The forest was the same pleasant place it had always been. Squirrels raced through the branches, darting from tree trunk to tree trunk with a speed and agility that young Warden Kortall Yain had always envied; while the late afternoon sunlight slanted down, giving the needles of the pine trees a sharp-edged glow. Beneath his running feet were the usual carpet of forest litter and the raised lines of tree roots. Kortall had grown up in this forest, and he knew it as intimately as the halls of his childhood home, but the familiarity of his surroundings failed to bring comfort today. Behind every trunk he expected to find another ambush, and every patch of undergrowth seemed to be a perfect hiding place for the enemies he knew still followed his faltering steps.
They had been four, he and his companions. Had they been assigned to a border patrol, their unit would have been three squads strong, a full dozen Wardens. This close to the clan’s Stronghold city, however, patrols were carried out more as a matter of tradition and training than for any expectation of encountering an enemy. Monsters were few so close to civilization, and it would be impossible for any of their foes to penetrate this deep into Erden territory without an alarm being raised, or so everyone believed. But everyone had been wrong, and now, of the four, only Kortall remained, stumbling along as fast as his weary feet could take him.
The hand he held tightly against the rent in his chain mail was keeping his innards in place, but was doing little to staunch the flow of blood, which dripped steadily from between his fingers down to the forest floor, an unmistakable trail of crimson. His round wooden shield dangled uselessly from his left elbow, catching on branches and thudding painfully against his thigh. The shield itself had not taken much damage but one of the straps had been wearing thin and he had been planning to replace it after the patrol. He was now paying the price for delaying that crucial task. A single blow from an enemy’s sword, caught on the shield at an awkward angle, had caused the already weakened leather to snap. Thrown off balance, both physically and mentally, Kortall had been unable to bring his spear around in time to parry the follow-up blow. The enemy’s blade had found a weak spot in his armour, and as he’d reeled back in shock and agony, young Bentiss – foolish, loyal, young Bentiss – had taken his place and bought him the time to recover his stance. He’d shifted his spear into a two-handed grip just in time to watch Bentiss be cut down. Before Kortall could lunge forward to plunge his weapon into the enemy’s throat, Captain Verdenn had caught his shoulder and given him one final order. “Run,” the captain had said, “run and warn the Stronghold.” And so he’d run.
For a short time after he began to flee, Kortall could hear the sounds of battle from behind him. All too soon, there was a final agonized scream and silence fell in the forest. Eventually, the birds and small animals, frightened into silence by the bloody violence, began once again to go about their busy little lives. Kortall wasn’t fooled; these enemy soldiers clearly knew how to move through the forest without disturbing the inhabitants, otherwise they’d never have been able to so completely ambush Kortall’s patrol amongst his beloved trunks.
He would have noticed the slightest change in the rhythm of the forest, had there been one, but the only warning had been the glint of sunlight on polished bronze as the first blade appeared from behind a large trunk. The enemy’s sword had darted beneath the upraised arm of a surprised Derrenn, found the weak spot in his chain mail shirt, and plunged into his chest, piercing lung and heart in a single blow.
As the rear guard of the patrol, Kortall had a clear view of Derrenn’s last moment. He reacted with the speed of reflexes earned through years of training – Derrenn’s killer was dead on the end of his spear before the body of his brother-in-arms hit the ground – but not even Kortall’s well-honed reflexes were enough, for there were simply too many foes.
He wondered how many now followed the clear trail of his blood. There had been five enemies still standing when Verdenn ordered him to flee, and Kortall thought he’d seen one of them fall, in the single desperate glance he’d thrown over his shoulder as he ran. How many more had his captain taken with him to the grave? How many now followed to ensure Kortall reached his own?
Perhaps Kortall didn’t know the forest as well as he thought, or perhaps his dreadful wound had weakened him far more than he realized; either way, his foot caught on a tree root that he didn’t expect to be there and he sprawled full length on the ground. For a time, Kortall simply lay where he’d fallen, breathing in great shuddering gasps. Wave after wave of agony washed through his abdomen and he clung to consciousness. If he passed out now, the enemy would surely find him and end him.
