Vainglory 1.2 - Welcome to Vainglory (Patreon)

Here's chapter 2. Might have some more for you as the day goes on. :)

-Plum

2 – Welcome to Vainglory

Ward groaned and pressed his knuckles to the wound on his lower back. He could feel the hot blood, but the injury didn’t hurt too much. He figured that wasn’t a good sign. He bent over, and the world swam as he braced himself on his knees. He slipped his gun into his coat pocket, and, with another grunt, he scooped up the knife and turned back to the bound woman. Figuring he might bite it before his backup arrived, he thought he might as well untie her.

He took one stumbling step toward her into the circle, then fell to a knee, stars exploding in his vision. “Shit.” As dark tunnel walls closed in on him, Ward fell forward and tried to catch himself on his wounded wrist. It gave way, and he fell onto his face, bumping his chin on the stone.

While falling, he’d extended his right arm with the knife, and now he felt someone wiggling it. The woman, he supposed; he’d fallen close enough for her to get the knife. He decided that was good, at least. If she could free herself, maybe she could help guide the first responders. “Uniforms are almost here, I bet,” he muttered.

The knife slid out of his fingers, and Ward grunted, blinking his eyes to try to clear the haze and see the weird pattern on the floor where he’d fallen. From his perspective, with his cheek on the wood, it looked like the lines were stretching away from him.

“Damn,” he wheezed when he realized how cold he’d gotten. Was that the blood loss? He supposed it was, though he was surprised he could still see; the black tunnel walls hadn’t closed in. Maybe because he was lying down and not moving? Maybe he could hold on long enough to get help. Maybe the woman would put some pressure on that wound. He tried to ask her what was happening, but his throat was so dry that all that came out was a raspy wheeze. Ward licked his lips and tried to circulate some saliva so he could try again.

“You’re dying, Ward.” The voice was right next to his ear, the words sharp, clear, and feminine. The speaker’s hot breath tickled his flesh.

“No shit,” he grunted.

“I can help you. You helped me, and I have everything necessary: the words were spoken, however feebly, and blood aplenty fed the circle. Can I help you, Ward? It won’t cost you much.”

“Cost?” Ward wheezed, his mushy mind trying to make sense of her words. Was the woman saying she’d let him die if he didn’t pay up? He wanted to tell her to pound sand, but he supposed he might die if someone didn’t stop that bleeding.

“Can I help you, Ward?” she repeated.

“Help,” he grunted, and just as he uttered it, his sluggish brain realized she shouldn’t know his name.

“Good! Good, Ward. That was a good decision.” He felt the woman lay her hand over his temple. Her flesh was hot as she pressed down, and Ward felt some of that warmth flowing into him. It was a wonderful feeling, really, almost like stepping into a bath on a cold, drizzly day. The warmth spread through him; the stars faded from his vision, and the dark tunnel walls pulled back. Ward felt better, stronger, and he wondered what the hell the woman had done. Had she dosed him with something?

He pushed himself up with his right hand, and when he was sitting on his butt in the middle of the circle, he slapped at his coat pocket, panicking momentarily as he tried to remember where he’d put his gun. Sure enough, it sat, a comforting weight, in his pocket. Smiling, Ward looked up to thank the woman, only to see she wasn’t in the circle. He spun, looking for her amid the carnage of the bodies, and saw her lying outside the pattern’s outer ring. She looked unconscious, eyes closed, chest moving in and out with a regular rhythm.

“Huh.” Ward moved to stand, reaching down with his left hand for support. He almost pulled it back, remembering his injury at the last second, but when he pressed down with his weight, nothing hurt. “Huh,” he said again. He was halfway to standing when the edges of the circle burst into brilliant yellow light, momentarily blinding him. Ward fell back onto his butt again. His mind ran to strange conclusions, trying to explain the light. Had the EMTs arrived? Was he unconscious and seeing the lights above the surgical table? He could feel the floor under his hand, though, and the lights started fading.

Ward held still as the dazzling glare gradually diminished, and he found himself able to focus again. More disorientation hit him when the light never entirely went away, and he realized he was sitting under a bright, pale blue sky. A hoarse whisper escaped his lips as he looked around, “I’m losing it. I’ve lost it. Am I dead?”

Ward was sitting atop a large, relatively flat boulder, and around him, beneath a bright sky, stretched the charred remains of an enormous forest. All he could see, from horizon to horizon, were blackened trees and scorched earth. The air was warm and fresh, with a faint hint of char as the only clue that a great fire had occurred there. “Did I . . . Did I have a stroke? Am I—”

“You’re not dead.”

Ward jerked his head to the voice. Sitting cross-legged on the stone beside him was the woman from the ancient ballroom. No, Ward realized that wasn’t right. She wasn’t the same woman. Her hair was different—longer, straighter, blonder. More than the hair, though, was that she wore a slim, black dress suit. “Those eyes, though,” Ward muttered, staring into the woman’s red eyes that seemed filled with flickering flames.

“My eyes? I suppose they’re rather distinctive. How do you feel, Ward?”

“I’m . . .” Ward looked around at the burned forest and the pale sky, then back at the beautiful young woman. “I’m nuts, I guess. Finally lost it.”

