Lucky’s instruction covers more than technique; it’s an insight into how he views the world. He’s handsome and charming, but I’m pretty sure he’s a clinical sociopath.
As he drills me on the basics (assessing a mark, sleight of hand, and pickup artist-style seduction, believe it or not) he throws in anecdotes about past robberies. It boils down to this: he takes from everybody. Doesn’t matter if they’re a lord or a pauper. He’s an equal opportunist, only in the worst way possible.
“You learn quickly.” He’s just shown me a trick where I hide an item by dropping it into my boot. (Useful, apparently, when a Knight tackles you and wants to see what’s in your hands). “That one took me nearly a month.”
Everyone stares at me, then bursts into laughter. Even Ren cracks a grin.
“What?” I ask, mildly irritated but mostly puzzled. “Why is that funny?”
“I’m sorry.” Gyrax wipes a tear from his eye. “It’s just that—”
“Of course I’m a man!” Lucky bursts out between guffaws. “Why declare it? Why does it matter?”
Gyrax throws him a good-natured wave: Don’t worry about it. “ ’Tis a common expression among his people.”
Elier shakes his head in seeming befuddlement. “No offense, but I have no desire to visit your home. The inhabitants seem a tad bit strange.”
I’m about to retort if you wanna talk strange, Evermoor is filled with magic humanoids and level 20 wizards. But then I remember that all of that is seen as perfectly normal here.
Which is followed by a sudden epiphany: when you put it in context, my life on Earth was definitely weird—I was ready to accept four decades of 9-5 drudgery, knowing full well that over time, it would slowly but steadily kill my soul.
“You’re not wrong,” I allow. “But everyone has problems.”
“We have plenty.” Ren looks pointedly at Lucky. “For example: some use their past misfortune as a justification to prey on the weak.”
“Not just the weak!” Lucky cries. “I take from any and all!”
“Your integrity is impressive,” Gyrax remarks dryly.
“Exactly!” Lucky gestures at the Wolven king. “Gyrax understands!”
Ren just shakes his head and continues walking.
Over the course of the next three weeks, the trees give way to hills and prairie. We have rabbit for dinner every night, thanks to Lucky’s collapsible short bow. Elier dusts it with salt and pepper, while Gyrax seasons it with a blend of herbs, kept in a twist-top can he keeps in his carry. The meat tastes good—better than most of the stuff I ate in San Francisco.
If we need to bathe or wash our clothes, we pull over to the side of the road. One of the others (sometimes Elier or Lucky, but more often than not it’s Gyrax or Ren) magically summons a clearwater pond, complete with a network of tree-roots that ravel together into a protective dome. Way better (and cooler) than a bathtub, if you ask me.
Thankfully, Ren has two spare sets of Evermoor clothes. No boots, but that’s okay—I’m fine with my sneakers.
Before I know it, I’ve spent two months on the road. I continue training in knifework and thievery, and even start learning how to shoot Lucky’s bow. Every day I get to mess with weapons, eat good food, and listen to mind-bending stories before I fall asleep under a starry night sky. People pay a lot of money for this, but I get to do it for absolutely free. And I get to do it with a bunch of guys that could double as Lord of the Rings extras. If I had to guess at my D&D stats, I’d say I was a third level fighter/thief. (Well, probably first level, but it’s fun to pretend.)
The road starts firming and taking shape. For the past few days it’s been rough and untrod, with tufts of grass growing throughout its breadth. Now, as we get closer to Naversé, it begins to look a whole lot smoother.
“So who’s this friend we’re going to see?” I ask.
“Terrelly Jindow,” Ren says. “Not just a friend, but a mentor as well.”
“He trained you?”
“So he taught you how to be a sour churl?” Lucky jokes. “Joy.”
“He taught me how to catch a cut-purse,” Ren counters. “And as far as my sourness, it comes from the would-be thieves who have crossed my path. I’ve had to gut more than a few.”
“I see.” Lucky smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I’m promised coin, else I’d foul your boots with my rancid innards.”
Ren snorts. Par for the course, but he sounds genuinely amused this time.
Elier stops twirling his cavalry sabers (he passes the time by practicing as we walk). “Bless my ears. Is that mirth I hear, Master Ren?”
Ren is quiet for a bit, then grudgingly says, “The world is mired in darkness and hate. Light is needed, from time to time.”
