A World Called Memory Read online

  The leather armour covered my chest and stomach and had a small skirt at the base to cover my hips and backside, flaring out a little so it wouldn’t impair my movement. I tried a few high kicks and was amazed again. Wow, I was flexible and fast—faster than I’d been in real life.

  Something was rustling at my elbows, kind of like a twitch. I turned my arm up and noticed a small twig sprouting there, with two small leaves. On the left elbow was the same, but with just one little leaf. They tingled slightly as I looked at them. Clearly, they were a natural part of me, but damn, they were weird.

  And then it hit me. I’d done it. This was my first day in this world, and I was no longer human—I was an elf. Shit. Not Australian, not human. I was a wood elf, with no real idea what that meant. The question was, could I let go of the past? This was the ultimate in fresh starts… I felt prickles up my skin, as I shivered with the realisation.

  This place was real. No amount of rational argument could ever replace actual experience. And there was no way in nine hells that Memory was a human construct. This was no game. I’d been transported to another world, like John Carter, and would have to make what sense of it I could. I got a little bit excited then, almost dancing on the spot.

  Propped against the tree beside me was my quarterstaff, so I picked it up. It was made of ash, which I realised with a small jolt of pleasure was information handed to me though my wood elf heritage. I wasn’t planning to be an alchemist, but I guessed I now had some access to information about plants and botany which I could make use of.

  The weapon (also doubling as a long walking stick) was solid and reassuring. There were some worn patches along its length and what looked like knife-made cross-hatches at two even intervals, large enough for each of my hands. Overall the ash was smooth, but the hatches gripped my palms comfortably. I wondered if it was better to use with gloves or bare skin, and if I would get some kind of combat bonus if I got one made from sequoia.

  I looked around. I was definitely in a forest. It wasn’t too dense in the immediate vicinity, due to the large oak beside me. I could feel a certain harmony from the trees—something intangible, but definitely pleasant. In fact, as I paid attention to it, I could definitely feel the spirit of the forest, the aliveness around me, and the ebb and flow of energy from the earth to the sky and back again.

  I could also feel a gentle pull, like an extra heartbeat, that I somehow knew came from the direction of my home-tree. My elas-baum. I didn’t know where the words came from, but they fit. Low elvish, ilya—the words of the forest.

  I took a long drink of water from the stream that flowed beside me and made sure my water flask was full. Lacking anything better to do, I set off in the direction of my Tree, to the north. The forest floor didn’t bother my bare feet, but I thought it would be better to get boots sooner rather than later. This area of forest had sparse undergrowth due to the trees, mostly oak and other evergreens, but still had areas of windblown dead leaves and smaller shrubs in places. I made good time, my movements unhurried, but I covered the ground at an easy fast walk, instinctively navigating the rise and fall of the land.

  My long grey hair, tied off at the neck, swished on my back, which was also comforting. From my past understanding of stereotypes, I guessed most elves were a little vain about their appearance and hair—and well, I felt a bit that way myself. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure if that was coming from me or my newfound possession of this body and race. It was confusing, as I was feeling a little odd—was I a wood elf, or a human, or some weird mix? Despite my earlier thoughts, my attachment to my old self wasn’t likely to just disappear by wishing it so.

  Crack! The burst of sound shot through the quiet forest like a whip, stopping me in my tracks. It sounded like something heavy falling, or being thrown. The leaves at my elbow seemed to twitch somehow, as if in warning. I slowly weaved between a few trees and peered out into a clearing. A small, hunched figure sat atop a small but solid wood and metal wagon, while two large men argued with him. The first was holding the reins of the horse pulling the wagon, while the other had jammed his spear between the metal spokes of the rear wheel to further stop it from moving. A crate had fallen out of the back of the wagon—that must have been responsible for the noise I’d heard. The figure on the wagon didn’t look human; more like some kind of small rock-man… a gnome, perhaps? It was hard to tell.

