.
Ducked as flat as he could, Tim forced breaths through his weakened frame, spreading c-mana to his lifelines. His HP had fallen by seventy percent. His MP and the thin stream of AF gave him strength to cast healing and called for Murphy. The donkey kicked his door open and activated his skill Freak. Picture mechanical bull without the bulk or most of the fear and add a heart of gold to heal the rowdy locals.
Pink Fantastic aura emanated from his coat like steam rising from a river. Tim inhaled the sweet refreshment and sent it into c-mana for a cast of Keeper as soon as he could.
Arcs of magilight burst from the carriage, chasing Murphy into the hole with Tim. The magifire sapped an alarming amount of strength from his Protection spell dwindled under the damage. Beside his aura generator, his AF rose steadily. He cast Keeper on Murphy and an eruption shot black smoke and dirt, bits of trees and body parts.
Gregor’s goblin grenade put a dent in their hedges. He and S’Trace traded throws, then ducked back under the auramatic shield S’Trace held up between them. Pings of magifire sent shimmering and intense light into dark patches. Where hit again, those shattered to expose clear holes in his shield.
Tim regened enough AF to pull an Aura Bow. His wound tugged him as rigid as a board, yet he fought through. Murphy’s aura blessed him with a dollop of sweet health points while he wiggled into position behind his dead horse. The soldiers on the treeline equipped shields to hold up against the last grenade, then returned fire. Tim aimed Sniper Sight on a steep arch until he found the green line and let his arrow fly.
It soared over the carriage and the tree tips before catching a current and sinking sharply into the back of one of the snipers.
Gregor tossed another grenade, and Tim lined his next shot. Together, they forced the last soldier back to the truck. Overgrowth filled the spaces around, concealing the rifleman.
Tim’s MP and AF weren’t high enough to cast Mist along with everything else, so he stalled with, “Normally I’d say, shoot my donkey, prepare to die, but I’m willing to sweeten the pot. You’re someone’s son after all.”
“My mom would stick you in the gut without a word,” the rifleman replied.
“Is she a cat person?” Tim asked. His spell quota pinged green. Cats across America, Tim thought, sending c-mana into Mist and Sniper Sight and loosed his arrow. It soared on a pink line of stardust launching for the truck. Sniper Sight set up a crosshair with a yellow line spiraling into the center. Tim timed his pulse of Mist, just early of hitting the truck bed. The arrow twisted and slowed, yet still punched his foe in the back hard enough to drop the radio and fall.
Items gained:
1- Radio - battery range low - HZ 1600 - condition: damaged but functional.
1- Huliks1954 Semi-Automatic Magi-Rifle (Broken) w/spike bayonet, leather sheath. - Note: Reload 10-round rotary using two clips of .30 Caliber H9 Ball ammunition. *Rare
2 - .30 caliber H9 ball ammunition clips (empty)
2 - Pouches
- 1,900,840 festons (local currency ~ 800 sengers)
- belt sleeve with padded leather and magnet clasp with 6 slots for quick access potions/spell jars
- Aeu’s Fertilizer 2 pouches
- scrap of paper with a nondescript message
Tim crawled on his elbows to get within the ten-foot radius to use Forage. The package absorbed into a temporary hub while he quickly sorted them into his backpack, leaving him with about a quarter of the space left for more loot.
He didn’t realize this realm or even the Crimoan had magi-rifles.
The market value of that magi-gun is 25,000 sengers. A working one would be twice that. It’s new tech–
Tim equipped the radio, assessing the lighter, compact frame and strangely absent opening for any type of battery install or plug in.
Magic powered. This world lacks the technology for batteries like you have on Earth. Powerful sorcerers with an eye for Gatewalkers like yourself whom they can draw memories to transform into reality through replica spells.
Tim pressed the side button. “Hold your fire.” A crackle of energy sparked his finger from the discharge, hot as a bee sting.
Like I said, the cost of recreating Earthan technology almost always has disastrous effect. In that case, the--
“Oh good,” a man responded through the radio. “I can tell you to fuck off from here.”
Someone had familiarity with Earthan slang.
He’s caught plenty of those Gatewalkers for profit.
Delightful. Tim pressed the button. “This is Tim Leifman. And we’re not going anywhere.”
The man snorted with laughter through the radio. “I know who you are, Leifman. Establishing your own nation was a costly mistake. You didn’t even ask if I minded. Squire’s Castle is in my back yard. I appreciate you removing the Murphy, except it seems you’ve somehow turned it into a donkey.” Again, he chuckled into the mic.
Tim’s anger over his lost friends twisted against the sound of his foe’s glee. “I know you were the one who sent the Murphy. The spirits of those you killed fight with me.”
“You think you and the First Seat can take me? Come on in.”
Tim sent a Danger Ping out toward where he’d last felt Josim. Intuition on a beeline took the ping across Chiltonton to Dar Evn’s tiger kraken absorbing the full wrath of H9 magi-bullets. The kraken’s semi-transparent aura slowed the bullets in a heavy defensive enchantment protecting the beast long enough for Dar Evn to dive off its side. He and a handful more rolled off as bullet holes blazed through brick and floorboards.
Multiple rounds pierced their magical armor in sparks of violet and starburst. The way those bullets tore everything else to shreds yet pushed all it its power into flesh wounds impressed Tim with Evn’s group’s armor. Sorry and empathy drilled through with every one that tore into their bodies.
The First Seat showed his grit in crawling his pockmarked mass to the other side of the building and clear of the sniper shots. A few dropped from headshots or enough torso holes to put them down behind him. His regen activated at the base of his non-lethal wounds, transferring friction and velocity into the armor’s regen.
Meanwhile his kraken mauled through the barrier, clearing a path for Evn’s soldiers to mow down the enemies. Dar Evn led them in precision, well-aimed shots, clearing their way into the main road leading in from the northwest.
The vision flushed into darkness and twisting in his gut as Josim’s strength faded. Tim activated Map Maker and stamped the image into a Spirit Memory to include better sight and sound. Danger Sense added a filter of its indicated hot spots with red outlines over the hostiles.
Combined, these allowed Tim to see Feranand retreat under cover fire behind a building and into the floor tunnel, Tim watching through the Danger Sense… mixture. He poured everything he had into tracking the warlord into his hole.
The collection of red blotches on Tim’s aura field centered on the points of the tunnel Tim marked on his map as outlets they could enter.
Feranand’s village was built for this kind of defensive approach.
Tim’s men were decimated already.
Dar Evn’s side had nine remaining.
“Gregor, I’m itching for a hunt,” Tim said. “How about you?”
Frog song vibrated with fervent cries to make it rain.
Indi’s profile lit up on a HUD prompt. Tim summoned his mini-familiar to a shoulder seat by the mud shuffling and wing cleaning Dryfu.
“Hot dog,” Indi said. “About time you brought in the real guns.”