Dream II: The Realm Read online

  Dream II: The Realm

  By RW Krpoun

  Copyright 2016 by Randall Krpoun. All Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1530500932

  ISBN-10: 1530500931

  Dedicated to my wife Ann; and to my sister Sandy for introducing me to the Lord of the Rings, and for the use of her plant lights to read them by.

  Chapter One

  Shad had just gotten to sleep after eighteen hours on duty when the theme to Red Dwarf sounded from the plastic milk crate that served as his nightstand. He tried to ignore it, but the song cycled and finally, cursing bitterly, he struggled over to the side of his bed, which was a king-sized mattress and box springs sitting on the floor, and grabbed the phone.

  “Derek, you are a dead man,” he snarled.

  “Get over here now.” The iron in Derek’s voice startled Shad-he hadn’t heard the Radio Shack manager talk like that in years.

  “Where and why?” Shad sat up, pushing the camouflaged poncho liner away.

  “Fred’s place. His daughter has been taken.”

  “Kidnapped or abducted?” Shad was on his feet and heading for his closet.

  “Taken.”

  “This isn’t a Liam what’s-his-face movie, Derek.”

  “She was taken by the same kind of people who took us.” Derek was keeping his voice low.

  Shad froze in the act of pulling a pair of jeans off a hanger. “Bullshit,” he whispered.

  “No lie, GI. We have to get her back.”

  “How? Its invitation-only, and we burned our bridges pretty damn effectively nearly three years ago.”

  “They left us a key,” Derek sighed. “Can you get some time off from work?”

  Shad shook his head, trying to think. “Yeah…yeah, they won’t have any papers ready for two or three days.”

  “That’s plenty. We’re at Fred’s place, around back.”

  “Are you seriously talking about going back?”

  “Unless we can figure something else out, yeah.”

  “Man…first Iraq, then going there once…why us?”

  “Just lucky. Get here quick, don’t bother to bring any hardware.”

  “This sucks.” Shad hit the screen and tossed the phone onto his bed, followed by the jeans. “Screw it-I’m going to take one last shower.”

  The others were already gathered in the little workshop that was Fred’s man-cave when Shad came around the house, walking through the warm Texas night. Derek was sitting on the back of the sofa studying a sheet of paper, frowning in concentration; he looked up and grinned tiredly as Shad entered. Derek was a slender blondish man of thirty years who managed a Radio Shack while living off a diet of stress and Doctor Pepper. A dedicated neat freak, Derek was the conscience and motivator of the quartet, having managed to retain a sense of wonder despite a tour in Iraq (which left him with a stainless steel rod along his spine and four fused disks). Although he was the nicest of the four, the Radio Shack manager also had an inner well of fury within him, a core of anger that (albeit rarely) could propel the pleasant-faced man into a berserker-like rage.

  Fred was pacing the length of the room, growling to himself, his fists clenched in rare fury. Their host was a hulking man of six-two, solid from his job as a warehouse man for Coors but with a growing beer gut from his employee discount. Normally Fred was the quiet and calm one of the four, soft-spoken and more of a thinker than any of the others. He wore his dark hair burr-cut on the sides and back, with the top worn long and pulled into a thin rat-tail queue which made him look a bit like a biker caught outside his vest. Fred wasn’t calm now, though, and Shad slapped him on the shoulder in passing.

  Jeff was seated at Fred’s computer studying the screen intently. A high school Shop teacher, Jeff looked the part, being tall, slender and of a scholarly mien, a look that was enhanced by his wire-rim glasses and close-cut brown hair, balding pate, and neat mustache. “Hey, Shad,” he said absently without turning around. Jeff was Fred’s closest friend and the group’s jack of all trades and self-proclaimed intellectual.

  “So what is going on, specifically?” Shad demanded. He was traditionally the group’s de facto leader, a situation that had begun when he was the squad leader of the infantry squad which had included all four, and that role had continued within their milsim paintball team and gaming group. It was a leadership based more on force of personality than ability, as Shad’s people skills were minimal. What he lacked in charm he made up for with an unshakable conviction in his own beliefs and a completely unquestioning outlook on life. Doubt and empathy were things that, in Shad’s world, happened to other people.

