It seemed that Josh had made a new friend. The monk was the first person he had met in Six Spires who actually appreciated the sort of questions he asked. He also completely got the way that questions multiplied, so that every time you asked one question, it would suddenly link to a new thread of thought that spawned a whole load of more questions.

Josh hadn’t got round to introducing himself yet—every time he had meant to, something the monk had said had distracted him, and he had found himself getting side-tracked into another discussion.

“But, let us return to your original point,” the monk said eventually, “where you posit that the world of the scourge is not, as has hitherto been understood, a terrible one, and the long-held supposition that they will do anything they can to escape it is false.”

They were sitting in a back garden, this one more functional and less decorative than the courtyard at the front. Between them was a rough wooden table upon which someone had deposited a pile of terracotta plant pots, a pile of spilled earth and several plant bulbs. Surrounding them were long lines of raised beds and vegetable plots, where the monks presumably grew a lot of the food they ate.

“On what basis do you claim this?” the monk asked.

“Because I met one,” Josh said.

The monk’s brows rose incredulously.

Listening to his inner bard had worked out for Josh well so far. Therefore, he was going engage in a classic form of deception where he mostly told the truth, and changed only a few details. He was going tell the monk his own story, but pretend it had happened to someone else. He would make this hypothetical outlander female, a nice touch of obscuration that he was particularly pleased with.

“I didn’t realise it at the time,” Josh said. “Not until afterwards. I met her while skirting the edge of the borderlands.”

“I am amazed that you survived to recount the experience,” the monk said.

Josh felt a spurt of irritation, which he repressed. What on earth had been happening in this world for outlanders and locals to get to the point where they regarded each other as less than human?

“She hadn’t been in Six Spires for very long,” Josh went on. “I thought she had maybe been the victim of bandits and lost everything. She had nothing on her except some ragged clothing, a small knife, and a pouch with some trail rations. She said she was meant to go to a village, but she’d got lost and wandered in the opposite direction. She didn’t know anything.” Josh paused as he mentally listed all the things he had learned since arriving in Six Spires. “She didn’t know how to make tinder, gather firewood, or light a fire with a flint and steel. She had no idea how to gather food, or how to prepare it. She was revolted at the idea of washing dirt from a vegetable in order to eat it.”

“She had never seen food taken directly from a farm or garden?” the monk asked with fascination. “This implies that the world of the scourge has division of labour, and possibly even cities.”

Josh resisted the temptation to describe places like London and Tokyo and New York.

“She mentioned there were cities, yes. But it wasn’t just that,” he said. “She complained about how primitive everything was. Granted, we were in the buffer zone between Celespire and human settlements, so all she could see were abandoned farmhouses. But she was aghast at having to walk everywhere. She said that her homeworld had magic horseless carriages. They didn’t need to burn torches or candles or lanterns for light, they just…” Josh snapped his fingers. “If they wanted it, it was there immediately. They had devices for everything … cooking meals, washing clothes. They had ways to talk to each other instantaneously even if they were hundreds or thousands of miles apart.”

The monk’s eyes were wide with interest.

“She said it was peaceful there. Yes, there were wars, but they were very far away.” Josh went on to describe the small-town life he himself had been raised in. Then he took a breath, and tried to explain, as levelly as possible and without tearing up or showing his own distress, how much the hypothetical outlander had missed her family, and how desperate she had been to reassure them that she was alive.

There was a short silence while the monk contemplated his words.

“You haven’t read, I take it, A Modern Plague: the Problem of the Scourge and its Solution by Sir Menias Auriel?” he asked.

Josh shook his head.

“It is considered the definitive work on the nature of the scourge, and their effect on our lands.”

“And what solution does he propose?” Josh asked.

“Eradication, naturally.”

Josh tried not to react to that. Rob had already warned him of the two religious orders who would kill him permanently if they got hold of him.

The monk steepled the tips of his fingers together.

“Are you familiar with the legend of Ikzarik?”

“A mythical lost land, said to be found amongst the islands south of Vulcanspire,” Josh said. Ikzarik had been a legend in Spiralia too, but it hadn’t been an area in the game. It had had the sort of story hooks associated with it that implied it would be added as a future expansion.

It was weird to think that, here, it might already exist.

The monk nodded.

“The Ikzarik were said to sacrifice their victims to their fire gods,” he said. “It was said that they abhorred foreigners, and any unfortunate with the bad luck to be cast upon on their shores would be immediately taken up as an offering. We have records from two thousand years ago, towards the end of the Auran Empire, when there was limited diplomatic contact with the Eternal Flame, the supposedly immortal ruler of the Ikzarik.”

Josh nodded seriously, as if he knew all this already.

