(MultiMage Chronicles, Set 01: The Chronicle of the Founding)
For every reality, there is an unreality. For every hard fact, there is a supposition that cannot itself be completely denied nor vindicated. For every instance of existence we believe to be real, there may be millions spurred by our dreams, as real as we, yet as ethereal to mortal hands as our dreams are.
The Chronicles of the Multimage is one such look at unreality, only with a twist: where unreality meets itself many fold, and in turn encounters an unreal reality. Where long-discredited mythology meets mundane modernism meets wildly fantastic dreams and entertainment. Where one droplet of water descending into the lake may have little impact, or can destroy the shoreline with a tsunami. Where unreality itself is challenged and even the norms of imagination are flayed to dust in the wind, leaving only the belief that anything is possible...and impossible all the same. Herein begins a tale of reality and unreality, of a future itself so warped from all premise of possibility that even the insane would not conclude the question of it being sane or insane. The premise of possibility, fully exploited: the dice that favor beings now may not do so later, and vice-versa, in the pursuit of the possible and the impossible, the mundane and the extravagant, the fantasy and the reality. Where elements disparate are wagered in challenge to sensibility, and common belief is challenged by the wager of what others consider impossible, shall fate be writ.
On a more serious and less mind-screw note, this is the beginning of my long saga of the Magi, quite literally the most insane crossover I have ever put logic and plan to. A multiple-set story, I began the planning phase of this work when I was twelve, though the core concept remains relatively unchanged from then, the flow of narrative and the elements of the crossover have changed drastically. It has expanded and shrunk, collapsed twice of its own internal pressure, suffered five complete-overhaul revisions, and yet it still exists in a logical form. As a testament to the perversity of the plot, with each overhaul it has grown more gritty, more brutal, and only now have I deemed that it is finally worthy of being locked in and written. After over a decade of revisions, revamps, and recollections, it is finally ready.
The disparity of the crossover elements will come into play, of that I guarantee, but keep in mind that the main solid base of the story is reality itself. At every point in the story, I beseech a reader to ask himself or herself 'is it logical that (insert premise here) would act in this fashion in real life, should it exist in real life?' I will challenge your acceptance of norms and standards, and this will come to evidence fast enough in these works, even in this first set (of no less than six) will you have cause to ask yourself the above question. In return, I expect you to challenge my presented theories on every matter that you deem implausible. On any theory I present, I am always willing to listen to alternate opinion; any of you who are veteran of my other works know that I am receptive of reader input, both negative and positive. If you hold a differing viewpoint on a matter, I wholeheartedly encourage you to express it, though I do make the request that it be civil. Much of my writing has been strengthened on the input of the readers, as veteran readers of the Archangel's Amazing Adventures can attest.
All that being said, shall we now get on with the obligatory notes and the tale of the impossible come possible?
GENERAL DECLARATIONS (These apply to all sections, and other declarations may be added in the chapters)
Note that Stravag does not own any part of any included works, in whole or in part. By my use of the included works, I intend no challenge to the copyright or the legal ownership of such works. I claim ownership only of the original elements, characters, and premises of this story.
Writing note: numbers in parentheses, like this: (0) mean check the footnote for something else I think goes along with the thought. Could be informative, could be humorous, or both. This will be my preferred method of including explanation or detail information that would otherwise disrupt the flow of a story, providing the backdrop that is deserved of the disparate elements without breaking into the narrative with an author filibuster.
Writing Note II: Starting with this work, I am now including a new informational section below the Footnotes, called Included Elements. This provides a reference for readers to material that I have included in the story that may not be readily evident where I derived the logic from. It can also be considered a reference point for any readers who want to do some further research of their own, should they have time and resource available.
BAAAAAD LANGUAGE WARNING: Much as in real life, there will be foul language in some sections. Even the best of us let fly a four-letter word when really pissed off, startled, or else. Though it will be seen, it shall not be grossly common.
VIOLENCE WARNING: It is fairly safe to say, regardless of this being a massive crossover, or as a direct cause thereto, there shall be an amazing amount of violence. Get used to the thought. Expect strange conclusions to some fights, and expectable conclusions to others.
DICE WARNING: To simulate the randomness of life, elements of this story, all derivatives, all side-stories, and all continuations thereof shall be subject to the use of random number generation to determine the course of events. This will lead to otherwise illogical or against-pattern outcomes to some elements in the story, though this is expected by the author and will not be glossed over. Real life itself is random, and that is how this story shall flow, for the most part.
RELATIONSHIP WARNING: I may normally be fairly light on this subject in my writing, since more of my focus is on the political and military dimensions of the conflict at hand, but in this case there is some political dimension and some military dimension in addition to normal interactions. Expect to see some canon pairings, some non-canon pairings, and some very, very strange pairings. Fate does weird things to those it favors.
ANTI-POLITICAL-CORRECTNESS WARNING: To strive to be politically correct serves no purpose, for real life makes no such distinction. I will not do so. Death before dishonor. End of story. (note that this also applies to normal fandom principle: if I have to choose between reality and preferred perception, I will choose reality).
And NEG, THERE IS NO CHARACTER BASHING IN THIS STORY! PERIOD! Every character is entitled to some props even if their only purpose in the story is the classic image of deus ex machina. You will see this rule in full effect mostly in later Sets of the story, though it may come into play in some part here in the first one.
(Multimage Chronicles, Set 01, Chapter 01: Legacy)
"He is good," the Minos trainee declared.
"He is excellent, Agrippa will make a fine frontline mercenary when graduated," his younger sister adds to the appraisal.
A circle fifteen feet of width was etched and depressed into the ground near Recruit Barracks Four, surrounded by benches and trampled weeds. Barracks Four, sheltering those who were almost ready to become Durgan Bladesmen, was the final stop before the recruits joined the Bladesmen as a territorial guard or a mercenary trooper. For that reason, it was also the most active and most difficult of the barracks groups, with no less than three quarters of the daylight devoted to battle training and sparring. Now was no different for the trainees as it would be on any other day.
"Flexible, very flexible in how he moves and thinks," the Atrebas trainee says. "His swordcraft is a hair behind the lead, though."
"And what about you, tough guy?" the sister declares. "Will you be a mercenary, or a home guard?"
"I don't know yet," the Atrebas replies after a moment. "I want to learn of the rest of the world, but at the same time I never want to lose sight of home, of how we came to be."
"Think you can take a Spartan yet?" the Minos asks.
"No," the Atrebas declares immediately. "They are specialized to a few weapons types, polearms and swords mostly. Durgan soldiers train for a variety of arms and tactics, it will be a decade before I am that skilled."
"No way, could you not just—ah, Stan wins again," the Minos declares.
"Who shall challenge me next?" Stan asks. "Not you, cheater," and he points the training blade right to the chest of the Atrebas.
"Cheat? Well, only when reported," the accused replies. There was no challenge from the ring of trainees; "Looks like I am the challenge by default. My apologies, Stan."
"I shall get you this time," Stan says as the Atrebas steps into the combat circle. "Eric, you will not walk away from this one."
