Chapter Twelve

  MythHarbor

  The morning passed with Freya and Zora bouncing from house to house across Sarehole. They baked bread with a pair of portly halflings. Zora’s turned out great, all buttery and warm. Freya got distracted by something that looked like the weird bear thing from Animal Crossing and let hers burn. Then they pilfered some fireworks from a crotchety Fable-Walker going on about how ‘that godless Tudor’ ruined the good sense and morals of the English people.

  Now Freya sat in another Hobbit hole. Her chair was comfortable, upholstered with an itchy fabric reminiscent of her grandmother’s floral sofa. Zora stood scrunched beside half a dozen others playing instruments at the far end of the dining hall. She smiled and sang a folksy rendition of Riptide by Vance Joy. That woman could sing. Her voice had a homegrown kind of quality to it. Beautiful, but nothing like the voices Freya heard on the radio.

  In that warm den, with the voice of her friend to soothe her, Freya finally let the tension in her shoulders go. Those she killed deserved what came to them. Freya tugged gently on the stone soldiers hanging from her chest. Regardless of their guilt, she would harbor her own for the sisters and brothers, fathers and…mothers she took away.

  “May I sit?”

  Freya jumped at the voice suddenly right next to her. It was Green Boots, he had knack for moving silently it seemed. If Green Boots noticed he had scared her, he was doing a good job hiding it.

  “Of course,” Freya said.

  “I’m pleased that you’ve made yourself at home.”

  “It’s hard not to.”

  Green Boots leaned back in his chair, his fingers drummed on the armrest. “May I ask you something private?”

  In most cases Freya would have hesitated, but something about the man made her feel comfortable. “Go ahead.”

  “Will you allow the pain of the night’s events to color your view of this realm?”

  That was a question Freya had been asking herself. She still wasn’t sure of her answer. In her wildest imagination she could never see herself killing a person, let alone the number she did last night. There was no other choice. What did it mean for the realm that such a thing had been necessary? The difference in tone between the bloody forest and Sarehole was enough to give her whiplash. It was foolish to think that this realm was all sunshine and rainbows. There was good and there was bad. Despite all the wonders of MythHarbor, it appeared that kind of magic was still as mythical as ever.

  “It is not my intent to upset you. I apologize.”

  Freya wiped away a tear she hadn’t realized was forming. “No it’s alright.” She rested her head against the back of the chair, her hair lightly snagged up in the upholstery. “I can’t act as if last night didn’t happen.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened.”

  Freya frowned at the shadow that had taken over Green Boots. “Sulivar is the one responsible for this.”

  “If not for that bloody Wasp he could have achieved so much. She ruined him.”

  Questions filled Freya’s head. How did he know Sulivar? What kind of promise did he show? It couldn’t be for his writing, which any reasonable person would agree sucked. And if he did show promise, when did he turn away from that? Who was this Wasp character? Though the pain on Green Boots face had her stuff those questions back down. There would be plenty of chances to find out what happened. Instead, she asked another that had been bothering her.

  “There was a boy I saved last night. He had some kind of seizure and this terrible noise came from him. Then he got up as if nothing happened and started talking gibberish. Have you heard of anything like that?”

  If Freya was looking to improve Green Boots’ mood through changing the subject, she completely failed. His face darkened even further.

  “Phantom. A Fable-Walker can remove themselves from this realm. Their spirit returns to the Source, leaving their body in the Harbor. A fragment of themselves will remain behind and live on as a manner of ghost.”

  That wasn’t static she heard, it was the boy’s soul being ripped out of his body. “This kid didn’t have much experience in the Harbor.”

  “It is a technique that can be learned. But it can also happen involuntarily as a consequence of trauma.”

  “That’s horrifying.”

  “It’s a crucial protection. Your world of automobiles and mobile phones has insulated much of the population from common suffering found in your middle ages. While MythHarbor is a land of much wonder, it is also one of much danger. So many Fable-Walkers seek out adventure not realizing the bodily harm they might suffer in the pursuit.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “But you said Sulivar’s attack shouldn’t have happened? Do I need to be afraid or don’t I?” Of course Freya had no intention of being afraid. The previous night proved she was far braver than she thought.

  “There is danger to be sought out. Which your kind have a terrible habit of doing. It is uncommon for good-mannered people to be accosted on the road. Practically unheard of for armies to be seeking out innocent bystanders to slaughter. The Legions have grown bold.”

  Freya clenched her jaw. The Legions. She had done a fine job knocking them around, and that was with no real training. What would she able to do to them once she figured out how to fight?

