Chapter

Five

He waited for [Know What’s Real] to complain, to tell him he’d gotten his hopes up for nothing, or that there was some trick. But it didn’t. They were real people. They were really here.

In the front stood a tall man covered head to toe in golden armor that exuded a warm and comforting glow. He carried a tower shield that matched his armor, prominently engraved with a downward half circle, a closed eye maybe. The closed eye symbol was repeated in several places on the artful engravings on his armor, always under a green gemstone that burned with inner light. Mark’s [Know What’s Real] Skill didn’t object to the glow; somehow it was real. The Knight, as Mark was going to call him, also carried an intimidating mace. It looked to be at least twenty pounds, but he carried it like it was light as a feather.

The Knight dashed forwards, every step covering a dozen feet, and crashed into the army, flinging the monsters left and right, crushing them with blurring blows faster than Mark could track.

Next, the Rogue. He was a man in darker armor, black leathers with a few plates of dull steel where it wouldn’t impede his movements. He followed behind the Knight, taking care of stragglers. Somehow he was faster than the Knight, dealing ten or twenty swift cuts with his dual shortswords in the time it would take Mark to blink an eye. He darted around wildly, sometimes disappearing when three or four ghouls surrounded him, only to reappear while decapitating one of the ghouls from behind. His shortswords weren’t exactly ideal for fighting ghouls, but he managed by simply dicing them to pieces.

Staying behind was the Ranger. He was an imposing figure, at least six foot seven, and he watched the battle with calm dispassion. He wore all leather armor and carried an enormous longbow, as tall as he was. Despite what must be a ridiculous pull weight, the Ranger loosed arrow after arrow, each of which plunged straight through any ghouls they reached, sometimes through six or seven in a row.

Not to say the ghouls didn’t fight back. They were quick, like blinking shadows, and strong; the times they managed to block the strikes of the Knight made vibrations that Mark felt through the earth and left his ears ringing. Their ferocity combined with the illusion of fire around them made them seem like a thing of nightmares. He was suddenly very thankful that he hadn’t entertained the idea of grabbing a torch and trying to fight them off himself.

Despite the valor of the Heroes, the army might have overwhelmed them, if not for the last member of the group.

The Wizard. She wore robes of red, belted above her waist. Her wavy golden hair poured like honey out from under a wide-brimmed hat. She held an orb in one hand, a staff in the other, and shouted words of power that called down missiles of ice and explosions of freezing rain.

Despite the fact the undead had no weakness to cold at all, the sheer force of her spells left dozens of undead slowed or dazed, enough to buy her teammates the space they needed.

The fight raged back and forth; the ghouls were thinned by the second, but not as quickly as they could be. They started to spread out so that each of the Wizard’s spells never hit more than three of them at a time. He was confident that the Heroes would win, but at this rate, it would take hours, and that was only if they didn’t falter. One mistake, one slipup, and… he had to do something.

Mark jumped out of his hiding spot and ran, not towards the fighting, but away and around the back towards the Wizard.

“Fire! Use fire!”

They didn’t hear him. Or if they did, they didn’t react. The sound of fighting drowned out his words. He’d have to get closer.

The Rogue disappeared from the battle, and seconds later, reappeared right in front of Mark.

He was older than Mark was expecting, maybe in his fifties. He had strong features, a wide face covered in scars. Without a word, he grabbed Mark and tossed him over his shoulder, carrying him back to the others.

His strong steps carried them ten times as fast as Mark’s legs would have. A ghoul ambushed them, jumping from the shadows, but the Rogue cut it down without slowing.

He carried him over and dropped him next to the Wizard and the Ranger.

“This is the boy. We should think about pulling back.”

“Good!” The Ranger smiled warmly, but didn’t stop his arrows or take his eyes off the battle. “Well done, surviving this long, boy. We know it couldn’t have been easy for you, but rest assured, you are safe now.”

The Wizard didn’t look at him or pause her incantations.

“Fire!” he gasped out.

“We know,” said the Rogue.

“No! Use fire! They’re weak against fire!”

“What are you, some kind of stupid?” asked the Rogue.

“I’ve been watching them for three weeks! Please, just trust me,” said Mark.

The Wizard looked concerned, but paused her larger spells to flick her wrist with a single word of incantation.