"Everyone says that. Nobody accomplishes. Shall you?"
"Gah!" Stan began the match by driving in against the apparently-unarmed Eric Atrebas, a thrust aimed low to impale and disembowl. Almost entirely as expected, Eric slammed the heels of his hands into the opposing sides of the blade, driving them together as he twisted the blade out of the path of strike and compressing it to a stop. Da—aaaammmit!" Stan's foul shout was drawn out by his fall to the ground, as before he could pull and reset Eric had maneuvered to his side, tripping him to the ground while twisting the practice sword out of his hand.
"There is your loss by default, Stan," and the practice sword landed in the dust of the practice ring next to his splayed-out form. The observers let out a collective sigh as they began breathing; every time, breath was held baited for the strike, and the inevitable capture. Eric found it amusing, even after a year of using this skill in the open, it still choked people up every time. It was wholly unnatural, he figured.
"Speed is not offense, speed is not defense," Stan reminds himself rather forcefully.
"Skill is offense, skill is defense," Eric completes the thought. "Come, we shall conduct a proper bout now."
"You shall not."
All eyes were immediately on the speaker, the Lieutenant-General of the Durgan Legion. "Sir," Eric says as he comes to attention, shortly followed by the rest of the training cadre unit.
"You will test your skill against a real blade, recruit, handled by a real soldier," he continues. "Stanythe Agrippa, clear the ring."
"Sir!" Stanythe (most called him 'Stan' for short reference) was not the first or the last to give the Lieutenant-General a wide berth to enter and face Eric. "Knock 'em dead, Eric, and you may end up with his rank!"
"Thanks, Stan, like I want that kind of authority," Eric replies crassly.
"You do not?" The Lieutenant-General asks, bracing his shield and aiming his sword. "Then why do you chase the Mayor-General's daughter?"
"She finds me attractive, I find her headstrong and fierce behind the eyes. It works out in the end. I could care less about the Mayor-General's position, yet caring any less than I currently do would entitle effort on my part, effort better spent on the battle."
The Lieutenant-General chuckles grimly. "There is hope yet for this generation. Now, show me in slowed action how you trap a blade, recruit."
Eric figured as much. Everyone wanted to know how the hell he could do this without getting skewered every time. For he, it was a factor of reaction, speed, strength, and gratuitous amounts of training. Others had said something about 'The hands of the Gods' or something similar (opinions varied on which Gods or Goddesses), and Eric had no real intention on disabusing them of that belief. After all, who was he to challenge the possibility that the Gods really were guiding his hands?
The thrust was itself slow, so Eric mimicked its speed as best as he could with his actions. As it began, his hands flattened parallel to the ground to match the direction of the blade's thrust. With the blade passing past his shield, Eric reacted akin to his pacing to a normal strike, clamping down on the blade from two directions and shoving backwards through the intended travel of the blade, neutralizing the thrust's forward momentum faster than it began. The blade moved very little farther toward Eric after he began the trap, and incrementally began inching back towards the enemy.
"We are drawn, no offense, no defense," the Lieutenant-General declares.
"Not quite, sir," the apprentice replies. "Try again at full combat speed."
"If you miss, it will kill you," the Lieutenant-General replies.
"All of life is a chance, Lieutenant-General, mine being no different. If my life is taken in such brazen foolery, let it serve as warning not to try this in real battle."
"Very well," the enemy replies. The thrust began, just barely visible to the onlookers (a small crowd had gathered of many age brackets).
The trap struck just as demonstrated, though in this case the blade simply neutralized due to his foe's inherent strength advantage, it did not inch backwards. Even still, Eric began his rather-infamous follow-up to the trap, a technique the senior officer was not readied for. With the blade held at the horizontal, all he had to do was snap his wrists to vertical while driving his arms past the arm of the Lieutenant-General. His foe found he could not maintain grip on a sword that bucked, spun and wedged in three different directions at once, and could not stop the trainee from effectively disarming him. Eric moved through his own disarmament technique, clearing out of the way of a possible shield charge from the enemy, and took grip on the pommel of the full-bladed sword to finish the matter. In a scene of pure embarrassment to the Lieutenant-General, Eric did not use a lethal slash to finish the bout, he used the flat of the blade to whelp the erstwhile enemy in the buttocks. The sound of the impact was loud enough to echo between the nearby buildings.
"Oh MY!" the Lieutenant-General shouts in bellow, completely surprised by such a brazen and callous tactic. He yelped twice louder on the second and third such strikes, with the fourth flaying to his rear driving him to his knees. There was no fifth strike; Eric simply sheathed the sword on the Lieutenant-General with typical Durgan flair and stepped back.
"Is that sufficient demonstration, sir?" Eric asks after coming to attention.
"Uh," the Lieutenant-General groans. "Ow, it has been long since anyone mocked me in that fashion." Slowly he rose up to full stand, then turns to Eric. "You are right, you are not worthy of the Mayor-General's position, outright deriding a senior officer like that. You would make an excellent instructor for these whelps, though, should you find the battle distasteful."
"He has much to answer for before that cold day in Hell comes," the voice of the Mayor's messenger declares coldly. "Eric Atrebas, you are to report to the Mayor's building immediately, to stand trial."
"What the hell is this about?" Eric asks nobody in particular. Shrugs and absent grunts were the answer of the day.
-x-x-x-
It was a bright, cheery morning, about halfway between waking hour and lunch hour. The kind of morning where everything was beautiful, except for the hint of hot sun that was berating the towns in the area, and promised to get steadily worse. The kind of day that should someone's fate be writ somewhere, be it stars or portents, a scholar would be hard pressed to notice due to the wonder of nature showing all her colors. Even the birds and forest rodents knew it was a good day, and acted accordingly.
It was a good thing, as well. Eric Atrebas did not want to suffer his execution on a dreary day. Something about dying in the rain enervated the Durgan Swordsman, forcing him to train harder, even harder in the rain. It was that training that made him so good at wielding the weapons of the Durgan. Due to his skill, he was under orders for execution. He, like his father, would be executed and never spoken of again for a crime that never was.
Anyone that was anyone knew that Eric was destined more or less to marry Gwenn Centara. Not that she was the most attractive of those in Eric's age bracket, nor the largest (Durgan Swordsmen liked their wives on the 'country' side, not the 'town skank' side like those who occasionally visited the city), but Gwenn had a charm that Eric would not resist, and she definitely knew how to use her smaller frame in bed for more than what a reasonable man would think it worth.
To marry Gwenn Centara was definitely not 'allowable' under the present command structure, of course, since that would put him (or more appropriately his family name) back inside the reigning circles of power in Durgan, and those in power definitely did not want that. Only by dint of political maneuvering and backstabbing had the Atrebas been removed from power three decades ago; the Caecilius were very reluctant to give that power up, for obvious reasons. The only real aberration to that was Gerard Caecilius, Eric's best friend and the next heir apparent to the Mayor-General slot, wanted nothing more than to play around with mechanical contrivances, and he was the designated next mayor-elect for the city.