“And of course, presumably you know the situation of the Aurun Empire at the time.”

Josh hastily wracked his brain for the scraps of lore he come across in Spiralia. The Auran Empire had usually been touted as a long-lost golden age, but there had been something about internal troubles before the cataclysm that had heralded its fall. He could probably fill in the gaps. The lore in Spiralia was created out of fairly standard fantasy fare, an as every fantasy enthusiast knew, the end of a golden age was usually heralded by complacency, bureaucratic inertia and corruption.

“A weak Emperor, corruption in the Senate, and civil unrest,” Josh suggested, and mentally crossed his fingers.

“Exactly!” the monk said. “We will never know how true the accusations were against the Ikzarik, but we do know that public opinion against them was very convenient for Emperor Lorenas. Faced with an external threat of that nature, the proletariat rallied behind him, allowing him to pass decrees which increased his power and influence, and gave him the leverage he needed to dispose of several political rivals.”

Josh could see where this was leading.

“Did you know,” the monk went on, “that although the scourge—the outlanders—were summoned by Tylas the Undying, they chose to oppose him instead?”

“No,” Josh said.

That had been conveniently missed out of Elder Tharn’s tale of how the scourge had come to Six Spires. But it made sense. If Tylas the Undying had been an archenemy whom heroes were supposed to defeat, then it would be natural for a bunch of gamers summoned from Earth to oppose him.

Most of them, anyway.

“The trouble between human and outlanders began afterwards,” the monk said, “once there was no foe for either of them to fight.”

Josh could immediately see the parallel the monk was trying to draw. The Aurun Emperor had declared the Ikzarik an enemy that threatened the existence of all Auruns, thereby uniting his people in the face of a common foe. It wasn't as if Earth politicians had never pulled that trick. After the fall of Tylas the Undying, Rupern must have looked around for a faction that could serve him in the same way.

And there, conveniently, had been a thousand or so gamers, probably bored, with nothing to do and no monsters to kill, bursting with powerful skills, and conditioned to think of killing in terms of experience points and levels. Had they believed the locals were nothing more than non-player characters, that they weren’t real, even back then, or was that a belief that had taken root since?

“Was it inevitable that the scourge would become the enemy?” Josh asked.

“The court of Celespire was, at the time, politically divided,” the monk said, his tone very neutral. “Tylas the Undying had been permanently defeated, but the years of war had taken its toll. Once the scourge had been identified as a threat to the stability of the realm, however, the nobles rallied around King Rupern, and supported his reforms. They did not see that Celespire itself would fall as a result.” The monk paused, and then went on. “In the twenty years since…”

Josh nearly twitched in shock. All this had happened twenty years ago? How long had this world been abducting people from Earth? Were there really gamers who had been here for twenty years?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Josh imagined being still stranded in this world, two decades in the future, with no way to get any word to his family, no way to see them again, and was unable to repress a shudder of horror. He wrenched his mind away before it could get lost down that particular rabbit hole, and focused on what the monk was saying.

“…the policies of the Church of the Common Covenant have never had greater support.” The monk looked at him curiously, and Josh adopted an expression of mild, scholarly interest.

“I understand,” he said.

He did, in fact, understand exactly what the monk was telling him.

The exiled populace of Celespire would not lend their support to a plan to banish outlanders. The scourge had been demonised too thoroughly, and their eradication formed the central tenet of governmental and mainstream religious policy.

Josh realised abruptly how lucky he had been to speak to this particular monk, who now seemed remarkably clear-sighted and level-headed in comparison. What Josh had just suggested had probably strayed very close to heresy.

That meant he couldn’t be open about his interest in the legends of the Dreamer, or finding a way back to Earth. He would have to do all his research in secret, all the while pretending that he wasn’t a player and that he couldn’t even do magic.

His plan was stupid.

“Do not be downcast,” the monk said, in a gently encouraging tone of voice. “I forget how passionate the young can be in their resolve to seek solutions that have defeated the elder generations. Your willingness to rethink old prejudices does you credit. I have a feeling you will go far, young man.”

I’ve already gone too far, Josh thought miserably. So far I’m not even on Earth any more. That’s the whole problem.

He made an effort to smile at the monk.

“Thank you for explaining,” he said.

A young monk materialised at their side.

“Forgive me for interrupting, father,” he said, holding out a scroll to his superior. “But a messenger just arrived, and it looked important…”

“Of course, my son,” the monk said, in his kind, gentle voice.

“Sorry, I’ve been taking up all your time,” Josh said, standing.

The monk rose too.

“Not at all,” he said, with genuine warmth. “I enjoyed our conversation. I should really be thanking you! It made a difference from the usual sort of problem the townsfolk like to set before me, at any rate.”