  “You want the long version or the short version?” Derek asked.

  “I want to know what is going on.”

  “Well, Ashley was missing when Sara went to check on her before going to bed herself,” Derek sighed. Sara was Fred’s wife, and Ashley was his year-old daughter. Fred was the only one of the group who was married, although Jeff was divorced. “This was left in her place,” he held up the paper he had been reading.

  “And what does it say?” Shad worked his neck to ease the kink with which he had awakened. He was a square-built man of thirty-three, average in height and of unremarkable features save for a thick scar vertically bisecting his left eyebrow. His brown hair was worn in a savage burr that was one clipper guide from stubble, and his dark eyes were seldom still or focused on whom he was speaking to; Shad always seemed to be pondering something else. Or possibly discounting everything else.

  “Basically she was snatched by a group in the other place as leverage. If we come to them, they will return her at the same time. Once we’re there, we have to fulfill certain conditions to get back.”

  “What conditions?”

  “It doesn’t say, but you can guess.”

  “We’re screwed.”

  “Pretty much. By the way, it’s a package deal-all four go, or no Ashley.”

  Shad waved a hand. “That’s no issue. But what guarantee is there that she comes back if we go?”

  “They have a verification deal in place-Sara can send us a message after we arrive. I’m working up code words.”

  Shad shook his head. “Man, going back into that nightmare-I would rather invade Iraq again.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Derek slapped his lower back. He had gotten his steel rod from an IED; the same roadside bomb had thrown Shad into the breech of a M-2 heavy machinegun, leaving him with the scar above his left eye. “I came back intact from that place.” He rubbed his chest. “Well, mostly.”

  “So how do we get back there? I thought we shut the door?”

  “Every time a door closes, another opens,” Jeff intoned without turning around.

  “Thanks for that enlightening observation,” Shad shot Jeff the finger.

  Derek held up the sheet of paper, displaying four black disks and a red one. “Seals. The black ones are our key, we apply them to a scar from the wards we had in the the first run; the red seal is how Sara sends the message.”

  “How long since the kid vanished?”

  “Two hours and change, probably. No more, maybe a little less.”

  “Damn,” Shad shook his head. “It’s a month there for each hour here. I feel like we’re being stampeded into something.”

  “Its very rushed,” Derek agreed.

  “This is a textbook method for an ambush, and we left some very bitter enemies behind us.”

  “What choice do we have?” Jeff shrugged. “We can’t bring anything with us, we can’t control or even affect where we come through, or anything else. Either we dance to their tune or we write off Ashley.”

  “Jeff, what are you doing?” Shad snapped.

  “Searching to the east of us for murders or unexpe
cted deaths in men of our age group or lower. Then I Google the names to see if they have any links to gaming.”

  Shad thought about that. “You think they grabbed other gamers before they came to us? How? We shut down the roads, and in any case the gaming angle doesn’t work anymore-we fixed that.”

  “I’ve found an entire gaming group in Birmingham, England, that ended up dead. They’re saying it was complications from take-out food gone bad, but from the way the article is written the authorities are dancing around the situation. Could be nothing, but…”

  “That’s how they did it last time,” Derek sighed. “You die there, your body comes back here.”

  “So maybe they tried others before they decided to summon us,” Shad mused. “And this time they’re not just snatching us in our sleep.”

  “They can’t, remember? We have to banish ourselves in order to go back,” Derek pointed out.

  “Jeff, you keep in touch with Sam-is he still in place?”

  “Yeah, he posted on Facebook about ten minutes ago. I sent a ‘how are you doing’ message and it’s business as usual for him.”

  “Interesting,” Shad wearily rubbed his face.

  “We need to get going,” Fred snarled, stopping in the middle of the room, his big hands flexing.

  “Yeah,” Shad said slowly, thinking hard. “Look, I know we can’t bring gear through, but is there anything we can do in preparation before we go?”