The last notable Atrebas had been 'executed' by his best friends when Eric was still in the womb of his mother. He had grown up knowing only the exploits, never the man behind the name Atrebas that was his father. His first name was unspoken in town, due to the blame of a grisly rape-murder that his mother always claimed was staged, never happened. His son would die for a similar reason, political ambition hiding behind a rape charge that should not be.
"Damn my father's political ambitions," Gerard Caecilius swears for not the first and likely not the last time on this trip.
"He's a common rapist. Your father's will has nothing to do with this," the speaker was one of the more prolific Centara, who as was said 'bred like rabbits so that one of them would breed his way into the mayor's house.' It was a not unfair aspersion, however, especially given that most of them were lackluster swordsmen when in the line, only real good when facing someone one-on-one or at backstabbing them.
"Fuck that, Wayn. Eric would no sooner sleep with Giselde than he would castrate himself with a rusty table knife."
"Castrating himself with the rusty knife might be safer, when you get down to it," Gerard says, which drew a chuckle from the prior speaker, Stan Agrippa. Stan was elite, likely the most flexible of the upcoming recruits, even more flexible than Eric, but flexibility and raw skill were two things counted separately in the Legion. Eric had just about anyone in town beat on raw skill, but not battle savvy. He also had some blade tricks that had blown minds when observed in practice.
"Insult not my milk-sister, Gerard. Just because you are Caecilius does not mean I would suffer your treacherous tongue in deference to your life."
"Enough of this. We shall do it here," Gerard says as he stops and looks around. This was as good a place to do it as any, he figured.
"Very well, untie him as is required," Stan says.
"To all Nine Hells with that, Agrippa. We kill him tied up as was required of Edgar," the Centara orders.
"Fuck my father's orders. He committed no crime, he will get his shot at final glory. Not that it will matter much..." Gerard's implication was clear: Eric would not walk away alive. "Untie him. Now."
"Stan, do not do this," the Centara orders as Stan pulls his knife and cuts the knot from the ropes. "Damnit, Stan, he can be the most dangerous of all cadets!"
"This I know," Stan says calmly as he moves back to the line where he was supposed to be. Gerard and Stan occupied the first and third of the rank, the others the second and fourth. "Ready, Gerard?"
"One last time, Stan," Gerard says as he draws his sword at the same time Stan does, though the latter had a reverse grip instead of a proper grip.
"What the..." Eric mutters as he watches the matter unfold. He was expecting them to have to dispatch their duty, and thus dispatch him, but the unfolding action was different from expected.
Gerard, the first of the rank, and Stan, the third, were both right-handed sword swingers, though Stan could use a sword in his off-hand just as easily as in his right. Thus, Gerard had to pivot around to drive his blade into the chest of the Centara, whereas Stan used the reversed blade to simply impale the abdomen of the said political hack. He hit the ground before he even drew his blade.
"Oh foul!" the other warrior, a Minos, drew his blade and charged the prisoner. He knew his life was forfeit, for the Agrippa and Caecilius had not blundered in their strikes. They moved with purpose, but the least he could do was ensure the Atrebas scum was erased from Existence.
What happened next stunned them all into both silence and motionless staring. The sword of the Durgan, the Gladius, was not favored for cutting but could be so used if necessary. Mostly the Gladius was a thrusting weapon, and had a profile to match its deadly purpose. In this case, it was used for cutting against the neck of Eric Atrebas, with a steep angle that would drive down into his neck and shoulder, rendering him dead quickly. Though not the best, the Minos knew his art well enough to be in the Bladesmen. His stroke did not miss his intended target.
All the same, it never contacted his intended target. Eric Atrebas used his hands in such a way that he caught the blade between both with over a foot to spare before it contacted him. A known and feared trait of the Atrebas, the almost paranormal ability to read and intercept strikes aimed at them, Eric used it to routinely win battles and bouts without ever drawing his own sword. And thus the order to execute Eric Atrebas.
Stan finished the battle with a thrust of his sword into the side armor of the Minos. That done, Eric let go of the sword and let it fall to the ground.
"The speed of your hands...rivals that of the servants of Gods," Stan says.
"Indeed," Eric says as he holds up a belt pouch of Stan's personage with a few coins in it.
"What?" Stan checks his waist and finds that pouch not in place. "Arg! And just when I pay you a compliment, you filch my week's earnings faster than you snared that blade!"
"Where I go, I can acquire my own gold," Eric says as he returns it. "Now, for the burial of these two," Eric says as he looks to the fallen real executioners. There was never a question in Eric's mind that Gerard and Stan would let him walk, it was the political hacks that would have been the problem, had Stan and Gerard not done the Centara.
"No. Stan and I shall see to that, we will need plausible timing for it. You will go."
"Then here," Eric says as he hefts the sword of the Minos. "I think he shall have the 'glory' of 'killing me' in the end. The Minos are underestimated and devalued, they deserve a bit of the glory."
"What do you intend with that?" Gerard asks. Within moments, he would regret asking:
"Here," and Eric pulled the sleeve of his tunic up on the left side. "Give me some of the mead you brought, Gerard,"
"Yeah, sure," Gerard says in a bit of a daze. Eric dipped the more-alcohol-than-drink out by hand and slathered one edge of the sword with it. "Wait, what are you—"
"Observe," Eric notes as he drags the sharp edge down his left forearm in a spiral that wound around it from the outside edge inward. As he did it, Stan could tell that Eric was clenching his jaw in severe pain, especially from contact with the drink, but neither said anything until he was done. With the cut in place, he rubbed the flats of the blade down the spiral to give it a blooding, then smeared it around in what appeared to be the pattern of a thrust into someone. "That sack you carry, I need it to bind this slash."
"Here, it's yours anyways," Stan says as he dumps the stuff out on the ground and hands it to Eric.
Eric filched Stan's belt knife and used it to shred open the sack, after which he more or less poured the mead on his arm and then wrapped the sack around it as a tourniquet. With the knife returned, he emptied the last of the mead, a few drops, onto the flat of the blade he had coated in his own blood. "This is what happened: as you gave me my final Glory, I was able to kill off the Centara with his own blade, then knocked you two down temporarily, but I was not able to stop the fourth. As we struggled, I took a mortal wound, then reversed the blade on Minos here and brought him down. As the Minos laid here dying, you gave him the mead for comfort, and some of it was sprinkled on the sword blade, which is why it faintly smells of mead. You then placed all three in one grave and torched the bodies, then buried them over."
"And what shall you do?" Stan asks.
"I will walk," Eric says as he claims his sword from the stack of stuff that had been loosed from the sack. "By tomorrow, I will be somewhere else, and only the eyes of my comrades and my love shall be my memories of Durgan. I will never forget what I have learned, or who I called comrade." He had also picked up and pocketed the remainder of the gear and rations they had brought, as necessary to his journey. The one thing he was lacking was a bow, which was something he was generally proficient at but had not on hand.
