Dragons Over England Read online

  The stories in this book focus on a few characters fighting, living, and dying in Aysle, one of the realms involved in the "Possibility Wars." As can be seen from these stories, set in the universe of the Torg roleplaying game, Aysle is the realm of fantasy and legendary adventure: monsters, myths, and magic all come alive in the realm of Aysle.

  But why? Why is there a section of the Earth that has been turned into some fantastical place from European myth and legend? And, in a larger sense, what does this mean to the rest of the game world?

  There are many different, and contradictory, answers to these questions, but, simply put, Aysle represents a land of magical conception. Not only can there be elves, dwarves, giants, or other magical creatures, but they can exist, in Aysle, without detaching themselves entirely from the world of twentieth-century Earth. The magic-using elf may use a calculator to figure out an arcane puzzle; dwarves invest on the London stock exchange; and giants mix with half-folk and mythical creatures in modern-day crime syndicates. The point of reference is familiar.

  It is this uniqueness, this mixing of the real with the unreal, that gives Torg, the game, its appeal. And, in these works of fiction, these "Chronicles of the Possibility Wars," authors are able to experiment with this "cross-genre" fiction. Elves and dwarves, pulp heroes and dinosaurs, cyberpunks and occultists — Torg has all of these and more. Aysle is not "pure fantasy" any more than the real Earth is pure anything at all.

  But it is not just the presence of magic or technology that makes Aysle special. Blending the attitudes and interests of modern Earth with those of "medieval fantasy" can be fascinating for an author or a roleplayer.

  And, of course, this can lead to some interesting difficulties, as is shown below when Baran DeFlorrs, a court official loyal to the crown of Pella Ardinay, discusses policy with Sir Harald Wallic, a representative of Queen Elizabeth II, crowned head of England. The conversation is an excerpt from a royal investigative treatise, published previously:

  From: Treatise to the Court, 133

  Author: Kelegor

  (This conversation was observed and reported by an anonymous courtier. He insists that he had no choice but to overhear the conversation and he has omitted certain details on the grounds of security. These details have been filled in, in a fictitious manner, so as to confuse the agents of the accursed Angar Uthorion and his evil minions.)

  Sir Harald Wallic: Your honor, sir, if I might have a moment of your time?

  (It is to be hoped that the reader will not find fault with the author for these repeated interruptions, but, in the interests of accuracy, I must humbly intervene. It is well known that Sir Harald, courtier to Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, is of

  Scottish ancestry and, thus, has a strong native accent. In the interests of clarity, this accent will not be reflected in the author's reiteration of the following conversation. Likewise, only dialogue is presented here, though the author may include certain ... observations as the need arises.)

  Baran DeFlorrs: Your servant, sir.

  Wallic: Of that, my lord, I have no doubt. I thank you for your time.

  DeFlorrs: Well, if your honor would be so kind ...

  W: Ah, yes. Well, it has come to our — meaning certain friends of mine and I — attention that you are of a dissenting view regarding Her Majesty's — and by this, I mean Queen Elizabeth's — policy of half-folk citizenship.

  DF: I suppose, my good sir, that by "dissenting," you mean "within the majority?"

  W: Well, I do not think that has been established as —

  DF: Established! It is obvious! Virtually all of the representatives favor the withholding of representation until this "Warrior of the Dark" business can be straightened out.

  W: Virtually all of the Ayslish representatives, you mean .

  DF: Ayslish? Well of course I mean Ayslish — we are in Aysle, are we not?

  W: Technically, no, my dear Baran, we are not in Aysle — we are in England! Specifically, London!

  DF: Ah, yes: "the last bastion of sovereign Great Britain!" I've heard the exclamation before. Your Times, I believe. What would the Queen — and I mean Queen Pella Ardinay the First — say to your words? Are we not united in our goals?

  W: This "queen" of yours; this magical maiden; has caused more trouble than she —

  DF: Now, now, Wallic; I do not believe you mean exactly what you are saying .

  W: Of course I — no, no; you are right, of course. Queen Ardinay, despite her origin, is an . ally of the British Aysles. Damn! I mean "Isles."

  DF: Ha, ha! Well said, well said!

  (It should be noted that, at this point, the observer noted that Wallic looked decidedly uncomfortable and was visibly fidgeting, while DeFlorrs was of the calmest bearing.)

  DF: So, we were discussing the halfies —

  W: "Half-folk," if you please, my lord.

  DF: Of course, of course ... pardon me. What were we saying about them?

  W: Well, I was about to bring up that England has had a long history of equality within the masses, and Her Maj

  — Queen Elizabeth — feels that this should extend to our new ... emigrants. Regardless of race ... er, species.

  DF: She does?

  W: She does.

  (At this point, Wallic has composed himself and DeFlorrs has taken a much more thoughtful expression upon his features.)