With more strength of will than strength of body, Kortall just barely managed to leverage himself to his feet by clinging to the haft of his spear. He lost track of time after that, as he focused only on placing each foot in front of the other. Finally, he looked up and realized he’d reached his goal; it was not the Stronghold, for he would never have had the strength to go so far, not after so much blood loss, but it was the next best thing.
With the last of his strength, Kortall placed his back to a tree, facing the way he’d come, and slid down to the ground. He had reached the Elder Tree’s Grave, and another patrol was due to pass through the location soon. The only question now was who would reach him first, his friends or his foes.
Kortall tried to find a way to breathe that didn’t result in sharp stabs of pain. His spear, once so light and easy to wield, now dragged heavily at his wrist, so Kortall propped the haft against his leg to save his strength for the trials to come. Now that he was freed from the agony of movement, and his only tasks were to stay alive and stay awake, Kortall found his thoughts wandering. His gaze drifted to his left and he took in the sight of the Elder Tree, or what remained of it.
From where Kortall sat, the full length of the dead tree was out of view, blocked by the great root ball that rose up to his left. In front of him was the rent in the ground that had been created when the tree toppled and tore free. In the handful of years since its creation, the wide hole had been changed, a little at a time, by each patrol that passed through, from an uneven gap in the ground to a gently sloping, smooth-sided bowl, both shallower and wider than the original. It was from across this bowl, Kortall knew, that his enemies would come.
Suddenly, Kortall realized he must have lost consciousness for a time, for one moment the clearing was empty and the next there was someone leaning over him. He flinched in fear before recognizing that the person was not one of his enemies but a tall, slim, brown-haired human woman, dressed in simple civilian clothing and completely unarmed.
“Who are you?” Kortall whispered. A complicated expression flashed across the woman’s face and the skin around her green eyes tightened.
“I don’t know,” she responded. “I can’t remember.”
Kortall gazed up at her in astonishment, something tugging at the back of his mind. Unable to make sense of the vague thought in his weakened state, he simply asked, “Where did you come from?”
The woman cocked her thumb over her shoulder with a wry smile. “Back there a ways. I woke up under a tree and couldn’t remember a thing so I started wandering, looking for help. I found your blood trail and here I am. Now,” the woman adopted a more serious tone, “let’s focus on you. I may have amnesia but you’re the one who looks half-dead.”
As the woman spoke, her hands gently shifted Kortall’s armour and clothing, as she attempted to get a better look at his wound. She hissed in concern when she realized the extent of the damage.
“It’s a wonder you’re not already dead,” she muttered under her breath. She pulled off her outer tunic, wadded it up into a makeshift pressure bandage, and placed it on the wound. Kortall groaned as the woman leaned into the bandage and he saw the green eyes soften in sympathy. “I know, I’m making it hurt worse,” the unnamed woman said, “but we need to preserve what little blood you have left.
“What’s your name,” she asked, switching the topic of conversation so quickly Kortall needed a moment to catch up.
“Kortall,” the wounded soldier responded as he tried to breathe past the increased pain in his gut. “Warden Kortall Yain, [Spearman], Silver Rank.”
“Nice to meet you, Kortall,” the green-eyed woman said. She smiled ruefully. “I’d give you my name but like I said…” Her gaze lost focus and her words trailed off. “You know,” she said after a moment, “you can call me En. I’m pretty sure that’s not my name but somehow it seems…I don’t know…connected.” Her gaze sharpened again and En frowned as she realized her hands had relaxed.
With firm, uncompromising movements, she reapplied pressure to Kortall’s wound, prompting another groan. “You’re going to have to tell me what direction to go for help, since I don’t know quite where we are. Do you think you can walk or will I need to carry you?” A worried look flashed across En’s face, as if she were contemplating the chances of her slim frame actually succeeding in carrying Kortall’s thickly muscled and heavily armoured body.
Kortall shook his head weakly. “No,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, “no, you need…you need to go before they…”
But it was too late. A crackling of dried twigs heralded the enemy’s entry into the clearing. Kortall knew they’d made the noise on purpose, considering the degree of stealth they’d previously displayed. It seemed they didn’t consider either of the two humans a serious threat and intended to have a little fun before ending things. The woman who called herself En whirled around at the noise and stared at the three enemy soldiers in shock. Kortall wondered what was going through her mind in that moment.