"And though we may never speak your name publicly, we shall never forget the true you, Eric Atrebas. May the Gods shine on your quest for a new life." Gerard and Eric traded the traditional shoulder-clap of true friends.
"Stan, I have one request of you, if you are still unattached, that is."
The phrasing made it grossly evident his intention: "Gwenn."
"Indeed. If she bears a child not of your sire, claim and raise him or her as your own. I am the second generation betrayed by the powers of our Legion, do not allow this mistake to repeat again."
"It shall be done, Eric."
"Listen, Eric, I will make it a point to visit the town of Gelde once every year on this same day. I will remain for three days, then return home. If you ever wish to catch up on old times, do seek me out," Gerard requests. Gelde was the opposite direction from which Eric intended on heading initially, but not impossible for Eric to get to when one considered that the maximum hunting radius of Durgan was little more than twenty miles around it, and the farming radius far smaller than that. Durgan mostly subsisted by providing mercenaries, truly professional and disciplined soldiers, to neighboring city-states for a fee. That fee was often used for purchasing foodstuffs and equipment not manufactured locally.
"Do not, Gerard. I intend on never stopping my journey through life, until the day that I die climbing some strange mountain somewhere with a name we cannot speak. If ever I shall return to speak of times long past, I will do so by walking through the front gate of Durgan and tracking you down the hard way. At that time, I expect I shall have mastered the arts of war from all over, and I shall demonstrate if you wish."
"I would love to see how the rest of Existence fights," Gerald and Stan both say at the same time, in the same fashion.
"Then you can rest assured I shall return someday," Eric says. With a formal bow, Eric was turned and on his way down the road that few Durgan warriors had ever crossed, and even less of those who had returned to tell tales of what was found down that road.
-x-x-x-
As the night dragged afresh, Eric had used a digging tool to dig himself a depression under the ground level, which was a good first step to protecting one from the elements and ready detection from enemies, be they man or beast. A weave of branches combined with a covering of fall leaves smoothed out over an area blended the hide into the surrounding area, thereby preventing easy spotting or access to it.
His day had been not wasted, really. It had taken Eric no more than four hours march to get to a town, a small one nonetheless. Despite not being in armor or ceremonial dress, Eric had immediately been pegged as a Durgan Bladesman and was honored for it; he was charged nothing for food and shelter for the night, though he did purchase a bow and received some victuals for the day. He opted not to partake of the warm houses and even the offered pleasurable company, seeking to make haste lest a passing company of Durgan Bladesmen be alerted to his presence by the townspeople. With profuse thanks to the townspeople, he had continued onward toward the larger city-state of Gelles, and from there likely into lands that those of his people would call barbarian, though Eric figured they no more barbarian than he.
Eric marched as he had for thousands of positions of the sun and moon before, marched for hours down the dust road leading to Gelles in the distance. He marched until the path became hard to discern in the moonlight, at which point he stopped to dig his hide-shelter. The marching was less than entertaining to Eric, whose mind was more active now than it had ever been, with the exception of those few times he was alone with Gwenn. Those few times he had been alone with her and in good company, memories of those nights and the company she gave him, were one of the few things that gave him heart like few other things. The knowledge that he would never return to her company, likely, hurt him at several levels. The pain gave him motivation to move away, lest he succumb to the foolish desire to return and thus condemn himself and two honorable comrades to assured execution.
His mind stirred like nothing else as he bellied in the hide, resting his head on a leather sack he had bartered for in town. He felt more than knew he was heading for great and terrible things in the future to come, the future he would forge hereafter as a wanderer instead of in the line at Durgan. Eric could sense that there was more to life, more to Existence than he could reach by his feet alone, yet such puzzled him: if not by foot, sail, or caravan, then how was he to reach it? He considered that even if Man could fly high, there had to be a limit to the sky; it was often said that the air one breathes becomes thinner the higher one goes up a mountain, thus the air would run out to keep a man breathing while flying, would it not?
The other thing he knew intrinsically was that the world around him was his new home, and alternately not his home. It was his challenge ground. It would be where he truly learned of life and the living, not just the arts of war as he had promised. He intended on mastering war, indeed, but not to the exclusion of all else in life, for there was much more to the world than just fighting the occupants of the world. That more than else gave Eric the courage to walk away, knowing that he would learn while the remainder of Durgan stagnated. And Eric swore to himself that he would see as much of it he could muster himself to explore.
In due time his body overrode his mind and he was asleep. His dreams that night were sharp and clear, both dreams of the last night he spent in the company of Gwenn and dreams of some indeterminable event whereby the main color of the evens he was witness to was blue, a blue both more luminescent and darker than the skies at morning's rise. Of the latter he felt the most restless, as if his body instinctively knew it was somehow connected to a battle; of the former, he was restless but of a fashion that was pleasurable like few others.
The night continued onward; Eric's dreams gravitated from ones that he could understand in the morning to ones that he could not. When he did finally awaken, the displaced warrior of Durgan remembered most of his dreaming for once in his life, and for most he was surprised that he continued sleeping straight through. Most of his dreams were quite bloody in content, though some were not. In terms of portent, Eric wondered if that meant he was destined for battlefields even he did not understand at the time?
With the waking came the realization that he had slept clear through dawn, which was very unusual for him given that he was almost always awake before his training unit's role call time. Despite the late start, finding motivation to get on with the day was not difficult for the former Bladesman, as the road was now clearly visible and the day seemed to welcome the travels by continuing to be only partially clouded. After a breakfast of rations and some wild berries he had found the day prior, he was moving once again toward Gelles.
Five hours Eric marched, stopping twice for breaks at a river that was running relatively alongside the road he followed. That was one lucky break he figured, having a ready supply of drinkable water nearby the path he traversed. After a few minutes of rest, he was back on the path and continued the veritable march toward the future, never sure what path he would cross next, yet never really unsure as to whether or not he would cross it. He passed a bit of traffic headed in the opposite direction, those few traveling merchants and related personnel taking little notice of him or action toward him, and more to the better in Eric's opinion, since stealth was now an ally more than anything else: being unknown would win him more than being known and honored.
Well past midday and approaching evening meal, Eric came to a lone house that was mere feet off the road, and approached. The construction was typical, a circular house with straw thatch roof and caulked stonework for walls. "Is anyone present?" Eric called out from slightly beside the door, since common wisdom held that you never stand completely in front of an unknown structure's door. After a minute, there was no answer, so Eric brushed aside the rug and entered, his right hand on the handle of his gladius in case. The structure turned out to be empty, abandoned and likely looted, given the state of disrepute of the structure inside. With no answer and no cause to remain, Eric simply left the structure and continued onward toward Gelles.
Another hour Eric marched down the path, until he came to a similar but larger house of the same type that he had just verified. This one appeared to be two houses of stonework that had been merged into one, and had an auxiliary building to the side and behind it. Before he could even request a check to see if anyone was inside, the matter became infinitely clear as a guy came veritably flying out of the door and landed on the dusty path from the main road to his house, a fatal sword wound to the stomach. He wretched for a few moments, convulsed severely, and stopped moving; Eric had seen others die in such a slower-than-nominal fashion, though Durgan soldiers were trained to kill cleanly and efficiently, preventing such inhumanity.
