Chapter 1
"Curse the rain" sighed Edgar as he splashed through the fens. Though sunset lingered on the horizon, the storm hurled jets all over him. The water drenched his sandy locks and traveling cloak. But there was no shelter for the soggy, the Queen's life was at stake.
In between his services to several Scottish noblewomen, Edgar, Agent of Spymaster Walsingham and loyal servant of Queen Elizabeth the First of England, intercepted a French assassination plot. A traitor in the court was just waiting for the signal that Edgar had blocked. He cursed the French, too, in case they conjured this tempest. But no matter the perils and slogs, he had to inform Walsingham.
The sky cracked, shocking Edgar out of his idle thoughts. Right now he had to trudge through this blasted swamp. More lightning struck nearby, incinerating a tree. Steam misted above the marsh, obscuring all direction. Another bolt hit directly in the water. The Spy felt it before he saw it, the stormy swamp swallowing his electrocuted body.
Edgar slept for what seemed like centuries. Though there was no pain he dreamed only of the ruin that would grip his country. Assassins, rogues, and even witches covered his vision in French calamities.
Despite the storm, he awoke to incredible thirst. A sea of sand spread out before his eyes. What Froggish trickery is this? Did I hit my head? But his parched throat and sand filled shoes confirmed the desert. Perhaps I washed out to sea, onto the shore of Morocco? His foggy brain struggled to rationalize the sorcery of falling in a swamp and waking in the desert.
Thankfully, Edgar found his flask intact. The stale water soothed the throat and the mind. If I awashed in Morocco, the nearest "safe" port would be Spain, across the strait. Papists sure, but I can blend in. North it is then. Briefly observing the morning sun, he began hiking.
But Edgar strained to reconcile his predicament. Even if he had washed out to sea and onto the shores of Morocco, why did he not awake on the coast? Rather than find an answer to this quandary, he stumbled onto a great glint of metal in the distance.
Cautiously curious, Edgar jogged closer, noting it was larger than a horse and roughly box shaped. Is it some kind of wagon? Yet it was made fully of metal, save for some odd leathery wheels. Perhaps the Muslims here fashion their carts of iron as they have no wood? he thought, but he could still not explain its abandonment in the desert. An artifact out of place, much like himself.
Finding only sand inside the metal cart, he trudged on. Hours may have passed and each dune looked more like the last. The oppressive sun baked a cruel casserole of brain, making his mind as lost as his feet. Edgar knew he needed refuge, But at least I'm not hallucinating
Meer moments, or maybe hours, later, a voice sounded. Am I talking to myself? Edgar wondered. The voice called again, closer. If I'm the only one here, it wouldn't hurt to shout back... "Help!" he bellowed. The voice replied, "Aye sirrah, ye loss yeself in the deesert. Quite ta storm it twas." and a man extended a tanned grip to Edgar. Fumbling his hand outward to his rescuer, the Spy couldn't place the accent. Definitely not Scottish nor London, maybe West Indes?
Shielding his eyes to regard the older man, Edgar found only more confusion. Though the man was well tanned and a bit skinny, he was unmistakably European. Dressed in ill-kept rags and sporting a leather backpack, he wondered if this was more scoundrel than Samaritan.
"Name's Caleb, good sirrah. What shall I be calling ye?" the bald man asked as he helped Edgar to his feet. "Edgar, friend" is all the Spy managed before coughing up sand.
"Easy there. Ye lucky I foun ye before the deesert ate ye whole. Fallow me and I'll git ye somewhere safe." Caleb offered, smiling a toothless grin. Edgar could make no resistance, trudging along with the oddly accented man. The pair was mostly silent, saving their throats in the dry desert.
Walking for hours, with Edgar thinking this highwayman wielded exhaustion as a murder weapon, the Spy heard the unmistakable ring of a church bell calling evening service. Over the last dune, a market town appeared. Endless sand gave way to prairie pastures and thatched roofs. It reminded Edgar of stories he'd heard about settlements in the New World. Rough and dangerous but full of spirit.