  “Oi, me! Of all the—!” The little man was pointing a finger emphatically at the larger of the two. I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d stumbled onto, but typically when two bigger guys face off against a smaller guy, rarely did the smaller guy do anything wrong. The small guy in question did look neat and tidy, with his trim pants, vest, elf-like boots, and groomed spiked up hair. Whereas the other two looked worn, unshaven and unwashed. It was clear they were up to no good. I trusted the instincts I’d honed over more than a decade.

  “Now, now squirt. No need to get overexcited. Just ‘and over all yer valuables, and we’ll just go off peaceful-like…” the big one said.

  Ah, a hold up. And then I realised they were not speaking English, and I was understanding it. The knowledge of the language popped into my head—it was called Trade, a human tongue that had been adopted by most races as the lingua franca.

  “All me… yer daft, ye gibbering monkey! Ye’ll get naught but elvish arrows up yer arse in these parts!” The little man vainly tried to tug the reins out of the larger man’s hands.

  “Now yer just bein’ difficult. I think we’ll have to take yer ‘orse as well, seein’ as ‘ow yer can’t stop us. ‘Sides, I knows fer a fact the Elvish got themselves theyz spiritual holidays today, while Ei is full, so ain’t no one to ‘ear you scream, neither.” The two brigands smirked at each other, obviously pleased with themselves.

  “Gibbering monkey…” This time the little man only muttered, as he was obviously starting to get worried. He shook his head sadly. “I ain’t got much, honest…”

  “None o’ that, rock-fer-brains. Come down from the wagon, before I get Janks here to spread yer guts from ‘ere to Geras.” He gestured impatiently.

  The gnome seemed to swell up for a moment, then visibly deflated. The two bandits’ level of tension seemed to ease a bit in tandem. “All right, ye win. I’ll give yer me cash. Just let me keep me horse, by Odgallum.”

  The bandit who’d been doing most of the talking guffawed loudly. “Yer callin’ on yer gnomish god, little man? Yer hear that, Janks? Weiz gonna get struck down by the holy hammer o’ gnome! Har har!”

  Janks joined in half-heartedly, clearly bothered by the thought of divine visitation. “Now, Bunko, I wouldn’t be blaspheming if I were you…”

  “Stop yer whining, Janks. There ain’t no Gods or holy hammers in these parts… just keep yer shirt on.”

  I took that as my cue and walked out from the tree line.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I replied.

  The bandit on the rear wheel jumped at least a foot upward and sideways, letting go of his spear, while the leader snapped his head around to look in my direction.

  “Well, well, Janks, what do we have ’ere?”

  “Gahhhh!” Janks had both hands out, as if to ward off evil spirits.

  I focused on Bunko. “A dryad? Where in the hells did you come from?” he muttered.

  He was glaring at me, so I spoke up, “From thataway.” I gestured vaguely behind me. “But hey, bucko, looks like you’re out of luck today. Why don’t you just walk off thataway”—this time I gestured back down the road from where the wagon had come—“before you get into some trouble, eh?”

  “Oh-ho. So that’s the way it is.” Slowly, he let go of the reins, his hand resting on the sword by his hip. “Janks… Janks! Stop your gibbering. It ain’t no evil spirit. Just a daft elf in rags come to get his ass-whupping.” He glared at me. “I think ye should be the one to shove off thataway…” He gestured the same way I had. “Go on, fuck off. This ain’t none of yer business.”

  Seeing as
how the fellow was still talking, I popped open my skills screen and blinked on Breath of Life. As I thought this ability would be best to have running almost all the time—regardless of whether I took damage or not, it was great insurance just in case. Then I made a quick little run at Janks. Take out the minion first…

  Janks wasn’t completely taken off-guard. He shuffled back and quickly grabbed his spear from where it was jammed in the rear wheel. I still came on, thrusting the staff at his head before he could skewer me. I only managed to clip his ear, but it was still enough for him to let go of his spear again. Spinning the staff in a short, vicious, upward chop, I connected solidly. I winced involuntarily as I felt the man’s testicles crunch, but not as much as he did. He promptly crumpled to the ground, groaning.

  Turning quickly, I only just managing to avoid the thrust of Bunko’s broadsword. I skipped back a step while he set himself again.

  “Yer gonna die, fuckin’ elf,” he growled, his look deadly.