His lady came out of the house moments thereafter, dropped to her knees, and cradled the dead body to her breast, sobbing. Moments thereafter, two barbarians came out of the house with drawn and bloodied blades; on seeing the state of both their weapons, Eric took a closer look at the lady and noticed that she had tasted their steel, seeing as she had a long but shallow cut down the left side of her body. The enemy that had done the slicing on the lady had a rag that he used to clean his weapon, which gave Eric some ideas as to how to go about eliminating both.
"And who are you, knave?" One of them asks.
Eric's only response was to pull his sword and immediately take guard. As the enemy took guard themselves, Eric began circling left, preparing to isolate the one that had killed the man and take him down first, since Eric knew his options for defense against a blood-slicked blade were rather minimal.
The enemy obliged his plan, apparently not realizing it. Eric was physically a middle-of-the-road Durgan Bladesman, not the strongest in his unit but easily the most dexterous. Given either case he had the barbarians he was facing beat in both speed and strength, without knowing it. As the first of the enemies swung at him to the sound of the lady's sobbing, Eric deflected the sword strike aside with his own sword and pressed his attack, aiming his sword for the center of the open tunic on the enemy. Contact; the gladius drove in under the enemy sternum and literally passed out through his back between two ribs. In so doing, Eric rotated around the falling enemy while roughly hauling out his bloodied blade; the swing of his own blade in such an endeavor had peppered both the lady and the remaining enemy with the blood of the fallen.
The enemy knew he was outmatched, seeing his comrade fall in such a grossly easy strike from this unknown foe with the short sword, but his sense of honor dictated that he try or die, no fleeing allowed. He tried a thrust of the longer sword, which Eric easily drove aside and shouldered the man away from him. As both reset from their actions, this time the enemy made one major mistake, which was what Eric was hoping to see the enemy do at least once. The barbarian's broadsword came up and down, headed for Eric's left shoulder and attached hand that was holding no blade. Eric made no effort to dodge; as the blade passed a predetermined point his hand shot up to meet it, and with three fingers he captured the blade about halfway down the edge and arrested its motion.
The shock of having a sword blade in his own hand caught by an unknown warrior was more than ample to stun the Barbarian breathless, speechless, and motionless. It was not as bad with the three comrades from Durgan, since they had seen this skill of Eric's in operation more than once; he had won sparring matches solely on dint of disarming his foes in the weeks prior to his 'execution'. In this case, it was Eric who retained possession of the sword as his gladius came around and down, the razor-sharp blade cleaving through the tunic and into the enemy's shoulder, stopped only after the former Durgan Bladesman had chopped a full foot downward into his body. The last sound he made as he was conscious was only the sound of his dying body hitting the ground. Moments later, the shock of the wound knocked him unconscious, never to awaken again.
"You, lady, how bad is that wound?" Eric asks as he cleans off his sword.
"What? What about my husband?" She asks.
"There is little I can do for him, short of a proper burial. I can do something for your wound, unless you want to live crippled for the rest of your life, or worse, die of disease from that cut?" His sword properly cleaned, Eric sighed and sheathed it.
"What? Why? Why can't you help him?" She asks, clearly approaching hysterical.
"He is already dead. For that I can do nothing. Decide, now, if you want me to see to that cut on your side or not," Eric orders rather tersely.
"No! I want you to help him!" She shouts, sobbing.
"Then I truly can do nothing for you," Eric notes as he walks up to the second of the barbarians he had slain. With a little work he had removed the sword belt and put it on above his Gladius belt. With a few more checks, he came up with some gold and some other traveller's equipment, material which he already had from building his own kit over the past days. "If you survive the coming days, I suggest you sell off the remaining gear of these two men, and move somewhere where there are others in the area to help protect you." Eric had picked up the sword of the barbarian and sheathed it, it was an acceptable broadsword but not really a stellar one; the one they trained against in Durgan was actually far better crafted and maintained. Still, it was better to have more than one form of offense available, and with the addition of a sword as well as a bow, Eric would be able to provide a more mixed challenge to any threat given that his combat style accounted for just about any weapon out there.
Eric had begun walking toward the road to continue his march. "You're...leaving me?" She asks in almost a gasp.
"You do not want my help and I have a journey to continue." More like aimless wandering, Eric rebukes himself silently after a moment. "I see no reason to stay here."
"You...really...can't help him?" The bent of her comment and look indicated her late husband.
"No."
"Then...can you help me bury him?" she asks after a moment.
"You cannot bury him with that cut in your side, you will only cause more injury to yourself. That wound needs to be tended to, and I will bury him."
-x-x-x-
It had been three days before Eric had left the lady's house; it was that long before she could move properly again courtesy of that cut she had received. The three days of respite from traveling and the taste of proper house life was a stark contrast from his tenure in the Legion, and he had to admit that it was not as unpleasant as it would seem when looking upon it from the position of a line Bladesmen. Still and all, Eric was not ready to give up on the memory of Gwenn, despite the lady's entreats to remain with her. On the third day, a Merchant's convoy had stopped at the house, and between her and the other ladies of the convoy Eric was able to secure her a position helping their fledgling business trade route in such a fashion that she was not to be a prostitute. She was also able to sell off the gear from the barbarians, as well as a few of the valuables of her household, the rest she took along with her as collateral to help in her new life. It went without saying that she was ill-suited to living on her own, she had little personal training in that fashion and likely would be rolled the first time someone tried her.
Eric had decided to move with the convoy as a temporary guard for their movement, since barbarians were apparently thick in this area and Eric had put paid to two of them with little to no challenge. His skills went spoken of but untested for two days, and on the third day they had arrived at a small city, Hartford.
"You're not continuing with us to Gelles?" The Caravan Master asks.
"I may be going that way, though not right now," Eric replies. "For now, I will see what is in the area of this town."
"Then be wary, traveler, for there are many thieves and ruffians in a town like this."
"I am versed in such ways. I shall be careful," Eric replies with a stiff nod. "Good fortune, comrade," Eric says as he turned to leave.
Eric picked a direction to walk and began at it, desiring nothing more than to see first what the city had to offer before he made fair to sell off some of the gear he salvaged from the two barbarians. The lady to which he had aided was willing to part with the gear and coin from the barbarians, since her household had enough to get her by for now, though she did admit that she would have to watch her actions and her purse strings for the time being, until she found more stable work.
They had called this a small city, but in essence it was larger than Durgan and its two nearest notable neighbors. More to the point, the whole city was a sharp contrast from the military bastion that Eric had grown up in and sworn to defend to the death. People moved freely, aimlessly, not as they did in Durgan on the shortest route to a definite objective. The town center was mostly merchant's stalls crowded with vendors and consumers; such persons were a rare sight in Durgan, given that the only true merchants were those that came by on caravan. As Eric milled his way through the crowd, which he noticed now included the merchants he had traveled with, he found that people kept a respectable distance from him, due to the swords he carried and the bow that was hung over and secured to his backpack almost as an afterthought.