  DF: So the proposal is serious — even with the "Warrior of the Dark" leading the half-folk all across Scandinavia and Northern Scotland and whipping them into a frenzy?

  W: Of course it is serious! There are a large number of half-folk still within the boundaries of ... the Light, as you call it. They are good, decent people—regardless of their looks — and should have representation under the Houses. Now more than ever.

  DF: Oh?

  W: Yes, yes, man—can't you see? A vote of confidence from the government is all they need . a declaration of citizenry would establish us within their community. It would show that we are behind them.

  DF: And the other minorities?

  W: Hmm? Which? The dwarves? They have citizenship. And those elves who wish it—though there are precious few. And all have equal consideration under the law. If you mean the giants, they have —

  DF: I do not. I mean the East Indians; the Irish; the European refugees; your own lower classes.

  W: What do they have to do with anything? They have citizenship — those that qualify, anyway — and equal consideration.

  DF: "Equal consideration" — bah! How many times is a man or a woman—a being of the same species as you or I — passed over for a job or an education simply because he or she is from what you call "the lower classes?"

  W: That is pure rubbish; every man —

  DF: Yes, yes, I've heard the rhetoric: "every man, woman, and child has equal rights and opportunity under the laws of England." Centaur sh —

  W: Well, they do —

  DF: "Pure rubbish!" Since when did a lad from Soho or Carnaby Street grow up to be King? Or even a member of the House of Lords?

  W: That's —

  DF: "That's irrelevant." Of course it is. Just as this "half-folk" issue is irrelevant. Half-folk are half-folk. Under the laws of Aysle, half-folk can join with Houses and come under their representation, but they cannot have their own. They are not folk. You discriminate meaning-lessly: by race or gender. We, at least, have a reason. We allow those of our species — all folk—to be represented.

  (For all intents and purposes, the dialogue ended here. Wallic rallied for a few more tries, but he was unable to get past DeFlorrs' logic. This is to be expected, as DeFlorrs has since been promoted to Her Majesty Queen Ardinay's Royal Barrister, and Wallic is still entrenched with the unpopular front of "England's
men.")

  "As can be inferred from the above excerpt, the 'Half-folk Citizenry Act of 1992 A.D./432 P.A.' was defeated resoundingly. It turned out for the good, as hundreds of these creatures immediately defected to areas of the Dark, strengthening Uthorion's forces with their own."

  — Kelegor, Royal Historian

  His Cool, Blue Skin

  Caroline Spector

  So much pain.

  It pierces like a knife — and the blood. Nobody told me there would be so much blood.

  Now the faeries come with their tiny hands, caressing my brow, saying words meant to soothe me, but I'm not comforted. The pain is relentless. I feel I'm washing away, caught in this circle of agony, the ebb and flow of my life stretched out in endless minutes of suffering.

  They say it won't last much longer, but what do faeries know?

  I want this to end. I cry out, and remember how it began.

  ***

  It started with the storms. Terrific, pounding water crashing from the sky rocking the earth, making the world tremble. The lightning looked like huge grabbing hands and the thunder was deafening. I thought the storm lasted for days — maybe weeks. But I'm not certain anymore. Maybe it only lasted minutes.

  Benedict said the storm was the beginning of the Millennium, the Apocalypse. He looked out the window as if he expected to see Famine, Plague, War, and Death riding down on the farm. There was a gleeful look on his face when he stared out the window, the expression of a wicked little boy with something to hide.

  We'd come to England for our honeymoon.

  I loved the accents, the bad food, the eccentricities. London charmed me.

  But London made Benedict nervous. He said there were too many years there, that he could feel the pressure of history on him like heavy weights.

  Eventually, we decided to rent a small farmhouse in the countryside. Quaint and rustic, we could pretend to be gentleman farmers, cozy in our cottage hideaway.

  I like to remember that time — it didn't last long.

  Everything changed. Except me.

  I tried to talk to Benedict about it, but he just looked at me. Looking into those unblinking, ebony eyes was like staring into the abyss. He didn't know what I was talking about.

  "Everything has changed," I said. "Can't you tell? You didn't use to be ... like this."

  "Like what?"

  "Like this. Blue."

  Silence.

  He toyed absently with his long braids. Crew-cut Benedict wearing a rasta hairdo.

  "I think you should see a healer," he said.

  "You mean a shrink."

  "I don't want you to get smaller, I want you healed. You are obviously cursed by some strange magic."

  "Bull."

  That was one thing that hadn't changed. Benedict had always been good at putting off blame. It infuriated me when he did that.

  "Look," I said. "I know this sounds crazy. You think I don't know how insane I sound? But I swear I'm not making this up. Things have changed. I remember microwave ovens, computers, television, CDs, for heavens sake. Now you look like a Smurf on steroids and we're living in fairy-tale land. Don't you find this disconcerting?"