"Welkom home, sirrah" cackled Caleb even as he held Edgar by the shoulder. "Ye lucky I dug you out 'o the storm! Not every Noocomer gets such a warm treatment." The scavenger dragged poor Edgar toward a larger structure. The stench of swill through his blurry vision alerted the Englishmen that this was at least a tavern if not a rustic inn. But he couldn't make out the quick exchange between his rescuer and a gruff sounding barkeep.
Caleb marched Edgar to a back room, dark and ill-kept, before depositing him on a cot. Far from the warm bedsheets of a baroness, his aching muscles could not deny a rest. The scavenger fed him a draught of strange wine, chiming, "Rest lad. Ol' Caleb is putting ye up fer now, until ye Agent arrives. Now, let's see how ye can repay me..." Edgar heard the man rummage through his pack, completed with the familiar sound of his rapier, The Lady's Heart, being unsheathed with a whistle of appreciation. Edgar tried to protest, but exhaustion gave way to sleep.
Jade eyes and a flash of auburn hair greeted Edgar as he awoke. Confused but alert, he could not recall her name, and he was normally good with noble names, crests, and seals. She was much better dressed than Caleb, wearing well-kept traveling robes and wielding a finely crafted staff. His thoughts were interrupted by her commanding voice, "Good afternoon Ed-Gar. I am Agent Marie from the Ministry of Magic. Welcome to Yrth."
Chapter 2
Before he could respond, an ache in his head spiked. Edgar reeled in agony. The pain was beyond imagination. And Marie stood by silently, seemingly twiddling her thumbs. And then suddenly, the pain disappeared like an illusion.
"That was a demonstration of our absolute magical authority. As long as you cooperate, you needn't know it further." the Conjurer continued. Edgar could only mumble, "What? But how? Are you a witch? Or some...kind of fairy of myth?" She sighed and briefly closed her eyes in annoyance, and repeated, "I am a licensed mage with the Ministry of Magic. I've been assigned to handle your Newcomer Processing."
Edgar was about to ask another question when she went on, "Before we discuss anything, you must answer for an item in your pack." The Spy panicked, fearing this "Marie" was of course a Frenchie, and she had found him out as the interceptor of the assassination plot. But as she unholstered his pistol, holding it by the barrel like a club, he expelled his breath in mild relief.
"That's just my p-personal pistol. Can't be too careful on the highways these days, you know." Edgar stammered, the earlier pain of her psychic assault still lingering. Marie scowled, adding the simple gun to her pack. Then she lectured, "I thought as much. The Ministry must confiscate this. Do not seek its return nor any other black powder gonne. Tell no one of its nature nor ever mention it."
Edgar scrunched his face, confused, blurting out, "Madam, confiscate my pistol if you must but waht bloody hell does keeping mum about it matter?" A lightning bolt again seared Edgar's mind, Marie's fists clenched in impatience. She snapped back, "Your weak mind is an open book to me, and I can burn it with a thought. You'd best start complying."
Briefly composing herself, she continued, "Moving on with your Newcomer Processing, you must understand several key facts:
His Imperial Majesty of the Enduring Empire of Megalos is in charge.
Wherever you're from, the Banestorm coughed you up here. This is your home now.
Specifically, we are currently in a backwater province called Caithness near the eastern edge of the Great Desert.
Now, do you have any other dangerous ideas to confess?"
Edgar's mind, still reeling from the psychic shock, tried to catch up to this fantasy.
This is insane. I need to escape and warn the Queen! This witch has power, but can she really read minds? That sounds like a ploy Walsingham would use against a prisoner. I just need time to think...
Marie's pale brow began to furrow as Edgar finally spoke, "Uhh maybe you can tell me more about..this Megalos, place?" The Witch sighed, "That's Empire of Megalos. You will have great opportunity to learn about your new home when you arrive to complete Newcomer Processing. But I suppose I can give you a brief history. The enduring empire began 1000 years ago, when the great First Emperor formally declared the Empire. His decisive victory at the battle of..."