“Ha!” Lucky crows. “Who would have thought I could eke any merriment from your bitter visage?”
“And who would have thought that the fabric of society would tear asunder, and allow Lyderea Fairdyle to rise to power?” Ren stops and points angrily at Lucky. “Here you stand, much like her, using laughter and wit to excuse your crimes. All the while, you pilfer coin from the poor and oppressed, and justify your theft with a cheery jest. I regret my cheer, for you do not deserve a laugh or a smile—you are a weight around our collective necks.”
Lucky seems stricken. Even Gyrax and Elier look taken aback.
After a long, awkward silence, Lucky quietly says, “I am nothing like her.”
“No,” Ren sneers. “She is far more competent. Stay the course, Lucky, for she might take notice and offer you a position as her trusted second. You two are a perfect match; you take from the needy, while she creates the—”
Lucky screams and tackles Ren. As they tumble and roll across the ground, they strike wildly at each other and claw for purchase. When we catch up a second later, Ren is on top, hands clamped around Lucky’s throat.
Gyrax hooks Ren’s arms and drags him off while Elier kneels on Lucky and pins him down. Ren tries to stomp and kick, but he’s no match for the Wolven’s strength. Lucky flails at Elier, then thrusts a finger at Ren’s face.
“You know nothing about me, Ren! Nothing!”
Ren yells back, “I know enough! You and your ilk would burn the world, laughing merrily all the while! Well if you would reduce us down to ash, then do it quickly! I would rather be char than a smoldering ember!”
Lucky screams and thrashes, but Elier manages to hold him down. Finally, the thief mutters, “Cry off, Elier. I don’t want to fight.”
Elier gets to his feet and tries to brush the dirt off Lucky’s jerkin. “Are you—”
Lucky swats him away. “Hands. Off.”
Elier backs away, palms raised. “As you say.”
“My temper has cooled,” Ren grumbles. “Let me up, Wolven.”
Gyrax releases him. We all take a cautious step back as Ren and Lucky stare each other down.
They both speak at the same time: “I’m—”
Lucky dips his chin and raises a hand. “You first.”
“It will be in our mutual interest to maintain the peace,” Ren says stiffly. “At least while we travel side by side.”
Gyrax studies them, trying to see if they’re being sincere. When he decides that they are, he says, “Grips, gentlemen—I’d see them now.”
For a split-second they both hesitate, then reach out and squeeze each others’ forearms. An Evermoor version of an Earthling handshake.
“I plead thy grace,” Lucky says stiltedly.
“No need, Kai Yetshaw. I plead yours.” Ren’s reply isn’t as stilted, but it’s pretty close.
“All is forgiven. And don’t call me Yetshaw. I gave that name up long ago.”
“As you wish,” Ren says. They both step away.
“ ‘Kai?’ ” I mutter.
“It’s an honorific,” Gyrax explains. “Kai is the masculine. Sha is the feminine.”
“Oh. Okay.” Nice—now I know that instead of shaking hands, you squeeze forearms. And instead of sir or ma’am, it’s kai and sha.
Ren and Lucky continue down the road, the rest of us follow.
A few minutes pass, then I grin at Gyrax and whisper, “Think I just leveled up. Or at least gained a perk.”
Gyrax chuckles. “You and your games. I can still picture you staring at the screen, clicking away at that damned controller.”
“Questing through Fallout while you sat on the couch with a rawhide or squeaky. Good times.”
“But you didn’t realize it—not then.” He reaches out and ruffles my hair. “Now you do.”
I’m a little thrown by the reversal of roles (usually I’m the one petting him) but only for a second. Gribbles/Gyrax is a way cooler than I ever could have hoped for. If not for him, I’d be stuck listening to Grumpy McGrumperson (my nickname for Ren) and couple of shady mercenaries. (Which is what Elier and Lucky are, when you get right down to it).
For the next fuve days, Ren and Lucky stop talking to each other. It’s not quite a girlfriend freeze-out, but it feels pretty similar. Thankfully, Elier and Gyrax fill the conversational void with fighting or swordplay, since Elier isn’t interested in anything else. I’m happy to just shut up and listen.