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As I stared at the three armed and armoured people on the other side of the clearing, I felt like my brain was stuttering. It had been hard enough to reconcile the stuff in my brain before, but at least this Kortall Yain was human, (and a rather handsome human at that, a random part of my brain pointed out.)
The three warriors who faced me now were most certainly not human, but they were just as certainly 'people', despite their lack of humanity. One part of my brain had no problem acknowledging that fact; the other part of my brain was screaming in uncomprehending shock.
It was like I had two lives inside my mind – or the memories of them at least – but even that wasn’t quite accurate. I hadn’t lied to Kortall when I said I couldn’t remember my identity, but I did have memories, a whole life’s worth of memories, and yet not one of those memories including anything personal. I could remember the sound of ocean waves, the taste of salt in the air, and the slightly nauseating feeling of a boat rocking on the water; but I couldn’t remember actually being in the boat. It was a little bit like the difference between seeing a recording of an event versus witnessing the event in person, or the difference between knowing that fire is hot and experiencing the pain of burnt flesh; I had all the abstract knowledge one might gain through several decades of life but I remembered none of the personal experiences that should accompany such knowledge. To make matters worse, I had knowledge of two lives, of two worlds.
The part of my brain that was utterly shocked by the appearance of the three warriors was the part that told me swords and spears were anachronistic weapons of the past and humans were the only species of sentient beings on Earth. The other part of my brain identified the beings as kobolds and admired the competent and confident way in which they held their weapons, the way their relaxed-yet-alert stances spoke of their experience as warriors. But which part of my brain was having the proper reaction? Which life had I actually lived?
The middle of the three kobolds took a step forward and I suddenly realized that my existential crisis would have to wait; in this moment I needed to focus on staying alive, and something in me knew that the hysterical modern woman of Earth would not be very helpful in that regard. With a deep breath, I snagged Kortall’s spear from his lax fingers and rose to my feet, trying desperately to dig helpful information from the incomplete mess that was my memories.
My movements made the kobolds hesitate and for a moment the four of us stood there, silently examining each other. All three of them were male, between four and four-and-a-half feet tall, which my brain informed me was the average height for males of their race. They stood on two legs and, from thighs to necks, seemed to be built very similarly to human males. Their lower legs were a mix between human and rat, the proportion being human but the shape being rat-like. Their arms appeared very human-like but their hands were long-fingered and tipped with sharp claws. Long, thin, black tails trailed behind them and their heads were an odd mixture of human, rat, and something I couldn’t quite identify.
Like Kortall, all three kobolds carried bladed weapons of bronze, though theirs were short swords and their armour was all of leather and thickly padded cloth, while he had carried a spear and his armour appeared to be made of iron.
My examination of the kobolds took only a moment and they seemed to look me over with equal speed. The male on the left made a comment and my gaze snapped to him in shock. I didn’t know what he’d said but I recognized the language and immediately knew it did not belong in this world. My surprise must have been clear because all three kobolds instantly stiffened and their eyes widened. The one in the middle called out a question and I shook my head.
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“I can’t speak Russian,” I responded.
The middle kobold grinned, which I found quite disconcerting considering the size of his pointed teeth. “That is not a problem,” he said in a voice that seemed too deep for his short frame. “We can speak English.”
It was only then that I realized two things: one, that I had indeed used English just then, and two, that the language I’d been speaking with Kortall had not been English.
I squinted a bit, trying to sort through the fragmented and often conflicting knowledge in my head. The middle kobold, whom I was starting to realize was the leader of the three, took another small step toward me but very deliberately pointed his sword at the ground in a non-threatening gesture. Much of the intended effect was lost due to the large amounts of drying blood and gore splashed across his armour and clinging to his blade.
“You are missing many memories, yes?” he said. I nodded. “You must be the Traveler, then.” He grinned again, making me shiver a little. “What fortune we have, my brothers, to be chosen to find the Traveler of this generation! We shall be able to take many new wives when we return to the burrows.”
The other two kobolds greeted his words with a chittering sound that I somehow knew indicated pleased satisfaction. The sound sent icy fingers down my spine and I suppressed another shiver. I had no idea what they meant by “Traveler” and I couldn’t bring myself to share their pleasure, especially when the leader took another step forward and gestured with his left hand.
“You will come with us,” he said, still in English.