Edgar, though studied in Anglo-French wars and general European history, was soon lost among meaningless names and dates.
This is worse than when Walsingham drilled Roman battles and emperors into me, but at least she's distracted. I need to get back to the Queen and expose the traitor in her court. Think, damnit! Some kind of, ugh, magic, pulled me here, so the same (or reverse?) kind of magic should send me home...
"Do you see now why Araterre had to be brought under control?" Marie's question interrupted the Spy's nascent train of thought. "Oh, yes. It needed, uhh, Megalos', protection." Edgar guessed at the underlying propaganda, having no clue who or what Araterre was. The Witch nodded and continued lecturing.
Magic must be able to send me home. And this "Marie" seems to be a professional wizard. She can fry my brain, and maybe read it. So I need her on my side if I'm to expect any help.
Edgar regarded the Witch closely as she detailed another battle in the empire's history. "The battle of Yiborak in 1534 demonstrated the power of light magic in war. Our spells blotted out the very sun, each of our soldiers having prepared a candle ahead of time. The Archery Corps pierced anything lacking a light, while the enemy could not tell friend from foe. Of course, the following battle...". Though her speech was metered as though she were reciting the words from memory, she maintained her enthusiasm with a brisk pace. The Spy pondered.
What can I possibly offer her? This Witch really is thorough in her recitation. And for a professional, she seems twice as studied as any noblewoman. Well, any "fair lady" I've had the pleasure of knowing. Hmm, I wouldn't mind getting to know what's under her robes...
Edgar allowed himself a momentary smirk. The memory of psychic pain having faded into curiousity. But he froze immediately as he realized the error of his wandering mind. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Marie paused her lecture.
Bugger! Lustful thoughts of a mind-reader are a sure way to mental lashes. She must be preparing new pain spells. No use apologizing, just brace for it. Any moment now. "The anticipation of torture is half the agony" as Walsingham would say.
But the Witch resumed her history lesson, her cheeks red from ongoing discussion. Edgar inhaled after eternity passed.
Maybe she can't read minds at all...unless...she's receptive to my wandering thoughts. Of course! She's a dedicated professional. All work and no leisure. And she works in the field; why shouldn't she fancy dashing men like me? She's even blushing! Poor gal. I'll be doing her a service.
"If I may, dear" Edgar interrupted the battle over some river or another, "These chairs are a bit stiff, aren't they? Perhaps we'd be more comfortable sitting on the bed." Marie only nodded and casually shifted to the simple straw mat. Edgar smiled and seated himself next to her.
The Spy continued, "Your country is truly impressive. But what about you? You must get lonely working in the field." He slowly shifted closer to her. "I worked abroad for the court of my queen. It's hard." He locked eyes with Marie, his leg nearly touching hers. "You meet so many strangers, but it feels impossible...to...connect." Edgar leaned in to kiss her as he gently brushed his hand on her thigh.
Chapter 3
Edgar's jaw ached and he was staring at the ceiling. The horrible ringing in his ears faded as he realized what happened. The pain was severe but as much emotional as physical.
Marie's staff swipe had been much quicker and harder than he expected. While the Spy had braced for a psychic assault, his gaze never saw the staff crack his forehead.
"You're pathetic," the Witch sneered. "Do you really think I could possibly desire a wretched Newcomer like you? Please, I've had my fill of any man or woman, human or goblin, that I ever cared for." She glared down at the prone man, yanking his scalp, "...whether they wanted it or not." Edgar read the smirk on her face, uncertain of her intentions. Marie only laughed.
Worse than the pain, which would heal, was the rejection and humiliation. He had never failed to charm a lady, no matter how shrewish. No woman had ever so emphatically shut him down, let alone reverse romance into a threat. The Witch was unlike any human or even Frenchie he'd known. He fumed, only reflexively keeping a calm face.