Josh bowed awkwardly, because it seemed like the sort of thing he should do, and the monk inclined his head in return. It didn’t feel like the right time to ask about the Order’s library, however, so Josh left and went back to the inn. Maybe he could come back the following day, and ask to be shown around. Would that be the sort of thing a young university applicant might do?

The inn seemed to be full of people in fancy clothes arguing loudly with the proprietor. Josh skirted around them and went to his room.

Now that he had met the monks, he was even more determined that the book moths shouldn’t get an opportunity to wreck their library. He needed to try and capture them, which meant he needed bait. Since he didn’t know where to find a children’s book, and probably couldn’t have afforded one even if he did, he was going to have to write one himself.

It would be the true test of a bard, although the only stories Josh had ever written had been years ago, at school, and according to his teachers, hadn’t exhibited any special talent.

Still, how hard could it be?

He decided he would take inspiration from the kind of children’s books his Grandma had read to him when she had babysat for him as a kid, the ones that had the kind of nice talking animals which were appropriate for children—Winnie the Pooh, Paddington Bear, the Wind in the Willows, Dick King Smith, that sort of thing. Grandma had read him Watership Down very early on, which young Josh had found harrowing, so maybe not anything where any of the animals actually died.

He gathered up his spare sheets of paper into a little booklet, dipped his quill pen in the ink bottle and stared at the page.

Three hours later, Josh’s fingers and face were covered in ink, and the sheaf of papers in front of him were a mess of spidery handwriting, ink blotches, and inky fingerprints.

Still, in between all the messily spilled ink, was a reasonably coherent story which didn’t have anything in it that would encourage a nascent moth haunt to kill people. The story followed a small pig called Babel and its spider friend and sidekick, Charlotte, although the latter only appeared in the first few pages and was rapidly forgotten about thereafter. Babel was a sheep-pig, who escorted sheep between paddock and barn every day by asking them politely to move. One day, however, the sheep refused to go into the field. Babel went to investigate, and found the grass had all been eaten by a family of rabbits, who were lost and looking for a new home.

Babel went round all the animals in the farmyard to ask their advice, from Winnie the Bear to Eeyore the Donkey, eventually finding the best advice was given by Josh the Sage, a wise human who lived on the farm. Following Josh the Sage’s guidance, Babe successfully led the rabbits through the Wild Hundred Acre Wood, which was slightly scary, with lots of rustling and mutterings in the undergrowth, but no actual danger, and nothing bad happened.

Here the rabbits seemed to develop a personality of their own, and started asking if they were there, yet, or wanting to explore off the path, but Josh wrenched them firmly back on track. On the other side of the Wild Hundred Acre Wood was a beautiful meadow of wildflowers and lush green grass, and a bank where a rat and a mole who were best friends lived. They welcomed the rabbits as their new neighbours, offering them an afternoon tea with scones and cream and jam, which Josh found he was describing in slightly more detail than was warranted, and they all lived happily ever after.

Josh assembled the pages back into its booklet shape, and used his needle and thread to fasten the centre spine, so that it almost became a real book.

He was hopeful he would be able to capture the book moths before they spawned enough to become another haunt, but just in case he didn’t manage that, at least it would be a talking rabbit or something, and not a powerful mage Queen flinging deadly spells about.

Actually, now that Josh came to think of it, how did book moths read? What would have happened if he’d written about Babel the sheep-pig in French or Spanish? Not that he was capable of speaking or writing either, but still. Did French or Spanish or any other language exist in Six Spires? Could moth haunts form in libraries written in languages other than English, and would they subsequently speak only that language?

He was just standing up, ready to go to the innkeeper and ask if he could have a jar with lid, when a woman opened the door, walked into the room, and shrieked when she saw him.

After a several mutual rounds of What are you doing in my room? followed by the summoning of the innkeeper, and a great deal of arguing, Josh realised that his room had been rented out from under him by the well-dressed party that had been causing a ruckus earlier. According to the innkeeper, who irritated Josh beyond measure with his obsequious manner towards the new guests, the party included a noblewoman, along with her priest and her chaperone, and assorted servants, and therefore simply couldn’t be turned away.

All the guests who were being turfed out of their rooms were being offered a full refund and palettes in the hayloft above the stable for the price of one copper. It wasn’t until Josh was sullenly packing up his things, under the triumphant gaze of the room-stealing woman, that his eye caught the story he had written.

The book moths!

Where were they? Were they still in the room or had they hidden in his pack? He checked inside it again, on the pretext of making sure he had all his things, but he couldn’t see anything that looked like black mould. The moths must either be hidden in the room somewhere, or they had fluttered off and were already playing havoc in book collections across town.

