Chapter Eleven

  A Quiet Place

  The earthen roof above their temporary accommodations was a better place than any to watch the sunrise. As light broke the moonless night, Freya finally got a good look at Sarehole. The village sprouted out from from a fork in a large but calm river. Right at the fork was a modestly sized mill sporting a classic water wheel. A few old brick houses dotted the lush green field surrounding the mill.

  Those were an oddity. Most structures along the winding paths leading from the mill were a mixture of earthen homes and strange two story structures with gigantic doors on each side that opened the whole first floor like a pavilion. Some of the earthen homes were more traditional, with standard doors and windows. While others, like the one she was sitting atop now, were built to resemble the hobbit holes in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy.

  As the generously spaced homes continued, more and more earthen homes in the style of Jackson’s hobbit holes could be found. Numerous groves of trees were interspersed between the homes, shops, and winding roads. With a large forest covering the western bank of the river and continuing for an unknown distance beyond.

  People of all shapes, colors, and sizes began to emerge from their homes. Some were busy opening up the wall-sized doors on their pavilion homes. Others took a moment to check on the gardens. Most walked out into the streets to say hello to their neighbors.

  There looked to be three distinct groups of people. First, were what Freya could only assume were the original residents of this area. They were a range of heights, from about average height in the source realm, down to just a hair under four feet tall. All of them seemed to have the body proportions that might be common in people with dwarfism. Long torsos, with shorter legs and arms.

  Yet another area in which Freya was woefully ignorant.

  The second group of people were those who were distinctly not human. So also from MythHarbor, but probably not from this area originally. There were the generally tall and slender elves. Dwarves with thick arms and round bellies, orcs with oversized teeth and green skin. Then several more distinct species that Freya couldn’t easily name, some with transparent skin, others that walked on two legs awkwardly like a dog performing for a treat

  The third group were obviously Fable-Walkers. Large numbers of them were dressed in easily recognizable outfits from her years of reading and consuming other media. Several wore straight up copies of outfits from popular shows and books. Aes Sedai, imitations of popular crawlers from Dungeon Crawler Carl, and various different replicas of armor from RuneScape could all be spotted regularly. There was even one woman walking around in a red command uniform from Stark Trek: The Next Generation.

  Most people were avoiding her at all costs.

  Many wore simple trousers and multicolored tunics. The only thing that set them apart were the large sigils on their cloaks. Stark Direwolves, the angular red hawk of House Atreides, the flamel topped with a crown that the Elric Brothers in Fullmetal Alchemist sport. So many wore those thin cloaks with hoods that it was probably some kind of cliche here.

  Most odd of all was the small groups of people clad in black iron walking along the riverbank. Each wore the red hog emblazoned on the Black Knight’s chest in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. This wasn’t just an isolated occurrence. She could easily spot at least seven different groups of the Black Knights. Freya added that to the distressingly large list of things to investigate later.

  Out of everything, the orcs, the Black Knights, and the too-tall hobbits, the most exciting thing was how all of these different groups intermingled. As morning rose and night fell, these initially homogeneous groups splintered and joined together with others. Like mixing seasonings in a bowl, the different groups had become so interconnected that it had become extremely difficult to pick them apart.

  Four sets of hide boots in differing colors stepped up next to Freya. One green, one red, one black, and one brown.

  “I pray your stay has been comfortable?” Asked the pair of green boots.

  Freya got to her feet. Green boots was a man with a grand smile, dressed as one would expect a ranger to. Simple leathers accented with green dye in places. A black cloak draped over his shoulders. To his left was Red Boots, a woman, she looked on Freya with a smile just like Green Boots. Her outfit was a bit more plain. She wore a shirt with puffed sleeves. Over that was a black corset loosely tied, matched with a black skirt that fell just above her ankles.

  Both Black Boots and Brown Boots wore more recognizable clothes, if a bit dated. Black boots was in an antique soldier’s uniform, Freya was no military buff, so it was hard to say much past it being old. His face had a distinct lack of warmth compared to the others. Brown boots on the other hand wore a simple white sweater and trousers, and now that Freya was getting a close look, he wasn’t truly wearing boots at all. Just a pair of leather shoes.

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  “It was wonderful, were you the people who offered up this place?”

  Green boots nodded. “It was no inconvenience. A house is happier with people in it.” His voice was gravely, yet somewhat high pitched.

  Freya looked back over the town, now rife with activity. “I can’t argue with that. This is a lovely place.”

  “A marked difference from your world?”

  Your world. So this fellow wasn’t familiar. He seemed human enough, as did his companions. She hadn’t been positive if humans were only from the Source Realm, but this seemed to confirm they came from here too. “Yes and no. The village itself actually reminds me of my home in a way. But the way everyone is talking to each other, how the wide open space has been preserved. That is something I’m unaccustomed to.”

  “A challenge to be sure. Particularly with the unending wars out on the plains. Interests from the Source have been of great assistance in maintaining the spirit of this region.”