Me, wretched? Says the provincial glorified customs clerk. Even that is too good, as promiscuous as she claims to be. More like a dockyard harlot. Better to lie with an old French maid than to share this world with her.
Deep in vitriol, Edgar again caught himself being blunt in front of a mind-reader. Knowing the incoming mental lance was unstoppable, he once more braced for the pain.
But no fire burned within his skull. The Spy cautiously reflected that the Witch was neither flattered nor forgiving. Marie said nothing, only breathing deeply and sweating slightly from the interrogation. Edgar realized that this strange magic was not all powerful.
She should have struck me down. Unless, the mind-reading is a ploy. Maybe she knows my thoughts, but can't always be watching. Perhaps it's a matter of knowing when I'm being watched.
To test his theory, Edgar imagined burning Marie at the stake. Enjoying the thought, he added branding irons to the picture. A pack of wolves ripping her apart as she howled in agony completed the scene.
The Spy waited for Marie to retaliate, but she seemed more fatigued than vengeful. She sat down on the cot, quiet, eyes closed but focused. But he couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.
The stench of cheap ale broke the silence as Caleb burst into the room. "Aye missah, ye've got yer Noocommer. Nu iss time for me share" he slurred with hand out and eyes glazed.
Marie snapped alert, though still weary. "You will receive the allotted payment at the appointed time. If you need to change those, you can submit a Ministry Subagent Revision scroll to the nearest Ministry office." she perfunctorily replied.
Caleb sneered back, "Nae! I'm through with yer endless scrolls. Caleb's got too many debts. I know ye got the coin, now pay up!". Though the drunk instantly threatened with two short swords, Edgar saw him reassuringly pat his satchel and smirk. Marie promptly replied, "Caleb of Caithness, I charge you with threatening an Agent of the Ministry of Magic. You will be tried by an Imperial Court, and when found guilty, executed. Come quietly and the magistrate may be lenient."
The scavenger merely snorted, "A pox on ye, witch!" and lunged forward with twin blades. The Agent deftly parried and readied her own strike. Edgar, crawling out of the way and slowly toward the door, saw her whisper an incantation and thrust her staff to Caleb's shoulder. The blow connected, but only grazed against cloth armor.
Marie stood back, resting on her staff while watching her spell. But her weary turned to worry as Caleb stood unphased. He jeered, "Aye missah, trouble with ye spell? What's a wee witch ain't got no mana?", and swung back, easily pushing through her tired defense. He cut her arm deeply, forcing her to drop the staff.
Edgar had crawled behind Caleb and saw his chance to escape. If this witch died, she wouldn't help him get home, and a mercenary was dangerous, doubly so when drunk and desperate. But something caught the Spy's attention. Nearer to him than any fair maiden or obscene injustice was The Lady's Heart, the rapier hilt of which was tied to Caleb's hip. It burned to be back in English arms.
Judging from the violence in front of him, Edgar rationalized that he would need his fencing weapon for safety, but he would have taken it if this world were only full of tame unicorns. While a young life as an urchin had taught him to be a pickpocket, fine living had dulled his skills. As he tensely reached for the blade, he struggled to keep his atrophied arms aloft. Finally caressing the cool hilt, however, renewed his strength. He firmed his grip on The Lady's Heart.
Chapter 4
For perhaps the third or fourth time that day, Edgar recognized his rash action too late. Even drunk and distracted, Caleb sensed a tugging at his hip. He whirled about, dragging the Spy across the floor. Though sent tumbling, a solid hand freed The Lady's Heart back into Her Majesty's service. Adrenaline surging, Edgar got to a knee and raised his rapier in a defensive stance.
Caleb, though surprised, relied on his mercenary instinct, swinging a blade down to Edgar's temple as he growled, "Aye sirrah! I save ye from the dee-sert and ye betray me? A pox on the lot of you!" The Lady's Heart, however, was much longer than the short swords, and parried the fatal strike at distance.