A flaming dart flew from her hands and completely eviscerated the unlucky ghoul that it struck. She smiled, then her voice grew louder. She lifted her staff high and chanted in a language that hurt Mark’s ears, seeming to speak with three voices at once.

“Back up! Get back, Galan,” shouted the Rogue.

In an admirable show of trust, the Knight, who must be Galan, turned and ran without hesitation.

Right as he reached the rest of them, he turned and planted his tower shield against the ground, bracing himself against it.

Behind him, the entire army erupted into hell. Winds of flame sucked in from all directions, then a tornado of fire erupted from the ground, then a second one arose. Dual twisters danced around each other and blew through the army, burning them to ash, leaving nothing but their black metal weapons to fall to the ground.

All the while, the Knight held his position, protecting them from the blazing heat and chunks of bone that flew like shrapnel. His shield seemed to create a magical barrier, a cone that enfolded the others of the group. Mark could see the line between the protected area and the black scorched earth.

The spell expended its energy and then drifted away, leaving black and empty ground. Even the ash seemed to have been burnt away.

The Ranger said something, but Mark was still too stunned from the display of magical destruction to pay attention. He looked at the Wizard. She was gasping for breath, leaning on her staff, looking like she was about to pass out.

The Ranger repeated himself. “Someone should take care of the stragglers.”

“You’ve got a bow,” said the Rogue.

“Arrows aren’t free. It would be a waste.”

“I… I can do it,” said Galan, the Knight. He was also gasping for breath, looking as worn out as the Wizard.

The Rogue spat on the ground. “Fine. But you owe me.”

[Know What’s Real] was telling Mark that something was off about the Rogue. Before he could figure out what, the dark-clad man blinked away, appearing two dozen yards in the distance, cutting a remaining undead soldier in half. The other scattered undead converged on him, but there weren’t enough remaining to be a threat. He terminated them with mechanical precision.

Mark watched in awe. It was difficult to believe that a real living person could move like that. And honestly, just going off kill count, the Rogue was the least of these companions. Imagine being as strong as the Knight, or launching arrows that landed like artillery the way the Ranger could, or calling down army-demolishing air strikes like the Wizard. Could he become a Wizard someday?

Watching the Rogue, [Know What’s Real] was giving him mixed feedback. Sometimes he was real, and sometimes he wasn’t? Or maybe he had some kind of illusory effect? It made sense that the quick, sneaky one would be more than meets the eye.

He realized the Heroes weren’t watching the Rogue like he was. Their eyes were on him.

Right, he had a role here, too, didn’t he? He wasn’t a hero. He was the lowly, grateful NPC, and it was time to start acting like it.

“Oh! Um. Great Heroes! Thank you so much for rescuing me. If you had arrived even a minute later I surely would have perished. Thank you for cleansing Travin’s Bog. Though my friends and family are all dead, I think their souls will rest easier knowing that their erstwhile home is free from those disgusting creatures.”

It didn’t have quite the effect he would’ve liked. Galan frowned. The Wizard put a hand to her mouth. The Ranger looked like he was about to laugh.

“What? What’s with that?” said the Rogue. Mark hadn’t even seen him return. “What’s he saying, Lurilan?”

The Ranger, who must be Lurilan, responded. “Can’t you see?”

Nothing to do but trudge on. Mark continued, “I don’t have much to reward you with, but I searched the ashes of the town for any valuables. All the coin is yours⁠—”

“We don’t want your money, kid. Sheesh. What’s your game here?” said the Rogue.

“Sorry,” said Mark, looking down. All the ash in the air was making his eyes water. He sniffed, to avoid a runny nose. “Sorry if I’m doing it wrong. I’ve never been rescued before. This is what they say in the stories.”

The Heroes all made eye contact with each other in collective understanding.

“Oh. That’s…” The Rogue had an uncharacteristic look of sheepishness on his harsh features.

The Wizard shoved past him and crouched down to be at eye level with Mark. “You’re doing fine. There’s nothing you can do wrong. We’re here to rescue you, remember? Now, why don’t we start this correctly? I am Lumina, [Magus of the Southern Steppe].”

He could practically hear the brackets over the last part. Something about the inflection in their language made it clear they were quoting their System-given Class. She continued introductions. “That’s Galan, this is Lurilan, and the grumpy one is Hogg. Now, what’s your name?”

Wasn’t that a question? The System called him “Mark Error,” and honestly he didn’t hate it. It felt right to leave his last name in his last life.