Eric found himself accosted by merchant after merchant, requesting he buy their wares. Naturally Eric ignored most, as his purpose for now was to observe, not purchase. Observe, he did no shortage of; there were ladies in between the stalls of the merchants that would do naught but catch the eye. Still, of their wiles he did not partake, since he was already experienced in such matters and he did not have the addiction to the touch of a lady that others had; his thoughts of his last love in Durgan were more than enough for that purpose. Of the remainder he observed and purchased a quantity of keepable rations to take along with him on the next legs of his travel, and a quantity of arrows to match the bow he carried.
All in all, Eric estimated the amount of civilians in this town at or around twelve thousand, maybe slightly more. Far larger than the lands of the Durgan Legion.
A hand had entered Eric's pocket, though the pickpocket was not a really veteran thief and Eric immediately recognized the action. As the hand exited his pocket Eric stepped back and rotated in on the thief, seizing his hand in a trained grip that caused the pickpocket—hardly half Eric's age and female to boot—to yelp in pain as he forced her around and down, facing away from him while her hand was holding his gold pouch. This he reclaimed with his free left, then applied his boot to her rear in a pushing motion that sent her across the lane and into a pile of ornate rugs. In moments she was on her feet, clearly incensed that she had been treated so; "You...knave!" she half-shouts.
"Did you fail to notice the swords, child? Or did you think they were of no concern?" Eric says as he lightly tosses his gold pouch up and down.
"People don't kick other people around here!" she shouts, clearly not drawing attention to how she had earned such a strike.
"They do from where I hail, especially to those caught in your trade. Consider yourself lucky: that is the lesser of such reactions," Eric replies coldly, then decides to relent, given that he did not need the money with proper rations now. The gold bag (which was rather light to begin with) sails across the way to her and lands at the child's feet. "Keep it. Were it not for my reactions, you would have gotten away clean. Begone with you," Eric waves in a dismissive fashion, which she accepts readily. The bag was off the ground and the little kid had dashed into the crowd shortly thereafter.
Eric continued his walking, seeing plenty, speaking to a few otherwise inquisitive civilians and a band of the local watch, though not one of them questioned his origin. Eric figured that fairly obvious; he was close enough to Durgan that they likely recognized his sword for what it was: the primary and feared killing tool of the Durgan.
In due time he noticed another thing markedly absent in the walls of Durgan: prostitutes, otherwise known as streetwalkers or ladies of the night, though at this time it was still mid-day. It was rather creepy to Eric to himself be propositioned, or to be offered a 'fun time tonight,' though he always declined, seeking no such entertainment this early in his travels. As he considered it, he figured he would likely not need such entertainment at all, given that enough of a challenge from day to day (and enough solitude) would forestall such a requirement. In the end, he made more than a few prostitutes rather unhappy that day before the proverbial blade was drawn.
"You no want, soldier-boy?" the lady says as she runs her right index finger down the inside of her left breast, a move calculated to fire Eric up. Of course, he was buying it less than the last dozen to ask.
"No, but thank you for the offer," Eric says cordially and then continues walking.
He made it four steps before he was accosted. "Hey! You be the man with the swords that booted my daughter for stealing, aren't you?"
"Your daughter? This tall, brown hair, blue eyes?" Eric asks, demonstrating how tall with a hand held off the ground.
"Yes, that be her," the otherwise nondescript guy says. "I believe this is yours; no telling how much she spent of it, feels kind of light," before Eric could protest, the money bag was thrust into his hand.
"Actually, it appears to have gained weight. Perchance she moved to another area to continue her day's work?" Eric wonders aloud.
"Blast her! I have told her time and again not to be doing so—huh?" he asks as Eric returns the bag to his hand. "What is this? It is yours!"
"I gave it to her at the conclusion of the incident," Eric notes. "Please return it to her, and with the advice that it be wise for her to pick only from those who are otherwise distracted, not from a guy walking down the street."
"What is this?" he asks again.
"You cannot tell?" Eric asks with a tone of amusement. "I hold nothing against thieves, even those whom I catch. Such is excellent training for alternate skills, such as espionage and covert strikes."
"What the nine hells are you? A soldier of Durgan or something?"
"I am," Eric replies deadpan, going on the old creed that once you are Durgan, even in death you are Durgan. "See not the wrong, especially if she plies her trade against those who are corrupted with power. If she steals not from the honest, the hard workers, then she is doing the world a service. So long as her own power does not corrupt her, she has earned it."
"You are bloody insane," the man replies. "I would never encourage her to steal from anyone!"
"If you cannot curb the tendency, then channel it to a needed purpose. There are some in life who cannot go without attempting to steal; one of my best friends was one such person. If you cannot stop it, use it for the right reason. Good day, sir," Eric says as he continues walking. Eric did not mention that he had the fastest hands in the Durgan Legion two years running, and this not simply in the art of catching a moving blade.
"Bloody insane," the guy mutters as he keeps walking. It was not that he did not see a level of logic in what Eric said, it was that he believed that his daughter need be doing no such thing.
Again, Eric made it only four steps before he was accosted again. This time not for a civil reason.
"Hey, brigand! You too good for my ladies?" Someone asks loudly. Eric figured it aimed at someone else, and ignored. "Hey! Look at someone when they are talking to you!"
Eric found himself roughly spun around to face the person that had shouted at him. "Look, brigand, what is your problem?" The ruffian that had done so asks. He was in the company of three other 'hired muscle' types and one guy that struck Eric as very poorly dressed for combat, but very well dressed to draw attention to himself. All had swords, and one had a stick.
"I have less problems than you, apparently," Eric replies calmly. "Now, what is the issue?"
"I asked if you think you are too good for my ladies," their pimp asks in a dangerous tone.
"I have no desire to sleep with anyone right now. If you will excuse me," Eric says as he removes the hand from his upper left arm and slings it aside. In a moment he was walking again, more or less toward the north gates of the city.
"Your ladies are too good for him, boss, they scared that weakling off," someone behind him replies to Eric's veiled dismissal of their whole group.
A sword was drawn, a sound that Eric could recognize for no other, having heard it thousands of times a day for the duration of his known life. "Brigand scum! I did not excuse you! Turn and face me!"
"As you seek, so shall I provide," Eric replies. With his right hand he drew the first of his newer broadswords, which he immediately transferred to his left hand. A moment later the second sword was pulled and he was readied.
"What the hell is this?" One of the ruffians in his employ asks as he pulls a broadsword similar to the ones that Eric carried.
"I've seen that stance before...he's a damned Durgan Bladesman!" one of their ranks shouts.
"Oh yes," Eric replies. "I am Durgan, and forever shall be, scumdog." Eric says.