Edgar seized the advantage, beating his foil up to clear a path as he stood. Caleb gave a step and eyed his opponents. Marie was still reeling, and muttering under her breath while this fencer was at the ready 2 yards away. No single blow could get past that long rapier, even weakly wielded. Caleb smiled, holding his twin blades firmly as he lunged both to the English gut.
The Spy would have liked to stop-thrust, but he lacked the strength. It was his turn to give ground, leaping just shy of the keen edges only to find his back to the wall. Caleb quickly pressed forward and readied a killing blow.
Edgar had but one moment for his riposte. A direct attack couldn't get through, and a grazing blow would scarcely affect the numb-drunk scavenger. He flicked The Lady's Heart to his opponent's hip, coming outside the twin blades. But his cut ripped more cloth than flesh.
Caleb's trousers sagged as his coinpurse bounced across the room. A sober man, even in the heat of battle, might have been momentarily surprised. But the scavenger took offense, raging "Hands off, ye bloody Elf-shagger!" as he took a fierce but clumsy swipe. Edgar had plenty of time to defend, but no strength to parry nor space to run. He raised his sword to deflect, succeeding in turning the short blade before it bashed in his chest. The Lady's Heart again left the poor Spy, who slumped back to the ground.
Caleb continued his tirade, lobbing insults not known in the Queen's English. Edgar gasped for air, unable to ask for clarification of "Gobber Googler". He looked up at the scavenger seeing no mercy but a red glow of rage. Hate itself radiated off of Caleb as Edgar's vision blurred in the halo around his attacker. At least I intercepted that assassination plot. Hopefully that buys Walsingham enough time to find the traitor. God save the Queen!
The Spy face death with eyes open.
Chapter 5
Caleb raised his arm for a lethal blow when the room exploded. A ball of brimstone engulfed the scavenger, cooking his flesh in an instant. Edgar shielded his eyes and went prone, a few embers scorching his skin. How unstable is this place that anger literally burns?
Marie's voice forced itself through the smoke, "Caleb of Caithness! You have been judged guilty of assaulting an Agent of the Ministry of Magic. Before a witness, I have rendered your punishment: execution." The Witch turned toward Edgar, who was still kneeling and stunned, "I trust you see, Ed Gar, how lenient I've been with you. Now, I require that you accompany me to properly enscroll this man's crime, judgement, and execution." Her rigid tone softened slightly, taking a deep breath, "I do...appreciate...your assistance dispatching this rogue. Though I wonder how he acquired an anti-magic amulet, investigating that will have to wait until I am assigned a new informant sub-agent."
Caleb's husk still smouldered, the ale in his system providing an ongoing fuel. Edgar breathed slowly, but his pulse had quickened as he tried to process this reality. He mumbled, "I was just... just defending myself. Thanks for, ah, judging him, when you did. And I do apologize for ah, misreading you, earlier. I was over exerted and fog-brained."
Marie replied dismissively, "Noted. Then you must rest. We leave for the border of this backward country in the morning. Do not think of fleeing." She left the Spy, stopping only briefly to pull some piece of jewelry from the corpse.
The adrenaline waning, Edgar only managed to close the door before collapsing into the bed. Running was far from his mind; his night was filled with sobs.
I'm a failure. I couldn't save the Queen and I couldn't save myself. I deserve this magical hell.
Edgar glanced at the scavenger's remains in the moonlight. It was still dead, thankfully, just another peasant who crossed the nobility. Some things never change.
Never an early riser, Edgar's fitful sleep yielded to insistent rapping of Marie's staff in his side. She rasped at him, "Move it, Newcomer! The sooner we get you to Megalos and your scrollwork started, the sooner I can investigate this scavenger's crimes." Though hardly energetic, the Spy felt rested and demurely gathered his things with haste.