  “Well, well, bucko, don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” I replied calmly, even though my heart was beating madly. Balancing on the balls of my feet, I waited to see how he would move. I had the longer weapon and more reach, but he was covered in more armour. He was wearing leather from head to toe, including skull cap, arm braces, and shoulder guards.

  “Me name’s Bunko Minaris, not Bucko!”

  “Not at all, bucko. Bucko you are, and bucko shall you always be—for the length of your now-short life.”

  “Fuck you, chatty elf!”

  I decided on silence and simply shifted back slightly, deepening my stance.

  “Gah!” He thrust at me, which I deflected, but he quickly spun his sword around and thrust again, the blade tracing up my forearm and splitting the skin in a line of blood. Fuck, that hurt! I danced back out of reach, back-pedaling as fast as I could. He approached cautiously, without hurry. He was a good fighter. Shit, probably better than me.

  I was bleeding, but not too badly, as the cut hadn’t been too deep. I kept my staff up and backed up some more. My heal-over-time was repairing some of the damage, but not quickly enough, so I opened the interface again and blinked on Heart of Oak. Ooh, that felt good. Don’t get distracted! The second healing spell should help even further, both of my spells now curing my wounds—slow, but steady and definite.

  We both lunged at the same time, and it was hard to say who was more surprised. I thrust to his chest, while he tried to dodge and cut at me with a sideways slash. I was faster, but he still managed to strike my ribs. My leather absorbed some of it, but not enough. Fuck, that hurt too. Better go all in.

  I thrust again, this time aiming for his weapon and through. He was too close to dodge properly, so he moved in instead. My hit shocked him; his eyes went wide, but now our weapons were trapped. He had one hand on my staff and his sword was pinned to his chest, my staff likewise pinned to me. I knew he was likely stronger, so I simply stayed in close, let go of my staff, and levered my arm under and around his sword-arm.

  I was now on the outside, and with his right arm partly trapped… While he was still counting his victory, holding both weapons, I got him in an arm-lock, then simply applied pressure. He tried swinging his sword, but it was trapped by the arm-bar, his shoulder and elbow locked in place. He didn’t think to use my quarterstaff in his off-hand, so he slipped onto one knee. With a heaving grunt, I ploughed his arm forward. Shhk-pop. His shoulder broke and he sagged limply to both knees. Scooping up my staff, I promptly clubbed him in the head. Crunch.

  Fuck. Intense. Going by the blood slowly leaking out, I thought I’d just killed him. Swallowing back some bile, I tried not to look at the dent in his skull. He didn’t move, nor did his chest rise and fall. He was clearly dead. First time for everything, I thought, a little sadly. I’d been in plenty of scraps before, but never killed anyone. I felt more than a little sick, but shook myself to go check on the other guy. Janks was still groaning, huddled up and barely conscious.

  Strangely enough I also felt kind of happy. Actually there was no ‘kind of’ too it, and not just because of all the endorphins coursing through me. I was decidedly happy. It was so cool to be able to act, not just sit back and watch, or take a more measured response to violence and abuse. Being a bouncer was often boring, but also often a huge pain in the arse to constantly restrain yourself from violence and other urges. It wasn’t like most people thought, you didn’t get to test out your skills too often, and you had to be very careful about being liable. This was a fucking relief by comparison. And potentially a dangerously addictive one. I shook myself from my reverie and looked about.

  The gnome was peering out the back of the wagon, threateningly holding some kind of vial in his hand. I put up one hand to placate him.

  “No need to fear me, good fellow. Just doing my good deed for the day.” I jerked my chin at the two brigands.

  Slowly, he put the vial back inside his wagon. He climbed down quite nimbly. Seeing him closer, he was clearly shorter than me by about two heads, about to the middle of my chest. He also looked solid in a pebbly kind of way. Not unattractive, just strange. He had no beard, a simple buzz-cut of ginger hair atop his head, and thick ginger-orange eyebrows.

  “Me thanks. What’re ye gonna do with him?” He gestured at Janks.

  “I don’t know, actually. I was going to ask you.”

  He shook his head this time. “I don’t want tha’ responsibility. You fought him, you decide.”

