Fortunately, there were no further surprises on the way to the healer’s clinic. The allure of the motel fire served as a great distraction and had left the street deserted. Ban watched their backs, fronts, and sides as they followed his directions. Ian did his level best to pretend that Mal’s weight was not a strain on his arms. Vale whispered soft words to Mal as the group ushered along.

Their destination was a modern one-story building nestled on the street corner. Out front, the blue frosted glass sign with a large red heart in the center glowed brightly. The sign was lit by a fire within and projecting the heart symbol down either side of the street. Ban held the door, despite his bloodied arm and bleeding chest, as the rest of the group walked inside. Ian mentally summed up the interior in two words: white and sterile. A long counter cut through the middle of the shop to separating the check-in/waiting area from the healing rooms behind it. Chairs lined the walls of the waiting area, suggesting that this place was used to seeing a lot of business.

Vale made a beeline towards the lone dwarf standing behind the counter. “My friend needs help. He got caught up in the building fire a few blocks from here, but the mages have their hands full with injured citizens. Can someone see him please?”

Ian strode up to the counter and gently set Mal down on the waist-high countertop. Ban entered the shop and pulled the door closed, keeping an eye on the street. The dwarf assessed Mal with a few gentle probes against his leg.

“Nothing broken, was this a stab wound?” His tone suggested he wasn’t asking them, his gaze moved from Mal to Ian. Ian was more or less coated in scrapes and blood, which he took in stride. He moved his gaze to the minotaur by the door, noting the blood dripping from his arm. Then his gaze went back to Vale.

“I can fix your friend up Lady. No problems. What about the rest of you?” He said with a professional tone of someone who didn’t believe a word they said.

“Give us a few healing draughts and some anti-werevenom, we’ll be fine. Most of this is superficial.” Ban responded.

Ian nodded in mute agreement. With the adrenaline of combat wearing off it left him feeling drained and hollow. He recalled how potent those healing potions were. Last time it had fixed his broken arm, and this time he only had a few scrapes, and a cracked rib, and wounded pride.

With a shrug the healer took Mal into the back, Vale followed behind. Ban made himself comfortable in the waiting area. He pulled his hammer from the clasp on his back before he sat heavily on the nearest chair. Ian went to the watering station. A stack of cups sat on a table beside a large basin. After a minute of examining several spoons and utensils hanging over the basin of water, he let out a huff and dipped the cups in by hand to fill them. Then he joined Ban, passing the minotaur his cup before sliding into the seat beside him.

“So,” Ian began, “How does healing work here? I’m guessing the doctor isn’t going to sew Mal’s wound closed and send him back out here with weeks of recovery ahead.”

“This clinic has a priest who should be able to fix Mal up as good as new, though I don’t know how long it will take,” Ban replied with a snort, “It depends on his skill and the severity of the injury. I have seen some who are powerful enough to cure almost any ailment in minutes,” Ban said leaning back in his seat, “Doctors are the priests or mages on your world, yes?”

“Not exactly,” Ian said. “Where I’m from, if you’re sick or injured you go to a doctor or the hospital. They use tests and machines to figure out what’s wrong or tell you to rest and let it get better on its own. If it’s really bad they’ll perform surgery and sometimes keep you for days or weeks afterward.” Noting Ban’s confusion Ian elaborated, “Surgery is where they cut you open to get to the problem area and take it out or fix it, then sew you back up again. Failing that, they make you comfortable until you either get better on your own or you die.”

“Ah, how utterly barbaric. Cutting someone open to heal them sounds very counterintuitive,” Ban said.

“Well, it’s what we have, no magic on Earth so we adapted,” Ian said, though there was an edge to his tone.

“I wasn’t judging,” Ban amended. “Simply stating that to me that sounds painful and as I said barbaric. Healing in Paragore is typically split into two different styles: divine or arcane. Priests heal using faith, asking their god or goddess for blessings to cure the sick and injured. Mages use their raw power to manipulate arcane energy into a mending and repairing quality. Both have their advantages and disadvantages, like all things in balance. For instance, a mage healer is almost useless against physical diseases, like Margut’s Lung, which is easily cured by a priest. On the other hand, any mage could deal with magical ailments, but few priests could hope to reverse even the simplest case of Malowurt’s Curse.”

“I have no idea what those are,” Ian said through his yawn, “But I’m too tired to ask. Our doctors and surgeons fix or attempt to fix just about everything wrong with a person. There are of course faith healers and the like, but they are charlatans in my experience.”

Another dwarf came out from a back office with a tray of potions. Ban remarked that the dwarf’s purple robe marked him as an apprentice. On the tray were two sets of potions, red for the standard healing drought and a thin vial contained a thick purple sludge. The dwarf went over the standard warnings and instructions: sleep is recommended but not required after drinking any healing draught for maximum effectiveness. Seek the attention of your primary healer if injuries persist, etc. While he went over the disclaimer he wrapped and cleaned Ban’s arm, “You can take this off in an hour or so once the potion has done its work.”

The viscous purple liquid was the countermeasure against the unpleasant side effects of lycanthropy.