  “I can’t think of anything we could do within our time frame,” Jeff shut down the computer and swiveled the chair to face the others. “And I’m with Shad: we’re being rushed, most likely on purpose.”

  “That could be the result of the time difference,” Derek pointed out. “Is everyone square with work?”

  “Let’s go,” Fred urged.

  “Have you briefed Sara?” Derek pointed the paper at Fred.

  “Sort of. Maybe.”

  “She thinks you’re nuts, right?” Shad shook his head. “OK, Derek, what does that paper say exactly?”

  “Black Talons,” Derek read aloud. “We have the child Ashley. If you each apply a black seal to a mark of power you will journey to our place of being, and the child will be returned at once. Then there’s a paragraph on how to send the message. You will need to remake yourselves anew, but much of your previous power remains for your use, and we have placed some material wealth and horses at your disposal. To return yourselves to your home you must perform certain acts of valor in the pursuit of a true and just cause. Its signed ‘Cecil’ and a last name I can’t make out.”

  “Odd phrasing,” Jeff observed in his role as the self-proclaimed group intellectual. “But they have definitely heard of us.” The four had operated as four sell-swords under the title of The Black Talons on their previous otherworldly expedition.

  “Make ourselves anew? Our previous power? They’re talking about classes and levels,” Shad shook his head. “Or at least that’s what I get.”

  “Yeah,” Derek agreed and Jeff nodded.

  “We broke the level system,” Shad jabbed a finger at the floor. “Banishing ourselves makes sense given what we learned about…travel issues. But levels and classes?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Jeff observed.

  “OK, Derek, go brief Sara on the message code and we’ll go. One thing: if classes are back in use I’m off healing duty,” Shad announced. “Never again.”

  “Dibs on magic!” Derek yelled and trotted out of the shed.

  “I’ll take healing,” Jeff offered. “You and Fred go with the fighting line, and Derek can pick up a level or two in thieving.”

  “I can’t believe we’re going to have to do this again,” Shad shook his head.

  “We’ve had a little longer to think about it than you,” Jeff said sympathetically. “But yeah, it sucks out loud.”

  “If they have hurt Ashley…,” Fred began, trailing off as Jeff laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “They’ll regret summoning us before this whole business is over,” the Shop teacher assured him. “We’ll do stuff that would appall Shad.”

  “Damn straight,” that worthy nodded. “We’ll make Iraq look like Woodstock.”

  “OK, Sara is as up to speed as she’s going to be,” Derek bustled back in.

  “You have to cover thieving,” Shad pointed at the Radio Shack manager. “Jeff has healing, me and Fred are on the fighting line. You can still go with magic, too. Everybody pick up at least three day’s rations, and Fred, you aquire basic cooking gear for the group.”

  “OK.” Derek carefully peeled a black seal off the paper and gingerly applied it to the left-most of a row of nickel-sized scars on his left forearm. “Nothing so far.”

  “It’s a group package,” Jeff observed, slipping a seal free and applying it to his arm, followed by Fred.

  “This is really stupid,” Shad shook his head as he accepted the paper. “Fred can have another kid. Back in the old days parents accepted a certain amount of wastage within the family.” He carefully applied the seal to a scar. “Well, now wh…AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  It felt like his arm was being slowly sawed off with a rusty hacksaw, a pain so blinding that Shad lost all sensation save that of agony; when it faded, seconds or a lifetime later he found himself seated in a library-like setting in a dream-like but blessedly pain-free state of mind. This library was different than the first one he had experienced, as there was no voice-over, the illumination came from lamps that strongly resembled kerosene lanterns, and the physical structure had a definite Southwestern feel, but he didn’t waste much time in pondering the scenery.

  The familiar character sheet was before him, with books stacked to the sides, and the rest of the group was further down the table. As before the form filled itself out as he concentrated and made decisions. He had four levels’ worth of experience and a sizeable amount of duro, which apparently were the local currency. Aware that time was limited he made his choices, scowling over the options. Dimly he could hear his comrades muttering, although the words came to him as if he were underwater. He guessed they were as confused as he was.