"You...Durgan? Ha!" the foppish dandy, their leader, says as he tries lunging between Eric's swords to impale him. Eric proved his claim right as he shifted right, used his left sword to drive the thrust outside, followed by a gut kick that doubled the enemy over. That accomplished, his sword flashed upwards in the after-midday light and severed his head cleanly.
"Did...any of you's see that right?" A third of the four ruffians asks.
"No, didn't," the largest of their ranks notes.
"I ain't playing with this shit," one of them says.
"Then start walking," Eric orders as he rips one of the frills off the downed foe's tunic and uses it to clean his sword.
"Right," another of them says. Not one stood around after Eric had thoroughly and rapidly eliminated their boss, who was also their best with a sword.
It was not long before the City Guard came along and questioned Eric over the matter, given that a hysterical lady had run off after watching the draw of blades, though she had claimed that The Pimp was going to murder a bystander. When they found The Pimp headless and a guy never before seen in town lording over the dead body, using one of his flamboyant ruffles to clean his sword, they were rightly confused. Until one of them saw the sword of the Durgan Legion on his right hip, across from two broadswords on his left hip.
"What started this matter?" the Guard Lieutenant asks.
"I did not sleep with one of his ladies when she asked, so he got heated and decided to draw blade. He thrust in, I drove it outside, kicked him in the waist, and removed his head with an upswing," Eric replies.
"And his guards?" the same officer asks.
"If you find his ruffians, they would say something similar, though one of them said they did not see the happening clearly."
"You scared them off, sounds like," one of the guards says.
"They seemed ill interested in perpetuating the fight," Eric notes with a hint of amusement.
"You scared them off, Durgan," the Lieutenant says. "Any of his personal effects you wish to maintain?"
"If he has gold, please, I think such riches are more due to his stable of ladies than his dead carcass." His prolific gold pouch was tossed to Eric. "Where to his headquarters?"
"That building," and one of the guards points. Eric started walking, determined of purpose and not about to stray from it, including sleeping with the staff of that building, despite their entreats.
-x-x-x-
Another week, another city, and still not his destination. This one differed in that it was a major merchant hub of apparently several different areas of the world. Eric found himself rather bewildered by the differing styles of weapons from his own arsenal, though he had little issue imagining what the purpose of those arms really were and how to go about using them. In this, Eric never realized that his wish to not fight as much as possible, though humane, was going against his best talents and preconditioning.
The first thing he sought out, of course, was a decent inn to get a meal. No trouble, that. Finding one that served a decent meal was another story; Eric trusted few person's cooking, regardless of gender. Thus, he settled on a local stew that did not seem like rat poison and contented himself to the rather steep price asked. The brigands that had assailed him two days prior would rest better that their money was paying for a meal and not a prostitute, Eric was sure.
After the meal, Eric went out in search of someone who would be willing to purchase the gear he just picked up. One of the brigands had a larger pack than Eric was normally used to carrying, which he surmised was typically used to carry the bounty of their raids, and which had some small valuables that he sold off as spoils of the battle, as well as their weapons which always fetched an excellent price.
After Eric sold the last of the greek-style shields that he was not keeping to a vendor of shields, he began his seeking of new and interesting weapons to add to his collection of 1 bow, 2 broadswords, four knives, and Durgan Gladius. More than a few vendors had asked if he was willing to part with it, though his answer was always the same: not happening. In the end, he ended up purchasing nothing, given that the weapons were nice but nothing really more necessary than what he already held.
Another night at an inn, and Eric was up with the sunrise to head off into another day for another town. A day he marched past lonely farmhouses, choosing a bank of trees to settle in for the night in the same fashion he always did when out of a town: in a hide, sword ready and available to eliminate anything, man or woman or beast, that assailed him at night. The next morning saw a breakfast of hard tack and dried beef, supplemented with a few redfruits from a tree not twenty yards from his hide. Shortly thereafter he was back on the road and continuing northeast toward his eventual destination.
Eric marched until the sun was significantly upwards, almost merciless in the temperatures it was bringing down upon him. In this he passed a farming village, of which nobody went out of their way to disturb or even question him, though the town's children followed him from one edge to the next asking him questions, and afterwards he kept going unhindered. He continued on after a quick meal in the shade of an old tree, and began looking for a place to set up a hide before the sun went down.
Before he could find a suitable grove of trees and such, he found himself confronted with something that he never even thought was possible.
"I told you I didn't do anything!" a younger lady shouts.
"Shut up, witch, we're not listening." the sound was on the side to the right of the lake that Eric had stopped at for a drink and was considering making a hide in the area of this body of water. "Here!"
"Aieee!" The sound of the splash carried long, and directed Eric to the offending party. Six were watching as a lady splashed around in the lake, presumably tossed in by one of their ranks. Their range was fifty yards, hardly a tough shot for someone with Eric's training in bow.
Twang, the first shot was loosed, and thunk, chest shot that Eric could see had struck perfectly to penetrate his heart. The first indicator that something was wrong to his allies was his dying body hitting the ground.
"Oh shit!" Someone at the far side shouts as they begin moving left to right, trying to circle around an outcropping of the lake and get to him.
"Now that makes me feel all warm and happy," Eric mutters as he sights up their leading runner and gives him a movement lead appropriate to the bow. The shot struck the enemy in the arm and penetrated, simply pinning his right arm to his chest while puncturing a lung. He went down after another three paces while Eric nocked a third arrow.
"This knave is good!" Someone shouts before Eric looses round three. This arrow missed hitting one of the enemies in the leg by expedient of him stopping quickly on recognizing the shot, though Eric did not give them time, he had a fourth shot loosed and going very quickly. This one struck an arm and penetrated through the muscle, rendering it and the sword in that hand unusable.
"How do you like being at the mercy of another?" Eric asks in sharp anger as his fifth shot is loosed. This one struck one of the enemy in the cheek and sailed clear through his head, causing him to fall onto one of the other that was just now rounding the bend and readying to charge Eric down. The bow went aside, the shield came up, and Eric drew his Gladius to bring the fight to their face.
"DIE!" One of the brigands shouts as he charges Eric down, shield set and sword held high. At the last moment Eric counter-charged with his shield, the collision was enough to stun the enemy in his tracks and render him unable to swing temporarily. Eric drove in again with his shield, this collision forcing the enemy off balance and stunning him even farther.
The enemy with the arrow in forearm tried Eric's right with a knife, and found his left-hand skill inadequate to the task. A quick flick of Eric's Gladius kept the enemy dagger out of danger, and a thrust against the enemy right resulted in a puncture between two ribs. The enemy fell to both knees immediately while clutching the wound and breathing roughly. This done, Eric drove in again on the foe with the shield, though this time Eric intended on getting his sword around the left edge of the shield and stabbing inward several times.
Eric had to break his attack off before he could execute, as the third of the enemy had tried flanking him on the left with the same intent as he. It did not work, though, as Eric's shield was easily capable to blocking the broadsword that came in on a vicious spree of four swings. A boot to the shield in front of him kept that enemy still off balance, and he was able to expertly parry the slash of the sword aimed at him from the left, with the inertia of the enemy attack forcing the enemy to a point where they were stacked one in front of the other in front of Eric. This ineptitude gave Eric the advantage, as only one could attack him temporarily, and he intended on capitalizing on it. Shield up, Eric drove in against the barbarian with the broadsword, and drove through his counter-swing with little hesitation. This caused a collision between the three, which neatly sandwiched the one without the shield between two shields.