“And if I don’t?” I asked, switching back to the language I’d used when speaking with Kortall, feeling a need to distance myself from the familiar way the kobold was speaking to me. His eyes flashed angrily but he followed my example and switched languages also.
“If you do not come with us, we will kill you. If you do come with us, you will be a slave, true, but a well-treated one.” For some reason, both of the other kobolds growled and gnashed their sharp teeth at their leader’s final words. He silenced them with a swift movement and I could see the hatred that had bloomed in their gazes slowly dissipate. Strangely, it didn’t seem like that hatred had been directed at me, though I had nothing on which to base that hunch.
“Is there a third option?” I asked, clutching the haft of Kortall’s spear with sweating hands. For just a moment, I thought I saw a look of compassion flash across the lead kobold’s face but the alienness of his features made it impossible to be certain and an instant later the expression was gone. He shook his head.
By this point, the strangeness of the situation had been overcome by fear. I could feel my pulse pounding in my thumbs as they pressed tightly against the smooth wood of the spear. Death, or slavery to creatures not human; neither option was something I wanted. The only thing I could think to do was try to buy time, so I jerked my chin sideways and down, indicating the barely conscious man at my feet.
“What about him?” I asked.
The kobold glanced at Kortall dismissively. “We will kill him, of course. He is almost dead anyway. It will be a mercy.”
I glared at him. “You and I have different definitions of mercy, I think. Besides, he might yet live, if he receives medical treatment.”
“All the more reason to kill him; we cannot allow the Erden to know we have you.”
I continued to glare at him, breathing through clenched teeth, as my heart pounded in my ears and my thoughts raced, trying desperately to come up with a way out of this situation. The kobolds and I were so tightly focused on each other that all four of us flinched when a weak voice broke into our standoff.
“Run, En” Kortall said. I blinked down at him in confusion before remembering “En” was what I’d told him to call me. “Run,” he said again with a cough. “Run and I’ll hold them off.”
All three kobolds burst into derisive laughter and I dropped to one knee and took Kortall’s cold fingers in my sweaty hand. I could tell how much even speaking those words had cost the man. There was no way he’d be able to fight off a rabbit, never mind three armed kobolds, but if I did run, they would likely stop to kill him as they went past, and that might buy me the time I needed to reach a place of safety.
Suddenly I felt my fear shrinking and being replaced with anger. How dare they? How dare they plan so callously to murder this brave young man? How dare they mock his courage? I would never be their slave, of that I was sure. I would repay their disrespect with blood. Kortall and I were both going to die today, but I was going to take at least one of those kobolds with us.
Gently laying down Kortall’s pale, cold hand, I took a deep, slow breath and rose to my feet. The kobolds’ mocking laughter cut off and their posture shifted, their expressions becoming watchful. I stood with my left foot forward and my right foot drawn back, holding the spear in both hands, with the left hand in front and the right hand back by my right hip. I stared at the kobolds, keeping the tip of the spear pointed in their direction and roughly at eye level. I didn’t think I needed to say anything to make it clear I was refusing their “offer” of slavery, so I simply bared my teeth in a snarl of fury and hatred.
For a moment, the kobolds muttered quietly to themselves in yet another language, one that seemed to suit their animal-like features more than any of the three I’d heard them use so far. They laughed and broke apart, two falling back a step while the third, the one on the right, advanced. If all three of them had attacked at once, I probably wouldn’t have stood a chance, but it seemed they didn’t consider me a serious threat.
They were probably right. My memories had been mangled but I was fairly sure I’d never held a spear before today. I certainly didn’t know how to use it, aside from the obvious bit about sticking the sharp end into the other guy. On the other hand, I was at least a foot taller than any of the kobolds, which gave me a naturally longer reach, and I had a spear, while they only had short swords, so I’d be able to go on the attack well before I came in range of their blades. Would it be enough? Probably not, but I was going to try.
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Kortall fought desperately against the soft blackness that kept creeping into the edges of his mind. He dug his fingers into the forest floor, focusing on the textures of dirt and fallen pine needles to keep himself grounded. Despite his brave words, he knew he could do nothing to save En; both of them were going to die here, unless another Warden squad came along in the next few seconds. Since that didn’t seem to be happening – and En wasn’t taking advantage of her longer legs to run away and was instead facing down the kobolds – the least Kortall could do was bear witness to the brave woman’s death. And for that, he had to stay awake.