  After too little time the scene dimmed away to nothing, like when nitrous oxide grabbed hold in a dentist’s chair.

  Sensation returned after an indeterminate amount of time and he found himself seated on a sun-bleached wooden kitchen chair in a sunny copse of trees. A fire pit mounded with cold ashes was in front of him, and his three comrades sat in similar chairs around the fire pit. Four saddled horses were tied to handy trees some distance away.

  Shad took stock: he was wearing what he would have called black flat-heeled cowboy boots, black pants that were similar to dress jeans, a white shirt, a charcoal vest, and a black string tie. A Stetson that matched his vest shaded him from the sun, and a gun belt supported two Colt Peacemakers with seven and a half inch barrels, the revolvers worn cross-draw. Filled cartridge loops lined the back of the gun belt. A bedroll, a riot-length double-barreled shotgun in a saddle scabbard, a wood canteen, and a pair of fat saddlebags were at his feet. Reflexively he drew a Colt, thumbed the hammer to half-cock, flipped open the loading gate, and spun the cylinder. Bright cartridge bases flashed past as the cylinder spun.

  Holstering the weapon he turned to his companions. Fred was dressed in similar boots, dungarees, a work shirt and a fringed leather coat, with a tall droopy brown hat adding to his height. He was armed with a Sharps rifle whose long and hexagonal barrel suggested it was the famed bison-killing ‘Big Ninety’, a holstered revolver, and a long Bowie knife.

  Jeff wore well-shined black boots, dark dress pants (albeit made of a tougher material than Shad associated with dress pants), a gray vest with swirls of colored embroidery, a white shirt with a gray ascot, a loose light-weight black frock coat, and an ivory flat-crowned ‘rancher’ style hat. Bulges under the jacket suggested a pair of handguns in shoulder holsters, and a Winchester rifle was in a saddle scabbard next to his saddlebags.

  Derek was rummaging desperatel
y through his saddlebags. He was wearing dungarees, a work shirt, and a dark brown derby; his gun belt supported a Le Mat revolver, and a Spencer carbine was in a saddle scabbard by his chair.

  “What in the hell…,” Shad started, only to be interrupted by Fred suddenly bellowing and jumping to his feet, clutching his right forearm.

  “What?” Jeff asked, standing with a hand sliding under his coat.

  “THIS!” Fred pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, exposing a small barbed fish hook jammed into the pale flesh of his right forearm, a folded bit of paper tied to the shank of the fish hook.

  “Hold still.” Derek scooted over and carefully untied the paper.

  “What about the hook!” Fred demanded.

  “I’m not the healer,” Derek shrugged, unfolding the note. “Ask Jeff.”

  “JEFF!”

  “What? Its just a little hook,” the Shop teacher shrugged.

  “Take care of it,” Fred snarled.

  “Fine,” Jeff rummaged in his bags and produced a pair of cast-iron needle-nose pliers. “Hold still.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  “Bite on a bullet or something,” the Shop teacher advised him. “This is going to hurt like the blazes.”

  “What’s the note?” Shad asked.

  “It’s a code-word from Sara: Ashley is back, safe and sound.”

  “Thank the…EEEHHHEEWWWAAARRRGGHH…Lord,” Fred gasped as Jeff grimly extracted the hook. “Jeff, you suck as a medic.”

  “Next time you be the healer. Until then quit whining. Here,” he handed the big man a bandage. “Wrap it up.”

  “I didn’t think anyone could have a worse bedside manner than Shad,” Fred muttered. “Turns out I was wrong. Are you sure that the note is from Sara?”

  “Yup,” Derek tucked the note away. “I set up the code just minutes before I gave it to her, and no one else knows it but her and me. Other than the ability to grab people in their sleep the locals don’t have a lot of power in the real world.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Fred repeated, his voice muffled as he held one end of the bandage’s binding strip between his teeth as he wound the cloth over the gouge in his arm.