Elier grew up in Khairach Taire, one of four nation-states that end with the suffix “Taire.” The word is an ancient derivate of Tairya, which loosely translates to “honor contest.” Each Taire—Khairach Taire, Withywick Taire, Genwick Taire and Relting Taire—is a combat society. Together, they form a loose confederation of libertarian enclaves, committed to producing the deadliest duelists in all of Evermoor. Everyone starts as an Apprentice Duelist, which is a cooler way of saying rookie. After documented approval from a master tutor, they’re awarded the title of Journeyman Duelist.
Elier Finn is one rank higher: he’s a High Taire Duelist, which is a title earned after four hundred duels, all witnessed by an Arbiter Duelist (the highest rank attainable, and also the closest thing the Taires have to a government official). He’s won all but one fight (it ended in a draw) against a woman named Idinia Skyfold. Due to her weapons—a bladed forearm brace and a double-edged short sword—her style gravitated toward grappling and entangling. Elier, who uses a pair of cavalry sabers, was unable to keep her from closing the distance.
“Typically, I control rhythm with range and cadence,” he says. “Two sabers quicken my tempo: one-two, one-two—” he demonstrates with his hands in an alternating pattern, “allowing me to attack and block at the same time. I am as comfortable against one as I am against ten.”
“How did Idinia hold you off?” I ask.
He shakes his head in grudging admiration. “She is utterly masterful at controlling the gap. Even better at in-pocket fighting.”
“ ‘In-pocket?’ ”
“Extremely close range,” Gyrax explains.
Elier nods. “She dominates the match with positioning and footwork. Once she is close, she is free to work havoc with her vambrace and shortsword.”
“She sounds pretty intense.”
Elier gives me a puzzled look. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
Ren chips in with, “Some seek peace. Not everyone wants conflict.”
“But conflict is life.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“And yet it is.”
“I tell you again, Duelist: it doesn’t have to be.”
(Irresistible force, meet immovable object.)
Elier gives a noncommital shrug. “Time will prove which of us is correct.”
Lucky (for the first time in several days) speaks up. “Ren is right. Conflict isn’t necessary. I get by fine on faith and fortu—” He glances at Ren’s darkening face and amends it to: “I get by fine without picking fights.”
Ren opens his mouth, about to say something, but an ear-piercing screech cuts him off.
Everyone halts and straightens in place.
Three more screeches dig into my brain. “AAAH!” I cover my ears and close my eyes.
Ren breaks right. “Head for the cairns!”
We take off running toward a massive ring of standing rocks, about a hundred yards distant. They’re the only cover for miles around; we’re still in a stretch of idyllic prairie.
Shadows flicker across the ground. I look up and spot a V of silhouettes, made hazy and dark by the afternoon sun.
“RUN!” Elier shoves me in the small of my back, pushing me forward. “STOP GAWKING, JON!”
I pick up the pace. I’m not sure what’s chasing us, but if the others are scared, I trust it’s legit.
We reach the rocks and hunker behind them. Lucky snaps his bow open and nocks an arrow. Ren meets our eyes and straightens his finger against his lips, urging us all to keep quiet.
Leathery wings beat the air, then an angry whoosh spills across the prairie. Waves of heat unfurl and roll, blanketing my face in torrid warmth. Sweat springs out across my skin, darkening my clothes and slickening my skin.
The heat is everywhere, searing my lungs, stinging my skin, filling every nook and cranny with perspiration. I can’t believe I walked into another dimension, only to get cooked behind a giant rock…
Ren points at his eyes with his index and middle fingers, then flicks them up at our airborne pursuers.
He wants me to look.
No way. No way. I shake my head from side to side.
Ren’s face twists in disgust. He pokes out from behind the rock, takes a good, long look, then ducks behind the stone and turns his hands up.
See? Nothing to worry about.
The rest of us peek around the edges of our rocks. My lips part in utter amazement.
On the other side of the road, tree-high flames are eating the prairie. Fortunately, the road is acting like a giant firebreak, keeping the inferno from advancing toward us. Up above the red-lit char, twelve dragons—each one about a dozen feet long—circle and swoop, all mounted by armored knights. Every so often, one of the dragons spreads its wings, curls inward like a reptilian comma, and blows concentrated fire out from its mouth. As soon as the fire hits the ground, it blossoms into an enormous billow. The displaced air lashes and unfurls, warping the plains into a wavy mess.
“Whoa,” I whisper. “Dragons are real.”
“No,” Gyrax whispers back, “not dragons—wyverns. Smaller, weaker, and less intelligent. Dragons are ten times as big and they don’t breathe fire.”
