391 days until the Arkon Shield falls

Mana is a living, breathing thing. Anger it at your peril. —Cale Ames, elven spellweaver.

We were ushered out surprisingly quickly after that. Well, I was. The commander kept Tara back a little longer. Routine orders, Jolin had explained.

While I waited for Tara, I reflected on my meeting with the old lady. I had expected to be interrogated further on my magic and abilities, and to be provided with unsolicited ‘advice.’ But while the commander’s keen interest in my magic was undisguised, she hadn’t shown the slightest inclination towards directing my magical development.

Jolin had pronounced herself confident in my ability to make such decisions on my own and, with an airy wave of her hand, had summarily dismissed me, citing other more pressing matters that awaited her attention.

I had left the tent in a bit of a daze.

I was in no doubt that Jolin Silbright, whatever else she may be, was a formidable leader—and not an enemy I wanted. She’d seemed to know things she shouldn’t and had kept knocking me off balance with the unexpected tack she’d taken.

It was only standing outside the tent, lost in reflection over the encounter, that I found myself wondering if I hadn’t been manipulated after all. Jolin had read me so well during the entire conversation. Why then, at the end, had she chosen an approach so likely to infuriate me?

In hindsight, it seemed like it had been a calculated move on her part. Had the commander manoeuvred me into volunteering my help for free?

My brows lowered in consternation. What made Jolin’s tactics even more impressive, was that even suspecting what she had done, I couldn’t find it within myself to feel outraged.

Because I wanted to help.

The longer I thought about it, the more certain I grew that the old lady had read me like an open book. She had tailored her approach in the meeting to match my disposition.

How did she do it?

I shivered involuntarily. Tara had been right. The commander was intimidating.

“Jamie?” Tara asked as she ducked out of the tent.

“Hmm?” I said, turning around to look at her. She was watching me curiously. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

Tara chuckled. “The commander does tend to have that effect on people. Come on, let’s get you organised,” she said, striding away.

I cast her a sidelong glance as I caught up to her. The black-haired captain’s demeanour seemed unchanged from before our audience. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been half-afraid she would have been offended by what was in effect a demotion. Yet being assigned as my bodyguard didn’t seem to bother her.

I turned my attention to our heading and noticed that Tara was cutting west through the camp. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Well, I figured you’d want to acquire some magic. Our first destination is the dragon temple.” She glanced at me. “Unless you would rather we find you a place to camp before that?”

“Most of the fighters are in the practice yard, either training themselves or instructing new recruits. The civilians—I suppose that’s what you’d call them, although I am not sure the term fits anyone in this world—will be out gathering or practicing their crafting.” She grimaced. “To the extent that they can, anyhow.”

Hearing Tara’s comment, I was once again struck by the primitiveness of the camp. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why is everything so…” I gestured at the shoddy tents, poorly fashioned benches, and our own basic equipment.

“Crude?” Tara supplied helpfully.

I nodded. I had refrained from saying it myself, not wanting to offend Tara or insult her people’s efforts.

Tara yanked out her short stabbing spear. My own spear lay abandoned back on the lower bank. It had just been too unwieldly to lug around, and I figured I would be provided with another if we had to fight again.

Tara held up the spear for my inspection. “You see that?” she asked, pointing to the polished and sharpened metal on its tip.

I bobbed my head, uncertain where she was going with this.

“This spearhead, and the others like it, are our only source of metal. We have no knives, tools, swords, or metal of any other kind. And without metal-forged tools, it’s damned hard to craft anything. Even chopping down the trees in the forest is a bloody chore.”

“Ah,” I said, taken aback. I hadn’t fully thought through the consequences of Earth refugees not being able to bring anything—not even the clothes on their back—to the new world.

When I had entered a neutral location, I hadn’t been certain what to expect, but I had assumed—naively it seemed—that the Trials would ensure all players would have access to the bare essentials. This didn’t appear to be the case.

I looked around with new eyes. Other than the dragon temple itself, the Trials had provided nothing in the way of aid for the humans arriving at location seventy-eight. There wasn’t even a gate to travel to another location.

The primitiveness of the Outpost made sense now. The commander and her people started with nothing, I realised. Given that, what they had managed to achieve was impressive. Astounding, really.

“I suppose players in the sponsored cities have it easier,” I said wistfully.

Tara snorted. “Sure, but only if you’re willing to sell your humanity for the privilege.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, surprised by the derision in her tone.

Tara eyed me. “You haven’t met any of the ‘Sponsors,’ have you?”

“No,” I admitted. “Just the orcs,” At my slip, an image of Mum—headless and with dead eyes—flashed through my mind. Ruthlessly, I squashed the memory and the accompanying upswelling of grief.

Tara’s lips parted in surprise at my words. She tilted her head and studied me in silence, as if seeing me with new eyes. “When did you—”

She broke off abruptly. Then sighed. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I shouldn’t pry. The old lady told me to let you keep your secrets.”

So that’s why she kept you behind. What other instructions did she give you, I wonder?