  “Hmm, brigands…” I thought for a moment. On the one hand, I didn’t want this guy going free or finding his mates to come and get me. On the other hand, I didn’t like the thought of killing in cold blood. I mean, I could pretend this was just a game, and this fellow moaning on the ground was just a random collection of NPC code. But that would be a lie.

  “Fuck.” I swung my staff in a tight arc and smashed the man’s head. To be sure, I did it again. And that, as they say, was that. I felt sick again. Man, this was a little too real. At least there wasn’t much blood from this one.

  The gnome nodded, not unkindly. “Better this way. They were brigands; the local elves woulda done a lot worse.”

  I finally checked myself over and noticed the wound on my arm had dried up and was still gradually healing. The wound to my ribs was feeling better as well. Both spells had worked, which was really nice. I checked my status screen. The healing had a few more seconds to run; then they’d expire. I needed to link some of that to my visual interface. I didn’t want to have to open the full internal screens every time I got into combat; it was too distracting. My blue mana bar was below half, but slowly filling again.

  “Um… I have to check something. You mind if I sit here a moment?” I asked the gnome.

  He frowned at me. “What about the bodies?”

  I blinked at him, a little embarrassed. This wasn’t a game to him. “All right, hold on.” I grabbed Janks under the shoulders and grunted as I lifted his upper body. Dude was heavy. I was surprised when the gnome grabbed the feet, making the body easier to lift and drop off the side of the road into the forest. “Thanks. The beasts can enjoy a meal tonight.”

  “No doubt,” the gnome replied with a grim smile.

  I looked at the body. He was wearing a short leather vest and otherwise common boots, trousers, and shirt. When I checked his pockets, I found a few coins—copper, it looked like—with markings on both sides. I pocketed those; I would have to check what the markings meant later. I also pulled off the boots—“Waste not, want not,” I said. The gnome just nodded acceptance.

  We did the same with Bunko. This time, I stripped the whole body, as I was sure I could do something with his leather armour. He was wearing a full set, which I was more than happy with, as it seemed better quality than what I was wearing. But then I realised it was a different size. I could adjust the wrist and shoulder gear, but the chest and boots just would not fit. I’d need someone to help me resize them. The skull cap I quickly discarded, as it smelled awfu
l and had way too many lice inhabiting it, going by the ones that were crawling on its inner surface. I was glad I had checked before trying it on.

  The rest of the armour would still need a good disinfectant and deodorizer, or at the least, a good cleaning in the next stream. Brigands didn’t wash, apparently. I put it all into my backpack, now full to the brim, including more copper from Bunko and a few silver as well. I collected both weapons—the spear and the broadsword.

  Meanwhile, the gnome had managed to get his crate back into the wagon—or rather, dismantled the broken wooden box and repacked the jars and what looked like bundles of dried herbs.

  “What next?” I asked.

  “Up to you.”

  I blinked. He wasn’t making it easy. Oh well; in for a penny, in for a pound. “Care to give me a lift to the next town?”

  He smiled slightly. “All right, sure. What’s yer name?”

  “Oh, right. Cordaen. And you?”

  He frowned a little. “Do you have a family name, elf, or are you like those other adventurers with just one handle and no manners?”

  “Yes, good sir, I do,” I replied, “but I am a wood elf, so my surname is not for casual conversation, no?”

  He blanched, and his face went a bright orange colour. Was that a gnomish blush? “Oh, me apologies! That was thoughtless of me.”

  “No trouble,” I replied mildly, “Just glad to be of service.”

  “Yes… me name’s Drognad Zahngoracksenn. You can call me Drognad. Climb on up. The day’s not gettin’ any younger.”

  We settled ourselves on the bench at the front of the wagon. He clicked at the horse, and off we went. It was not comfortable. The bench seat did have some thin leather padding, but I still bounced around like a sack of potatoes as the wagon lurched over every rock and tree root. The wagon seemed sturdy enough when I looked back at the wheels, but it wasn’t a relaxing way to see the countryside. Drognad didn’t seem bothered by this, but he also didn’t seem to bounce around as much as I did. Some kind of gnomish wagoneering skill?