“Minotaur are nearly immune to lycanthropy,” Ban explained. “But it is better to err on the side of caution than become a mindless beast once a month.” He downed both potions, grimacing as the anti-werevenom went down. Ian swallowed his own, surprised that the red liquid tasted like plain sparkling water. The purple, on the other hand, was reminiscent of a fancy French cheese; tangy and pungent, and unappreciated by Ian’s unrefined palate.

“I did not anticipate such severe attacks this soon. Werewolves are ideal hunters, so long as you don’t want your prey in one piece. And those light darts that they used are hard to come by. They’re called Stunners, and you’re lucky that you can still move after being struck by even one of them,” Ban said once the apprentice was out of earshot.

“We have legends about werewolves and other creatures on Earth. Though silver is supposed to be lethal to them. As for the darts, they hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but I’m glad the effect didn’t last. For whatever reason, that might be,” Ian said.

“They are magical, and that sort of thing does not deteriorate or weaken over time,” Ban said as if sensing Ian’s thoughts. “But I suppose anything is possible. The Under Market does not have a rigorous quality control process. Though the use of such an object tells me they want you alive. But I still don’t understand why they are trying to capture you in the first place. I must ask, what is so important about Ian McClintoc of Earth that the Court would risk exposing themselves?” Ban paused, hoping Ian would chime in with an explanation. The minotaur thinking that perhaps now that Ian had seen Ban defend him there would be trust.

“I honestly don’t know, it must be because I am from another planet. Plane? Realm? Whatever you want to call it. That is all that sets me apart from any other human.” Ian said after a moment’s contemplation.

“Possibly,” Ban said, leaning back in his seat. “But speculation will not aid us, we need to know more.” The long day finally caught up with him, and he felt a wave of exhaustion flow over him. “If you would be kind enough to keep watch while I meditate. I will relieve you in fifteen minutes so that you may rest until the healer has finished with the shadow wolf.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ian agreed absently.

…...

Vale emerged from the back with a no-longer-limping Mal. His usual energetic demeanor waned due to the somnolent effects of the healing process. Still, his silver-red eyes were back to those of a keen hunter.

“He is fine now. His leg is a little on the tender side but nothing he cannot handle.” Pride at her companion’s strength and perseverance beamed from her face as she scratched behind his ears. “We have lingered here long enough though, and odds are good we are still being tracked. We need to get moving, somewhere their eyes will be unable to follow.”

“I have a place,” Ban said opening his eyes from his meditations, “If you trust me enough that is.”

“Then let’s go,” Ian said as he got to his feet.

“Very well,” Vale said as she handed the priest the same green crystal she’d used for the hotel rooms. Indifferent whether the priest heard their conversation or not. She thanked him profusely before they exited the shop.

Ban had the group conceal themselves in the shadows of a nearby alley while he set off to get them a ride. He hailed a covered carriage drawn by two canary-yellow ostrich-like birds. Soft blue lights were hanging from lanterns on either side of the driver’s seat. Between the lights sat by a man dressed in eighteenth-century garb, complete with an immaculate stovepipe hat. They climbed into the carriage and took off towards the edge of the city.

The ride allowed Ian plenty of time to speculate about why the Harlequin Court wanted him. Vale was fussing over Mal like a mother hen. And Ban was lost in his thoughts.

Ian had noticed the minotaur’s questioning gaze on him at one point, but he was too physically exhausted to engage. Instead, his mind raked over several fantasy and sci-fi universes with which he was familiar. He wondered if he could use any of that knowledge in his current surroundings. After all, many of the fantasy tropes held true enough, aside from the silver debacle. Elves enjoyed long lives, gnomes were great inventors, dwarves lived in mountains, and magic was abundant.

There was one major difference between Earth’s fictional escapes and the world of Paragore. Time. Ian had never stopped to think what a few thousand years of development might do for one of those societies. After all, once the wars had been fought it was only natural to pursue the commonly desired luxuries. They had long-distance communication, organized cities with lights, plumbing, free trade, translation services, and even law enforcement. In some form or another, all the comforts of Earth stood right alongside the impossible architecture, exotic animals of his wildest imaginings, and of course floortals.

As the ride continued the street lamps thinned and so did the towering feats of architecture. He realized that he had seen none of the familiar equipment of construction anywhere in Raxal. No cranes to raise structural beams or panes of glass, no digging equipment, not even a single construction worker. He imagined that was handled via magic, like everything else. The image of a man with a lofty conical hat popped into his head, muttering words and waving a wand as bricks floated through the air. A brief grin spread across his lips. Real magic was something Ian never thought he’d see.

His mind raced to understand how this fundamental force existed. What is the source? How does one conjure a fireball? What is creating the magical energy to power all the lights? Are there magic-batteries that die out and get replaced with new ones? These and so many other questions raced through his mind as he stared out the carriage window at the wondrous city. A city that was so vastly different from the one he’d been in the night before. It was lively and busy like New York. Everyone had somewhere they needed to be. It was a stark contrast to the tranquility and calm of the elven nation.

From high above the street a tasseled carpet spiraled downwards. It came to a stop, hovering less than a foot off the sidewalk. A family of dark-skinned humans slipped off the rug and headed into their home. The mother ushered her son while the father chatted with the flying carpet driver. Ian turned his head back into the cab and shut his eyes. It was all so very normal. Even across the universe, people would always be people. It gave him slight comfort to know that even if he couldn’t return home, maybe it wouldn’t be all bad.