When I didn’t say anything, Tara continued with her explanation, “The ‘Patrons’ are the worst, but the Sponsors are little better. The elves sent a delegation into New Springs after their gate activated there. Their representatives were full of honeyed words and promises, of how they would help humanity, of how we could be allies, and of how, together, we could change Overworld. But there was just one small catch.

“In exchange for the shelter and aid they provided, the elves wanted any human that entered their sponsored cities to pledge a year’s service in return. The pledge grants the Elven Protectorate the rights to all dungeons, mines, and other resources discovered by their human citizens.”

“Really?” I asked, shocked. “I never heard of anything like that on the news.”

“You wouldn’t have. The way I heard tell, the elves negotiated an agreement with our government to keep their pledges’ terms secret from Earth’s populous.” She kicked a loose rock angrily. “Damn politicians probably sold us down the river to pave their own way into Overworld.”

I shook my head, not in denial of Tara’s words, but more in disbelief. Surely not even Earth’s leaders were corrupt enough to sell away our rights in the new world? “What about the gnomes?” I asked, thinking about Eric and Emma. “Have they demanded the same… concessions?”

“I don’t know,” Tara admitted, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had similar agreements in place.”

The conversation lapsed for a while after that, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Eventually I asked, “So everyone here rejected the elves’ offer?”

Tara nodded. “Technically, yes, but not all for the same reasons. Some choose location seventy-eight because they couldn’t stomach the offer, others wanted to escape the authorities, and yet others came for a fresh start. Some though,” she snarled, “chose it because they wanted a ‘hard start.’ Damn gamers.”

I winced. Tara clearly had a poor opinion of gamers. Diplomatically, I chose not to tell her about my own gaming background and changed the topic.

“Then, you are not all from one organisation? At the battle by the river, everyone worked so well together. It was almost as if you had been fighting as a unit for years. I thought perhaps you were all military or ex-military.”

Tara’s brows jerked up in surprise. “I suppose the commander and her talk of captains gave you that idea?”

I nodded.

“Well, you’re wrong. We all came here as individuals. Forging ourselves into something resembling a military force—that came later.” Tara’s eyes grew distant with memory. “The first day here was chaos. People, running and screaming in all directions.”

She chuckled grimly. “And dying too. By the dozens and on the very steps of the dragon temple itself. Monsters were drawn from far and wide, attracted by the promise of easy prey. I was one of the first to arrive. On the first day the gates opened, in fact. And just like the thousands of others that came through that day, I was scared and disoriented.”

Tara’s voice grew soft. “We all would have died if not for the old lady. When she came through, things changed. She transformed a motley bunch of individuals—without food, weapons, or armour—into a fledging fighting force that was not only able to survive, but thrive.”

Tara spread her arms wide. “Everything you see here is the work of the commander. She created our organisation, as you call it. Drew up a hierarchy, appointed her officers—some with military training, many without. Formed procedures, routines, and checklists. Defined our priorities and, most importantly, gave us both purpose and hope.” Tara looked me squarely in the eye, her face serious. “We owe her everything. Without her, you would have found nothing but a barren wasteland when you came through the gate.”

I nodded noncommittally, acknowledging but not necessarily agreeing with Tara’s underlying message: that I too should be grateful to the commander, and do everything she asked. They are a paramilitary organisation, even if they hadn’t started out that way.

It was clear to me from Tara’s words that the old lady ruled here. And as noble as her agenda seemed, it was not mine. I had my own mission, and I knew without a doubt, that if I joined the commander’s outfit, her goals would supplant my own.

“Who is the commander?” I asked. “What’s her story?”

Tara grinned, breaking the solemnity of the moment. “That’s something everyone asks sooner or later. The short answer is, no one knows. Most of us believe that she was in the military at some point in her career. But what her rank or training was, she hasn’t seen fit to share with any of us.”

“And her age?”

“You mean why didn’t she enter Overworld in a new body?”

I nodded.

“The same reason you didn’t: to retain her Traits from her life on Earth. The auras you felt earlier are the least of the benefits she can provide to the troops. Wait until you see her in battle. Her active boosts are a sight to behold.”

“Buffs,” I said, absently correcting Tara while my mind picked at the puzzle that was the commander. It was one thing to enter Overworld with your earthly body when you were young and hale—or relatively so—but to do it when you were as old as Jolin Silbright? That was either foolishness or a remarkable bit of self-sacrifice.

And somehow, I didn’t think the commander was foolish.

“What?” asked Tara.

“Uhm, the benefits and bonuses that the commander’s Techniques grant, they’re called buffs.”

“Oh. Sure.”

I turned to my companion and tilted my head curiously. “And what about you, Tara? How old are you?”

“You really want to know?” Tara asked, her eyes twinkling.

I nodded. I knew she was older than me, and given the assurance with which she carried herself most times, I guessed she was probably in her fifties.

“Twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two?” I said, nearly choking over the words. I gaped at her in astonishment. “You can’t possibly be—”

The rest of what I was about to say was lost as I tripped over my own feet and landed face first in the dust next to the steps of the dragon temple.

We had arrived at our destination.