En had taken up Kortall’s spear but the way she held it said much to those who could see such things. En’s stance and grip were natural, instinctive almost, and – surprisingly – not entirely wrong, but it was painfully obvious that she had little or no idea how to wield a spear, or perhaps any weapon.
The kobolds could obviously read En’s inexperience as easily as Kortall could, for they laughed and let one of their number approach her alone. As the lone warrior stalked forward, his bronze blade swishing back and forth in an attempt to distract and confuse his opponent, En settled her weight into her stance and Kortall caught his breath in sudden premonition. He'd seen her forearm, she didn't have a class mark, which was strange for an adult, but he knew the signs, and if he was right, she was earning her [Spearwoman]'s mark right in front of him. He whispered a prayer to the Creator that the knowledge of the nascent class would be enough to carry her through.
The kobold approached En by going directly across the small clearing, which required him to cut through the broad bowl-like depression. It was an incredibly foolish move, for it placed him at a slightly lower elevation just as he came into range of En’s spear. The kobold was carrying a small shield in his left hand and he held it low in front of his chest, probably expecting a novice fighter such as En to aim for the largest target.
Had he been on level ground and not needed to compensate for the difference in elevation, he might have been able to raise the shield in time. Had he not been so utterly convinced of his own victory, he might have had his blade in position to parry. Instead, the kobold’s sword was off to one side, and his shield was still too low, as the tip of En’s spear lanced down and into his unguarded throat. The enemy warrior let out a horrible choking gurgle and dropped to the ground as the spear was yanked back out of his flesh.
For one long moment, none of them moved, and then the two remaining kobolds yelled in fury and dashed across the clearing. The leader of the group circled around the depression in the ground but his companion simply charged straight across. With less ground to cover, the lower-ranked kobold reached En first. Clearly not intending to repeat his companion’s mistake, this kobold held his small shield high enough that it covered most of his face and throat and he could probably only just see over it. His sword was drawn back, ready to either thrust or parry.
As the enemy approached, En took a single step forward. That step carried her over the edge of the depression and Kortall watched in amazement as the woman utilized her momentum, her superior height and reach, the pull of gravity, and the full weight of her body, all of it combining to create a thrust of incredible power that drove her spear just below the bottom edge of the shield and into the approaching kobold’s chest. The warrior’s attempt to parry bounced uselessly off the spear’s haft as its sharp, bronze head punched right through the kobold’s light leather armour and into his body. The two combatants tumbled to the bottom of the depression and the last kobold skidded in the loose layer of pine needles covering the ground as he tried to change direction to follow.
From where he lay, Kortall couldn’t tell at first if the second kobold was alive or dead, but then he saw En sit up and start tugging on the spear to free it from the male’s body. The lack of reaction from the enemy warrior told Kortall everything he needed to know.
For a split second, Kortall dared to hope that En might actually be victorious. That was when the final kobold picked himself up from the base of the tree he’d run into in his haste to change direction. The expression on his face was thunderous. He’d just watched both his companions die at the hands of a completely untrained novice. Kortall had no illusions that he would take En lightly again. To make matters worse, the kobold leader was now the one with the advantage of high ground, and En still hadn’t succeeded in freeing her weapon from the other warrior’s corpse.
Kortall watched as the final enemy stalked toward the brave young woman whom he desperately wished he could help. There was nothing he could do. Or was there?
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I was doing it, I was actually doing it; I was killing the kobolds! The sane and civilized part of my mind was utterly horrified and desperately wanted to be violently ill. The rest of my mind was locked onto a single thought, a single desire: survival. It was kill or be killed, do or die, and I did not want to die. But I was going to die. That became abundantly clear the moment I looked up and saw the final kobold charging toward me, his mouth open wide in a roar of fury.
The spear was still stuck in the body of the second kobold. Time seemed to slow down as I desperately jerked and yanked at the shaft. The spear head had slid back out of the throat of the first kobold without too much resistance, but this time was different. I had thrown everything I had behind that second thrust, and had felt the sharp point punch through leather armour, grind past rib bones, and sink deep into heavy flesh. That flesh had closed around the spear, both wooden haft and bronze head, and it would take someone stronger than I to dislodge it in any kind of hurry. As the final kobold charged past Kortall, I gave one final desperate yank on the spear. It didn’t come out. I was dead.