The Witch ordered a simple breakfast of rolls and cheese. Although she was clearly in a hurry, Edgar noted, she spent considerable time arguing with the innkeeper about the nature of his ledger. Still waking up (and lacking proper tea), the Englishman only gathered that she demanded the innkeeper mark her payment in some peculiar way.
Once settled to her satisfaction, she hustled them out the door, already drawing deep breaths. Not ten steps later, Marie stumbled to the ground. Edgar had been staring blankly and was startled when she fell. He hadn't thought she was seriously wounded, but still she struggled to regain her feet, a great weight seeming to drag her down.
Rather than running, still a stranger in a strange land, the Spy sensed an opportunity. "Are you alright miss? You look more ill than the small gash you received yesterday deserves. Is it poison?" he guessed while offering a hand. The Witch glared at him cautiously, "A poison of sorts I suppose. The sooner we leave this cursed country, the better." Once she stood, however, she collapsed again. This time Edgar was ready and caught her, urging, "Look, we didn't have the most cordial meeting and it's been a stressful few days for both of us. Let me help you and then maybe you can help me."
She regarded him with unfocused eyes, and begrudgingly pulled a scroll from her pack. The Witch managed to whisper, "before we discuss mutual aid, I need you to sign this scroll..."
Edgar was confused but didn't want to relive mental anguish. He accepted the scroll with some trembling. He unrolled it to reveal a strange but readable dialect:
I, _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ , being an unensorceled citizen of His Imperial Majesty, _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ , ruler of the Enduring Empire, Defender of the Faith, &c, do hereby accept charge as a temporary Sub-Agent to the throne. I swear to love that which he loves, shun that which he shuns, and perform tasks assigned to me by my Agent handler pursuant to Imperial Decree MCXXIII, as amended.
For completing these services and other labors as assigned, I agree to a salt share equivalent to 400 coins per week plus reimbursable expenses.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Agent Designator
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Sub-Agent Designee
The Spy was familiar with pointless court intrigue, but this document was beyond anything he'd seen. It elevated linguistic obfuscation to a science. He glanced down at the Witch, who could weakly glare back. Just in case this is some kind of hex, I better sign my French name.
"If I sign this, you'll help me get back to England?" Edgar cautiously inquired. Marie only groaned with a shadow of a nod. I'm not much of a barrister, but perhaps I can bend their word worship to me. A trained forger, the Spy added a line to his payment:
"...reimbursable expenses, including, but not limited to, travel expenses returning to London, England."
The dialect wasn't quite right, but the script matched quite well. Copy clerks across worlds used the same hurried scrawl.
He scribbled his nom de guerre and gave the scroll back. Marie, eyes scarcely open, penned her own signature with a practiced hand. Before the last "i" was even dotted, she groaned, "I command you to...take this damned amulet!"
Edgar hesitated, waiting for some sorcerous geas to compel him, but none came. Cautiously reassured in his free will, he deftly filched the amulet from the weakened Witch. Again he braced for sudden pain or fatigue, but felt only cool metal. The amulet itself screamed wealth. It was a hefty silver disk about two inches across. Offset from the center lay a smoky gem. The Spy didn't think it was diamond, but its shine betrayed some kind of value.
Marie got to her knee, catching her breath like a runner completing a race. She snatched back the scroll, not even checking the signatures as she regained her footing. Watchful of the amulet, she stated, "Thank you for your service Subagent. I regret that we cannot properly indoctrinate you." Edgar gulped, knowing "indoctrinate" must be a euphemism for interrogation, brainwashing, or worse. She coldly continued, "Our main reagent now is tracking the source of this illegal anti-magic amulet. It is unfortunate that former Subagent Caleb's spirit expired before telling us where he acquired it. Tell me Ed Gar, are you much of an information shepherd? If we can break this dangerous trade, I'll see that you are paid in full."
The Spy smiled, "I'm glad we came to a working arrangement. Information gathering is my specialty, Agent Marie."