He told them his name. But he made a mistake. He had automatically started translating his thoughts into Frenarian, because that’s what they had spoken in, but he unthinkingly translated his name as well. Mark Error came out as Brin isu Yambul.

Since the languages didn’t match up very well, what he actually said was something like “Scar, the Mistaken.” He actually liked the “mistaken” part. Going back to English, “mistaken” sounded like “wrongfully taken,” which was definitely true. And Brin, well he felt scarred, too. The name settled onto him like a mantle.

“Cut that trash. What’s your real name?” said Hogg.

“It’s… um… That’s…”

Lurilan tried a gentler approach. “Did you make up a name that you thought sounded grand? It’s a nice name. Very fierce.”

“Fierce?” said Hogg. “Burn that. He saw a huge scar on his face and decided to start calling himself Scar. But that looks, what, three weeks old? What did your mother call you before she⁠—”

Hogg realized what he was saying and stopped, but too late to prevent a kick from Lumina. She full-on front-kicked him straight in the balls. [Know What’s Real] flickered a bit, but it must’ve connected because Hogg went down like a sack of potatoes.

“Never mind him,” Lumina said gently. “We’ll call you Brin if you want, but I’d like to know: did you make it up?”

“Yes. Kind of,” said Brin. He’d thought a little about what he’d say to people he met, and he’d decided not to broadcast to everyone that he was an Otherworlder. That meant amnesia would be his best excuse. He felt bad lying to Lumina, she seemed nice, so he decided to… bend the truth instead. “I woke up with this scar on my head three weeks ago. I don’t remember anyone or anything about my life in this village before that.”

Galan nodded thoughtfully. He was much younger than Hogg, maybe twenty-five, but spoke slowly and deliberately. “Now this all begins to make sense.”

“You’re joking,” said Lurilan.

“Not at all,” said Galan. “Have you ever heard of an heirloom artifact?”

“Oh,” said Lumina, while Lurilan said, “A what?”

Lumina said, “An heirloom artifact. An [Enchantress] can make a unique artifact on the day of her child’s birth. The child has to carry it at all times, so a necklace or bracelet or the like. And she must maintain it every single day, so her child can never be far from her, which is why you may not have heard of it. No adventurer could possibly carry one. But the benefits are extreme: it will protect the child from a grievous wound, even a mortal wound, just once.”

“Yes,” said Galan. “It would explain how he survived, why he’s alone, even perhaps why the gods thought it appropriate to intervene.”

“It would explain too much,” Hogg wheezed through the pain, still on the ground. “Is that what happened? Did you have an heirloom artifact?”

Brin shrugged.

“Well, that’s fine,” said Lurilan. “But it doesn’t answer the question of your name. What does the System call you?”

Brin checked his status. It had changed from “Mark !Error!” to the translated version. “Brin isu Yambul. Wait, is that my fault? I didn’t know it was going to be permanent!”

Hogg wheezed with laughter, even through the obvious pain. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

Galan looked at Lumina and asked, “Is that true? Is it permanent? Or can a man change his name simply by changing what everyone calls him?”

Lumina’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know! I’ve never heard of someone forgetting their own name before! Brin, don’t worry. We’ll get this figured out.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind it,” said Brin.

“Of course you don’t, now,” said Hogg. “Wait until you’re thirty. Better yet, wait until you want to get married. Oh, even better, wait until the thousandth time someone says to you, ‘Excuse me, but I believe you are Mistaken.’”

Lurilan and Galan laughed at that, and even Lumina smiled, though she said, “Stop it!”

Brin laughed along. “Oh, how about, ‘Ouch, that’s going to leave a mark.’”

All four burst into laughter. He wasn’t sure if the idiom actually translated that well, or if it was just pity-laughter, but he was glad for it all the same.

“Alright, kid. Let’s get out of the street here. I’m hungry, and all this dust and smoke is going to give me lung disease,” said Hogg. “We’ll set up camp in the fields. It’ll make keeping watch easier tonight.”

They walked through the fields and set up camp right next to the road heading south. Even though it was still the middle of the night, no one seemed ready for sleep, so the men gathered wood for a campfire. Brin wanted to help, but he’d used all his wood in the bonfire earlier. Galan provided the starter and used hot-burning wood from an oversized backpack he’d left at the edge of the forest.