“But they’re related, right?” I look over at Gyrax. “I mean, not that I’ve seen a dragon before, but…”
“They are.” He speaks a little louder, confident that the wyverns aren’t looking for us. “During the Wars, Lyderea stole a clutch of red dragon eggs and magically stunted them, making the hatchlings mature into wyverns. They became a different species altogether. Inbreeding and sorcery have taken their toll.”
“What about the riders?”
“Rainfire Knights. They each possess an in-depth knowledge of battlefield magic; they can tear apart defensive spells, ensuring their prey are exposed to fire and talon. That’s why the Alliance sticks to the forest. It’s not exactly protective cover, but it can provide a degree of stealth and concealment.”
“What are they doing?” My gaze shifts back to the Knight-mounted wyverns. “Why are they burning an empty prairie?”
Ren wipes his brow with the back of his wrist. “Sending a warning, if I had to guess. The folk in Naversé must have angered the Justicers.”
The wyverns fly in a wide circle, one behind the other. After three big loops the leader breaks off and the rest follow, spreading out into a wedge-shaped formation.
A moment later they disappear from view.
Lucky clicks a latch on his collapsible bow, folding it into a small baton. He stuffs the bowstring into the hollowed-out top and snaps the lid back into place, re-arming the springs.
Elier takes a weighted breath. “I thought they were going to roast us alive.”
“I’m halfway there as it is.” Lucky groans, hooking his short bow onto his belt. “My skin feels cracked and stretched—like overworked leather.”
“Back on the road.” Ren steps out from behind his rock.
Gyrax offers a paw and hauls me up. “What are actual dragons like?” I ask.
“Dragons breathe lightning.”
“Whoa.” (Are you freaking kidding me? Lightning-breathing dragons? Whaaaat?)
“Aye.” He gives me an amused smile, noting my all-too-obvious astonishment. “It’s a different color than their outer scales.”
“Cool.” My eyes grow wide, but I’m not the least bit embarrassed. (Come on, I just found out that dragons are real—there’s no better time to let my geek flag fly.) “Are there any dragons that breathe black lightning?”
“There are. Yellow, purple, red, green…” His amusement fades. “After the Tessellate failed, it wreaked havoc on the arcane tides. Consequently, dragons grew terribly sick, as they are fairly sensitive to sorcerous upheaval. Lyderea killed hundreds of them.”
“Are there any left?”
As we step on the road, Ren casts a quick enchantment, protecting us from the residual heat. I instantly feel cool and comfortable.
“Two that I know of.” Gyrax raises his voice, so he can be heard above the crackling flames. “A red and a green. They live in Aerie Denir—a city that juts from a sheer cliffside, inhabited by a race of flying men.”
He’s talking about the aerial metropolis I saw before I left Earth. Inhabited by people with bird-like features; some with a hawk’s head, others that could pass as regular humans.
I open my mouth, about to tell him about my Earth-side visions, then I glance back at Lucky and Elier, trailing a few yards behind us. Who knows what they would do (or who they would speak to) for the right amount of coin? They’re really just mercenaries, when you get right down to it.
Gyrax’s eyes don’t leave mine. I get the sense that he knows what I’m thinking. My suspicions are confirmed when he says, “You’re learning, Jon.”
“Just leveled up.” I throw him a grin. “Gimme a perk and some extra hit points.”
My former dog rolls his eyes. “I never understood how a glowing screen could hold your interest.”
“Show some respect,” I say mock-seriously. “Without video games, I would have no context for a fantasy-world life. I’d cower and hide instead of learning skills and looking for items.” I draw my dagger, slash the air, then make it disappear with a sleight-of-hand twist. “See? I’m probably like a fourth-level fighter/thief.”
Gyrax laughs. “Who knew that Diablo and Skyrim could prepare your mind for interplanar travel?”
“I know, right? Elder Scrolls V was a hint from the universe.”
His face turns thoughtful. “It very well could have been. Existence works in mysterious ways.”
We continue walking, watching the horizon give way to Naversé. Half our world—the prairie on our left—is still ablaze. Distorted air rolls off the fire, dotting the wind with drifting sparks. Despite the inferno, I feel completely at ease. It’s all gonna burn, but something will eventually grow in its place. Something good, hopefully.
Maybe even great.