“Oh, brother! Come on, old man.” She erupted to her feet and moved to stand facing him squarely. “That’s the most creative explanation you can come up with? ‘I’m dead,’ ‘I’m nuts.’ Good grief! I gave up a perfectly fit host for you. You’re going to have to sharpen up!” She had a soprano voice that rang with authority, and she enunciated her syllables very clearly as she stared those fiery eyes straight at him.

“Sharpen up?” Ward growled, clambering to his feet and looking down at the slight figure. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m, well, you can call me Grace; my real name would be hard for you to pronounce.”

“Grace?” Ward frowned and looked past the young woman, slowly turning to take in his surroundings again now that he was on his feet. “Where the hell are we? The last thing I remember, I was bleeding out in an abandoned ballroom.” Ward slapped at his lower back, feeling for the wound, but only found a hole in his jacket—nothing was sore. Grace watched him with a raised eyebrow, stepping back toward the edge of the big, flat boulder. “Not gonna answer me?”

“I’m wondering how much you’ll work out on your own—”

“Goddammit!” Ward growled, stomping toward her. “What is going on?”

“Oh, fine! Boring!” She stood with elbows akimbo, fists on hips, and glared. “You’re not dead, but you’re not on Earth anymore, either. Understand now?”

“What?” Ward looked at her like she’d sprouted a third eye. He looked around at the weird scenery again, then at the sky, and when his eyes drifted toward the sun, he had to slap his hands in front of his eyes to keep from staring at it—them. There were two. He could feel his breaths coming more quickly, could feel them growing more and more shallow as he struggled to get enough oxygen. Ward leaned forward, hands on knees, and tried to force himself to take a deep breath. His body wouldn’t work with him; his heart began to race as each inhalation felt more and more constrained.

“Snap out of it!” the woman, Grace, shouted, slapping him across the face.

Ward stumbled back, but hot fury sent a rush of blood to his neck, and he stood up straight, stepping toward her. “What was that for?”

“You’re panicking, Ward! Snap out of it! What would you do if a rookie started acting like you are?” Those words hit him like a bucket of ice water. If some rookie were freaking out around him like this, he’d probably slap ‘em silly, too.

“Fair enough.” He meant it. He already felt better; that slap to the face was just what he’d needed, and now he was too damned embarrassed to let his mind get away from him again—time to assess the situation. “Okay, I’m not dead, and I’m not on Earth. That’s not enough. Tell me what happened.”

Grace smiled and began to pace back and forth, a spring in her step. Ward noticed that she didn’t have shoes on. She wore a black dress suit, but no shoes. He shook his head, staring at her slender feet, trying to make sense of it while she answered, “Maybe you won’t be so bad. I like it more when you’re a bit tough and rugged. None of that panicky nonsense, okay, Ward? I’m stuck with you, at least for now, so let’s try not to be tedious to each other. So, what happened? Well, you were very heroic and got yourself hurt trying to help me. I don’t usually feel sorry for people. Well, I really never do, but you were interesting to me, and I had a funny urge. I wondered if you might be more fun to hang around with than my other host, and let me tell you, she was pretty gifted, so you’ve got your work cut out for you. I—”

“Woah, hold on, motormouth.” Ward reached into his pocket, getting his .357 out. He popped the cylinder and dumped the empty brass into his free hand, separating out the one live round and dropping it back into a chamber. “Slow down, and let me get a word in. Now, what do you mean by host?” Ward deposited the empty brass into his coat pocket, reached under his coat, into the front pocket of his navy blue trousers, and pulled out a handful of fresh rounds.

“Host? This is where things might be a little hard to swallow, but try to stay chill, Ward. You see, I don’t really have a body. I’m not here. I’m here for you, I guess, but that’s because I’m in you. You can feel me and hear me and all that because we’re sharing your . . . parts.”

“What?” Ward snorted, dropping five rounds into the cylinder and slapping it shut.

“That woman you saved was my host. Now you’re my host.”

“So, you’re like a tapeworm.” Ward was feeling a lot better with a loaded gun in his hand. He didn’t know what to make of the woman, but something was definitely not right; either he’d been roofied and dumped in some burned-out forest he’d never heard of, or something was true about her BS.

“That’s rude!” She stepped forward and punched him in the shoulder, and it rocked him back; for a little thing, she had a hell of a follow-through.

“Easy!” Ward rubbed his shoulder and winced. “Come on, finish your story.” He rolled his hand like one does to tell someone else to get on with it. “You were saying I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“Right! My previous host was very talented. You . . . well, I can already tell you’re going to struggle. It feels like we might be a good match, though. I think you might have some affinity for mana, but your body’s not suited for its use. I’m quite sure you won’t even be able to utter any words of power without tearing yourself apart. We’ll have a long row to hoe, but I think we can get there. Worst case scenario—you die, and I have to drift on the ether for a while. We’re in the right place, at least!” She held her arms wide, indicating the devastated environment.

Ward put aside all the other crazy words she’d uttered and asked, “The right place? Where are we, then?”

Grace stood on her red-polished toes and pirouetted as she replied, “Cinder! The lowest of the Vainglory worlds.”