Except I didn’t die. The kobold’s feet suddenly went out from under him and he pitched forward, directly onto the blunt end of the spear. The kobold’s weight wrenched the spear to the side and he toppled with it, right onto me. Pain slammed through my chest as several ribs broke under his weight and I screamed, shoving and thrashing, desperate to escape, while a horrible gurgling sound filled my ears.
It was only after I managed to heave him to the side and scramble part way up the slope that I realized the nasty gurgling sound was coming from the kobold. By some miracle, the blunt end of the spear had hit the falling, flailing kobold directly in the throat, or more accurately, he had hit it. If the spear had been anchored into a solid surface, like the ground, such a blow would probably have broken the kobold’s neck, or the spear, or – more likely – both. But the spear had been held upright only by the other kobold’s corpse, a corpse that shifted with the impact, lessening the blow.
Instead of having his neck broken and dying instantly, the kobold leader had survived, and now thrashed about on the ground, clutching his crushed throat. The sounds he was making were horrible. A moment ago he had been about to kill me and I had been willing to kill him, by whatever means necessary. Now I only wanted his suffering to end. All I needed to do was pick up one of his fellow warriors’ fallen swords and it would be over with a single blow. But I couldn’t do it, not because I didn’t want to but because I couldn’t move.
When the kobold landed on me, and I both felt and heard my ribs break, I thought it was the most horrible pain possible. I had been wrong. As the final kobold choked and gurgled and thrashed out the last moments of his life amongst the blood of his fellows and the trampled greenery of the forest floor, I clutched my left wrist with my right hand.
What had begun one second as a painful tingle in my forearm was the next moment ratcheted up into a burning pain so severe I couldn’t even breathe. I lost track of the world and my vision fuzzed out.
The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come, but it took me a few moments longer to recover. I sat up and blinked, bringing the world back into focus. I didn’t remember screaming but my throat was sore and my voice, when I tested it, was hoarse. The only sounds in the clearing were my breathing and the angry-sounding chatter of a squirrel-like creature.
I looked down at my left arm. There, on my blood-splattered but otherwise previously unblemished skin, was a distinct mark. A band of black, about one inch thick, wrapped completely around my wrist. Overlapping it on the inside of my forearm was the simple outline of a golden spear. The tip of the spear rested just below the heel of my hand, while the haft stretched halfway to my elbow. I rubbed the mark with my thumb but neither the black band nor the golden spear gave any sign of coming off. It was like a tattoo of some kind. I frowned as the knowledge in my head, the knowledge not of Earth but of this world, told me that this mark was important, vitally so.
Suddenly my head jerked up as I finally recognized the significance of the silence in the clearing. I looked over at the kobolds and saw that all three were now dead. The body of the leader was twisted into contortions, making it horribly clear that his death had been just as awful as it had sounded. The reality of what I’d done finally caught up with me and I pitched forward, heaving and crying as my empty stomach tried to empty itself further.
When the nausea finally receded, I weakly climbed the gentle slope on hands and knees and shuffled to Kortall’s side. The other human was miraculously still breathing but had slipped into unconsciousness. Shaking with the shock of everything that had happened, I reached out and readjusted the makeshift pressure bandage I’d formed from my outer tunic, in that long-ago time before all the killing and death.
“Hang on, Kortall,” I heard myself muttering over and over. Somehow, he’d changed position since I’d last seen him. Instead of being slumped at the base of a tree, he was now sprawled across the ground, with one leg flung out at what looked to be a very uncomfortable angle. As I followed the line of his outstretched leg with my eyes, I suddenly realized that it intersected a set of scuff marks on the ground.
My mouth dropped open in surprise as I realized what that meant. The reason the kobold leader had lost his balance and fallen onto the spear, the reason he was dead and I alive, was that Kortall had used the last of his strength to throw out his leg at just the right moment. The kobold had intended to kill me. He tripped. He died. I lived. Because of Kortall.
Tears dripped from my chin as I watched the young man's breathing slow. “Hang on,” I pleaded. “Don’t leave me. I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”
The only response came from the angry-sounding squirrel thing perched in a tree.