  Zora smiled at her as she started up another song, Jenny of Oldstones, one of the few good things to come out of that last season of Game of Thrones. What would she have done if Freya wasn’t there last night? Zora knew a little something about fighting, those Witcher swords weren’t just for show. But she burnt herself out with a panicked fireball at the first sign of real danger. It took Freya years not to get the shakes while practicing with the others at her fencing club. Among all the swords and armor it was so easy to forget that these were writers she was dealing with. Fencing wasn’t exactly real combat experience, but it was so far beyond what the average person experienced. Most Fable-Walkers probably never even held a sword until they popped out of The Mind’s Mirror.

  Once Freya fell into the rhythm of bloodshed it really did just feel like another match, albeit the most consequential of her life. It was the aftermath that haunted her. Zora and Roman would have died there. Maybe they would have beat those first two soldiers, but they wouldn’t have escaped those that followed. How many like her friends did die?

  Green Boots clapped softly upon Zora finishing her song. “Your friend has a wonderful voice.”

  Zora’s incredibly light brown hair bounced loose over her shoulders. She laughed with another young woman who had been playing the Ocarina. Freya was a lucky woman. It was barely noon and today was already among the best in her life. And she had come so perilously close to losing it all. Freya clenched her fists. She needed more pages.

  She looked over to Green Boots but found that he was gone. That one liked his theatrics.

  Freya worked her away from the den, a small group of Fable-Walkers blocked the door. One, a man in standard plate armor jabbed his finger at a similar figure half a foot shorter.

  “You can’t just generalize people! The Orodelions and Bygone League are discriminating against an entire planet of people,” The man said

  “The Bygone quite literally exists because our world is constantly changing. I’d be pissed too if my whole civilization collapsed because a bunch of nerds changed their reading preferences.” The voice behind the armor was also male, he sounded young.

  “The Harbor wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for us.”

  “Yes they do love having that rubbed in their face.”

  That was a topic Freya didn’t want to touch with a ninety foot pole. She squeezed past the group and out of the house. It felt like there was no way she could get a grasp on everything that was happening in this realm. She was just a few days in and absorbing sponging up all the information she could, but it was an entire world. Were there other lands beyond this continent? There had to be.

  In fairness, Freya didn’t know everything there was to know about the Source either. There were actual wars being fought in the Source and she had no idea why or what for. She also had no interest in finding out. Once she learned about something it felt like she had to pick a side. It if came down to swallowing a bag of rusty nails or getting involved in politics, Freya would take the nails every time. Perhaps things were different here and it wouldn’t be so unpleasant. Judging from the conversation she just walked through, that was unlikely.

  Though that is what she was doing now wasn’t it? Sulivar was the head of a nation, a nation Freya dreamed up myriad ways to topple in the few hours since she killed a pile of their soldiers. If all went her way she would be planting a dirty bomb in their capitol by the end of the year. It was funny how the Harbor’s politics suddenly mattered once it affected her personally. While she didn’t intend to start volunteering at the local party headquarters in the Source, she suddenly understood that people that needed to.

  Freya spotted a football field sized grove in the midst of all the homes. The larger walking paths branched off onto several small trails that winded throughout the trees. A large group was playing some form of kickball at the far end of the field. She smiled as several of the players bolted into the trees in search of the ball which had just sailed past them.

  Just past the players stood the figure she saw the night previous. Black cloak, which in the sunlight was more a midnight blue. Its face was obscured, the hood shouldn’t have obscured her face so much, there was something more at work there. Most concerning of all though was the full size farmer’s scythe resting at the figure’s side. That certainly wasn’t a great sign.

  The figure stared at her from beneath its too-dark hood.

  As much as Freya wanted to run straight for the figure and demand it explain what the hell it was doing, she knew acknowledging it would only cement the growing unease within. Things were going to go off the rails in the coming days and weeks, the least she could allow herself is a day free of getting intimidated by her new stalker. She turned toward the far side of the field, everything in her wanted to look back, but she couldn’t. Besides, she was surrounded by serious magic users. If the figure meant her harm, this would be a bad place to try something.

  Freya kicked off her boots and wiggled her bare feet in the grass. It was devastatingly soft, like she was standing on a thick carpet. The warmth of the sun-baked grass radiated up through her legs. She tucked her boots under her arm and cut across the paths. As if the Harbor detected what she needed, a breeze kicked up bringing the scent of wildflowers with it. She leaned her head back, allowing the sun to beat directly on her face. It wasn’t the oppressive kind of sunlight found in the height of summer, but the gentle heat of a warm fall day.

  The tension Freya had let build in her shoulders softened. Sometimes her brain just needed to take a hike. All her fears, plans, and aspirations kept her from enjoying the moment. She was safe here, and she didn’t need to be doing anything. The group playing kickball let out a chorus of cheers and groans. The ball went far beyond the perimeter of the grove and through the open front door of a modest brick home.

  Freya slid her boots on and jogged toward the group. It wouldn’t hurt to keep herself a little busy.