Before anyone could react and change the status of the battle, Eric had rammed the blade of the gladius halfway through the enemy chest, causing him to fall backwards as the two shields clashed again, though this time the enemy was ready for Eric. The former Durgan warrior saw the flash of the blade and knew he would take a hit; his shield was not as tall as normal and he could not maneuver it fast enough. The enemy blade came in and slashed his left bicep an inch below his shoulder, having passed just above the rim of his shield. The cut was extremely painful, enough so that his shield was harder to properly control.
"Aha! The knave bleeds red!" the enemy shouts as he paces backwards, having noticed the blood on the blade of his sword.
"All men bleed red. Those who face the warriors of Durgan will find this out the hard way."
"Durgan? You? Faugh!" his stance and shield became far more conservative, and Eric knew that this warrior had seen or heard the warriors of Durgan in action. Few could muster the skill necessary to call themselves the better of a Durgan Bladesman, and most knew it.
Eric used the mental lapse of the enemy to move. Before the enemy could recover his composure and continue the battle, Eric had rotated around his left and gone in, hard, with the gladius set to impale. Eric contacted with his blade as the enemy brought his sword around in a rendition of what Eric had tried, though the sword only grazed the ex-Durgan in the side, not a serious wound but long and shallow. The last of their ranks collapsed to the ground, the only one of five to injure the Durgan, and paid for his success with his life in a matter of moments. On the other hand, Eric was bleeding from more than one cut, and one of those quite rapidly bleeding.
The thrashing in the water and a cry for help from the lady was more than ample to break Eric of any reverie pertaining to his victory. Without much in the way of thinking about it, he began running for the far shore where she had been thrown in, dropping aside his shield and gearpack to loose weight and unceremoniously threw his gladius into the ground so as to not have to sheath it bloodied. As he approached, a walking stick carried by the one he had shot in the head was claimed, since the lady appeared to be drifting away from the immediate area of the shore.
"Help! Please!" She entreats between gasps of air and spasmodic fits of struggling against the water. Durgan soldiers were stranger to water in general, the most water action any got was a run through the falls north of Durgan, and that rare. Still, Eric waded in to the shallows off the edge of the lake all the way to his hips and extended the stick to her, which had more than enough reach that she could get both hands on it. By securing the end of the stick in his belt and hauling it upwards with only his right arm, Eric was able to literally haul the lady clear of the waves to the point that she was hanging from the stick with only her feet dragging in the water. With a simple twist of his upper body, she was deposited, sputtering and choking and completely drenched, on the shore.
"Are you all right, lady?" Eric asks, and all he got in response was another coughing fit. "I take that as a 'yes'."
The stick dropped aside and back to shore, Eric made for his dropped equipment. Before he could even take five paces, he fell dizzy and collapsed, the loss of blood and exertion of battle too much even for the Durgan expatriate.
Author's Chapter Afterword:
For those of you who are used to the exploits of the Jokers Wild, this story is likely a dose of shell-shock to you. Even I will readily admit that the trajectory is about as clear as mud when you get down to it, but rest assured that this 'monster' is going somewhere logical. I think I should start off by clarifying one thing here: this is the precursor to the Jokers Wild, and a lengthy one at that. Wholly six sets of this story will run before the first set of the Jokers Wild series, if you consider the chronological order of the story timeline. The seventh set wraps up the combined stories way distant in the future.
For those of you new to the MMC and JW series, welcome and thank you for joining this magical mystery tour, the ride is only beginning. I issue the same warning to you as I do the other readers: expect a lot of blood between now and the end of it. As if this chapter wasn't ample forewarning on that subject...
To both the new and the old, I pass unto you one request: if you read it, review it. And make sure you hammer me on points that don't make sense to you, or you think I screwed up somewhere. I expect and welcome the feedback, for good reason.
Not much else to say on this opening chapter, so...
NEXT UP: Maybe those guys Eric took out during the witch-testing weren't wrong after all; the former Durgan Bladesman goes a good way to cementing his hometown's reputation for efficient and deadly soldiery as a mercenary bodyguard for some shady business, while learning more of the small world he now explores.
Review Replies:
No reviews yet. I WANT TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS, PEOPLE! If I can do better, I want to know how.
The Gripe Sheet:
A long list of them found and highlighted by my beta-reader, Necroblade. Much thanks to said overworked and seriously underpaid meister of corrections and logic :)
Footnotes:
None for this chapter.
Included Elements:
IRL:
—Greek History: Durgan training is somewhat based on the practices of Sparta, though not to their extent in others. Unlike Spartans, however, Durgan soldiers train to fight both long-range and short-range, and train to handle many different types of weapons, not just a few, making them more efficient as mercenaries rather than stand-up infantry forces.
—Ancient History Mashup: Durgan is a mercenary take on Greek concepts (a military city-state, anyone?) and Roman concepts, such as weapons (tower shield and Gladius).
—Modern Sniper Training: Eric Atrebas' method of concealing himself below ground level and covered in local foliage is called a Hide by modern Snipers. Done right, a Sniper can conceal himself or herself in a hide and watch any amount of enemy troops march by with nobody the wiser (unless they use IR equipment, in which case the sniper is screwed).
—Medieval Practices: The premise used to test the 'witch' for witchcraft is a logic trap of its own: if she floats, she is obviously a witch and needs to be burned, if she sinks, she is not a witch but dead nonetheless. Nobody accused those pukes of having common sense, eh? It should be known that while there is little evidence that such practices existed before the Bible was written, it stands to reason someone would have an ax to grind on the subject.
—The Pimp: All evidence points to the fact that they existed back then, as well, though to what measure they were flamboyant like that, I have no clue. Extrapolation on my part, though it stands to reason someone in such a 'rough' trade would have bodyguards of his own, and some would be more or less flamboyant than others.
—Foul language: Such words were used that far back, they are not recent inventions.
Generic RPG:
—the quest to learn more about the world. You can probably guess this is not going to end well for the adventurer, no?
—the towns and townspeople
—Barbarians!
—The merchant convoy. I don't have evidence they existed or did not exist, but the premise is a bit interesting.
Anime:
—Jubei-Chan: Eric's defensive technique, the ability to capture weapons and arrest their momentum, matches Jubei / Jiyu and their defensive technique. This bears special mention, as I developed the premise of this defensive technique some time prior to 2000, and only saw the said anime in 2008.
Computer Game:
—Mechwarrior 3: Strangely enough, there is a tie here to Mechwarrior 3: 'The military city of Durgan', to quote your support mechanic from said game. Durgan was a supply routing point in said game, here it is a military town that sends out units of its military as mercenary forces with a reputation for taking the enemy down hard.