Lumina watched Brin carefully before and after casting the spell that ignited the fire, no doubt watching for signs of trauma. It was possible that the boy who used to own this body had watched his parents burn to death, but Brin was being honest when he said he had no memory of that. He scooched up close. It was strange but welcome to be safe and warm at night.

“Who’s hungry for hardtack?” asked Hogg, before handing out thick, rock-hard slices of bread that looked like big crackers.

They tasted and felt like chewing rocks, and even Hogg, who dealt them out, didn’t look like he was enjoying it.

“There’s meat,” said Brin. “There’s food in the town; the cellars didn’t burn. I found what must’ve been a butcher’s shop, in a big cellar on the other end of town from where you… Oh, he’s already gone.”

Hogg had disappeared even before Brin had finished speaking. He returned three minutes later, arms heaped with various cuts and sausages.

“Glad I got to this in time. Someone tracked mud all over the cooling runes,” Hogg said with a scowl, pointedly not looking at Brin. Cooling runes? He’d spent days in the cellar and never seen anything like that. How was he supposed to know you weren’t supposed to track mud in? They had dirt floors.

It also bothered him that [Know What’s Real] hadn’t shown him the hidden runes. Apparently, it wouldn’t show him things that were invisible, just tell him when something he could see was phony.

Hogg brightened, looking again at the meat he carried. “Anyway. It’s fixed now. The steaks are for tonight; the sausages will keep. Come on then, get a pan out, let’s get some real food on!”

Galan hustled to comply. The armored man talked slow, but moved fast. Soon the pleasant scent of simmering steak filled the campsite.

Lumina picked up the conversation. “So, Galan, I meant to ask: you mentioned that you’re a Knight from Olland?”

“That’s right,” said Galan. “I’m a member of the Order of the Long Sleep. [Untiring Knight] is my Class, though I can sleep and often do.”

“I am a [Hunter] from Gilly. Though my intended quarry was the Stone Drake, this detour was a delightful surprise,” said Lurilan.

“[Warrior],” said Hogg. “From Hammon’s Bog. It’s nearby.”

There was a strange variance in Class names. Lumina had the most complicated Class name, [Magus of the Southern Steppe]. Longer Class names probably meant they were more powerful, compared to Lurilan’s [Hunter] or Hogg’s [Warrior]. Although, that last one sounded like a lie, to be honest.

“Wait,” said Brin. “You guys don’t all know each other?”

“Not at all, though I think we’ve all heard of Lumina,” said Lurilan. “How much do you know about how System Quests work?”

“Not much,” admitted Brin.

“It went like this,” said Lumina. “I received the notification that I had been selected to fulfill a Quest, and immediately leapt from my bed, dressed, packed those of my things that could quickly be thrown into a rucksack, and set off, with nary a word to my master, though I have no doubt that he will understand. The Quest mentioned Travin’s Bog, and a quick scry informed me of the location. I traveled horseback for the first day, and met Lurilan and Galan on the way. I learned their names of course, and we chatted a bit, though we hardly grew acquainted. When Hogg joined us, that was about the time that the System urged us to hasten. We abandoned the horses, and I employed my magic to speed our way. That’s why I was so nearly exhausted when we finally caught up to you.”

She hadn’t seemed exhausted, and it made the whole thing more impressive that they’d fought that fiercely at the end of a days-long sprint. Even now, none of them seemed that tired. They seemed to be settling in for a long conversation, and if they really didn’t know each other, this was probably a great networking opportunity for them.

For his part, Brin was at the bare edge of his endurance. He had barely slept at all the night before, and then spent the entire day in hard labor, working harder than he ever had in his previous life. He felt his eyelids drooping.

“I’ve always been curious about the Order of the Long Sleep,” said Lumina. “Although I wouldn’t press you to reveal the secrets of your order.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Galan. “My Order is reclusive by habit, but not secretive.”

“Is it true you were formed after the war of Iaghaid, the Quiet?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Galan. “It was thought in those days—this was the time of High Lord Endelet, who ruled over Hemelor, Olland, and Theranor, in what was then called Edelor. After Iaghaid was defeated, there were those who thought that the dragon may have survived and was only sleeping. Endelet called his council together in the city of Hemelor, in what was then called the Council of Hemelor, to…”

Brin really would have liked to hear the rest of the story, but despite his best efforts, Galan’s calm voice soothed him into sleep.