  “You speak of the Professor? Did you know him?”

  The four of them shared a concerned look. What was that for?

  “The Professor…” Green Boots said slowly. “His influence has been perhaps overstated. He was a man of great power, but there have been thousands of your kind to play a role here.”

  Freya’s heart dropped. Was, past tense. “Of course, he was just one man. I’m certain all of you have played your own vital role here. I don’t mean to diminish that. It’s just…” How could she even say it? These were eloquent people, with far more to worry about than a silly girl dreaming of meeting her hero.

  Brown boots stepped into the silence. He rested a ginger hand on her shoulder. “Go on.”

  “I know we aren’t supposed to talk about who people are in my world. But the Professor, his novels, they have been a lighthouse in every storm of my life.”

  Brown boots eyes shined. “I know the feeling.”

  Freya wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her undershirt. “I’m sorry. You all have been so kind.”

  Green Boots didn’t say anything, he took a step back, and his companions filled in. “You have a bed here for as long as you need,” Black boots said.

  “That is very generous. When I have a few adventures I hope to take up permanent residence here. I mean to be of value to this community, is there anything you would recommend I specialize in at Esselem?”

  “No matter what, you will be of value to this community. Learn all that you can, as any good student surely must. We will welcome your return,” Red boots said.

  No words seemed a proper response to the kindness they had shown her. They seemed to understand that, and gave her a slight nod before trudging down the hill top. She watched them split up and work their way into the various groups that were milling around the village. They were welcomed with smiles and pats on the back. What must that be like? To be part of something so special, to be welcomed every morning with joy? Freya thought of her father’s smile every morning when she stumbled bleary eyed into the kitchen.

  It probably felt something like that didn’t it?

  #

  “This way new girl!” A tall orc from across the street waved her toward a large building with the walls lifted up like garage doors. Tables and chairs lined the space where a number of people were eating and drinking.

  Freya considered ignoring the man, if this was the Source she certainly would have, but something told her she didn’t need to worry about the same things that young women from her world did. Her chest tightened in the way it always did before beginning something new and exciting. What could go wrong?

  “You look like you could eat,” the orc said. “How about a bowl?” He held up a ladle of something that smelled like a cross between chili and beef stew.

  The mystery substance didn’t look great, but the smell was terribly enticing. She feared letting go of what little was in her stomach if she ate. The wounds of the night before were still suppressing her appetite.

  Her wounds. So much had happened that she didn’t even think to check on what state she was in. Obviously it couldn’t have been too bad if it took this long to remember how badly she had been hurt. Freya felt for the myriad cuts she had taken in her fights, only thin white scars remained. The deep wounds in her leg and stomach still lingered, but they looked as if they had been taken weeks ago, not just the night before. Someone had healed her. All the miracles of modern medicine couldn’t have done this much for her. It had to be magic

  The orc waggled the ladle, a bit of the stew dripped onto the ground.

  “I can’t.” Freya rested her hand on her stomach. It would be poor manners to vomit all over this guy’s floor.

  “A drink perhaps?”

  “I don’t think anything will sit right.”

  The orc’s mouth quirked down, his lip tugging on his oversized teeth. “Sit, I have just the thing.”

  Freya reached out to stop him, but he disappeared through the small crowd. The absolute last thing she needed was some medieval stomach remedy made with beets and horse urine.

  The orc returned as quickly as he had gone, he held a small frosted mug. “This will help.”

  “I really don’t…” Freya took the drink, the chill sent a shiver down her spine. She cocked her head, it was amber in color and carbonated. “What is this?”

  “Questions later, drink now.”

  Freya shrugged, then took a sip. Then another. And another. It was ice-cold and sweet, with a mild ginger note.

  “Ginger ale? Where the hell did you get ginger ale?”

  The orc’s cheeks flushed then he mumbled something unintelligible before clicking his heels together. A pair of large palm sized wheels materialized in the heels of his shoes. He got a running start before leaning back onto his heels, the wheels engaged and carried him down the winding roads and out of sight.

  Freya narrowed her eyes. Did that asshole just roofie her?

  “The Cavaliers are quite something aren’t they?” Zora took at the table beside Freya.

  “Am I going to wake up in fantasy Las Vegas tomorrow with a Mike Tyson tattoo on my face?”

  Zora took Freya’s ginger ale and took a quick drink. She grimaced. “Well that’s not great.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s ginger ale. Past that? Nothing.”

  Freya snatched the mug back. Some people have no taste. “So it’s just ginger ale?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Then why did he run-” But he didn’t run. He rolled. She was so concerned with being drugged that she didn’t clock that the orc was wearing Heelys. “Why did he take off like that?”

  “The Cavaliers are very private regarding their recipes. They love to share their food, but if they get questioned on how they can perfectly replicate Source food, they roll away just like that.”

  “So they all wear the Heelys?”

  “The founders heard about Meals on Wheels and were…inspired.”

  Freya took another sip of her Ginger Ale. This place was so fucking weird.