There was nothing Josh could do if they had escaped, but if they were still in the room then he could leave his magnum opus behind and maybe they would take the bait. He surreptitiously flicked the booklet onto the floor and used his foot to shove it below the bed.

He decided, as compensation, to treat himself to another session at the bathhouse, which would have the added benefit of washing off all the ink. A hot bath put Josh in a vastly better humour, so that when he came back to the inn to get his supper, and ran into the monk he had spoken to that morning, he was able to greet him quite cheerfully.

“I see you have been pursuing your studies,” the monk said, looking at the remains of ink stains that Josh hadn’t yet been able to remove from his fingers.

“Er … yes.” Josh followed his gaze, which brought the book moths to mind again. “Do you know anything about book moths?” he asked impulsively, then immediately wished he hadn’t, because if anyone in the town did subsequently get infested with one, the monk might remember him asking.

The monk paused, blinking at the sudden change in subject.

“I have read a treatise upon them,” he said.

“Ah!” Josh said. “So I was wondering … how is it that they can read? Can they read any language? And if a moth haunt forms it takes the appearance of a character from a story, but how do they know what the characters look like? Where do they get the context to understand what, for example, a dress is? Or what people look like in general?”

The monk’s eyebrows rose in pure delight.

“You do ask the most interesting questions. This is said to be due to their magical nature, but I realise that is hopelessly inadequate as an explanation. Please don’t tell me you encountered some book moths.”

“Er…” Josh said.

The monk looked amused.

“I take it back! I must hear that story, my dear fellow.”

“Er, yes … of course…”

“Forgive me for being so uncivil earlier today, but I did not get your name?”

“Josh … de Haven,” Josh said, recalling at the last minute the name on his paperwork.

The monk would have introduced himself, but at that point one of the inn servants approached and spoke deferentially to him.

“Father, they are ready to see you now.”

The monk nodded.

“Please do come with me,” he said. “You shall have a chance to tell your story, and come to the notice of some very influential individuals, which can be no bad thing for a young man in your situation.”

Josh could only presume that the monk was here to speak to the rich people who had taken over all the rooms at the inn. He had no desire to meet room thieves, or recount the story of the book moth, but he found himself following the monk anyway. The inn servant opened the door to the private parlour and announced, in a loud voice:

“The Abbot of High Howe Priory and Josh de Haven.”

Inside the parlour, the tables had been set up in a banquet arrangement, with the room thieves arrayed in a row along one side. The central, and presumably most important, person was a young girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, dressed in a gown of blue and gold, and wearing a white headdress wrapped around her head. She was dripping with jewellery—the pieces were clearly part of a matched set of red jewels, presumably rubies, that lay on her breast, dangled from her earlobes, and glittered on her wrists and fingers. She had a serious expression, an aquiline nose, and slightly protuberant eyes. She must be the noblewoman.

On her right was a tall, thin man with large, tufted eyebrows, who sported priestly vestments. These consisted of a black gown, a square collar that heavy with embroidery, and a skull cap decorated in the same manner. He also wore an amulet, this one a circle with spokes, each spoke picked out in diamonds, and his fingers were thick with heavy gold rings. Clearly the priest.

To the young girl’s left was a stunningly beautiful woman of about thirty or so. She was short and plump, but she carried it well, and she had skin like cream, with full, soft lips and sleepy brown eyes. She wore a white wrap around her head, in the same manner as the young girl, but a cluster of glossy dark brown curls were piled on top. Her jewellery was more restrained, consisting of silver pearl earrings, and a matching tear-drop pendant that served to highlight the delightful hint of cleavage disappearing into her well-shaped bodice. She must be the chaperone.

There were a handful of other people to either side, but Josh hardly had time to notice them before the Abbot swept a respectful bow, and he immediately followed suit, copying the Abbot’s motions exactly.

Unfortunately, the Abbot paused at the lowest point of his bow, instead of returning upright, which Josh hadn’t expected, and he nearly overbalanced, adjusting his weight at the last moment to compensate.

After a second or two, the young girl spoke.

“Abbot,” she said. “So good of you to call.” She had a slightly wooden inflexion, as if speaking a rote courtesy that she wasn't quite comfortable with.

The Abbot rose from his bow.

“It is my great honour to meet you, my lady,” he said. He managed to sound warm, genuine and respectful all at the same time. “And may I also congratulate you on the honour you are shortly to receive from the hands of the Hierophant himself. A Philosopher’s Stone, no less!”

From the ripple of unease that passed through the young girl’s party, Josh realised that this was perhaps something that either the Abbot wasn’t supposed to know, or something he shouldn’t be talking about in public.