  He stared at me, silent and cold.

  "I must go out now," he said.

  My dreams.

  They were vivid, full of omens and import. Bad dreams for a bad time. The first dream went like this:

  She stands in a field of flowers. Her robes billow in slow-motion, hugging her, outlining her breasts, thighs, and stomach. In her hand is an obsidian crown. She raises it over her head then lowers it to her brow.

  Hordes of foul creatures appear on the horizon behind her, led by four horsemen.

  She could stop them, but she doesn't. The thrill of the power is in her now. A delicious wickedness — seductive and damning. She runs her hands over her body as this evil force flows through her.

  In the end, the meadow is ruined, blackened and scorched beyond recognition.

  She leans forward and I feel her warm, fetid breath. Her face is a parody of beauty, twisted by her cruelty.

  "Remember, I am Ardinay. I am Death."

  Her voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  There's someone with me, a shadow, grey and vague in the background. He reaches for me, but his hands slide through me. I'm as insubstantial as a ghost. He tries to speak, but I can't hear him.

  I woke in a sweat. Benedict was still asleep. I touched him, a reflex. His skin was cool, hard and unyielding, like a pebble under fast, running water.

  The tears began then, hot tears in my frosty bed.

  Benedict and I argued. He denied that the world had changed. These fights left me so frustrated that I often ran screaming from the room.

  I began to mistrust him.

  The local villagers knew something was wrong with me, too. They gave me strange looks when I went into town and stared at me out of their crude huts. They didn't think I noticed them looking, but I did. I could feel their eyes on me like ants crawling on my skin. It got so bad I didn't go into town after a while. Instead, I spent my time tinkering with the few items left from before the storms. My portable CD player still worked. When Benedict came home one evening I showed it to him. I even made him sit down and try to use the damn thing. It stopped playing the minute he touched it.

  He told me I was a sorceress, that I was playing with evil magic and I must stop. He said I mustn't tell anyone what I could do.

  I began to hate him.

  I had many dreams. I couldn't escape them. They were so real, and seemed to become more real as time went by. Sometimes I wasn't sure I was dreaming anymore. I don't remember all of them.

  I stand on that familiar field. Ardinay is here. Clad in armor, she rides a huge horse. Her lance is drawn and aimed at someone. I think it's me, but as she charges forward, I see her rush toward a man. He looks like a Viking. Her lance strikes him. I run to him. His chest is soaked in blood.

  I cradle his head in my arms. He looks at me. I'm drawn by his eyes. Seduced. I'll do anything for him.

  "See what she's done," he says. "Save me from her."

  "How?" I ask.

  "Kill her."

  "Who are you?" I ask.

  "Uthorion. Angar Uthorion."

  He coughs blood. It spatters my face like teardrops. The light goes out of his eyes, and I'm left holding his limp body. The pain of his death hits me in waves of agony. He is my life and Ardinay, that bitch, has killed him.

  I lay him on the ground. A shadow falls across us. I look up. Standing before me is a knight clad in armor similar to Ardinay's.

  "You are not supposed to be here," he says.

  "Who are you?" I ask.

  "Noble of the House Gerrik. Who are you?"

  "Martha Ayers. From America."

  "You are dead," he says.

  One morning after one of those horrible dreams, I asked Benedict what he knew about Ardinay.

  "Lady Pella Ardinay of the Houses?" he asked, surprised at my interest.

  "I suppose. I've been having nightmares about her."

  "Oh," he said. "Tell me."

  Something in his voice made me cautious.

  "I don't know. Just dreams. I've never heard of her, but I have this feeling that she's a real person. Pretty strange, don't you think?"

  "I do not know what to think. I do not know you anymore, Marka."

  "I told you, my name isn't Marka. It's Martha. Martha Ayers. Good god, Benedict, we've known each other for years. You know my name."

  "I know that you are my lifemate and I do not understand this strange behavior."

  "You and me both."

  We stood and looked at each other. Even with all the changes, I still knew him. It was a queer sensation, as though reality were layered over by a fine film. In that moment I could almost see the truth, but not quite. Not then, not until later.

  I'd never felt so alone. I came to England believing that Benedict and I were starting a life together that would last until
we died. Now my life was slipping away from me faster and faster and I couldn't stop it.

  ***

  I went riding my bike in the countryside one day. What I saw as I rode along scared me even more than when Benedict changed into an elf after the storms.

  The countryside had turned into something awful. Green rolling hills and meadows had been transformed into scarred, blackened earth. The trees were twisted and gray beyond recognition and I could barely identify what type they were. When I stopped and touched one of them, it seemed to cry out. For an instant, I could have sworn I saw a woman's face in the bark.

  All around me the trees sighed. Mournful sounds. I wanted to gather them together and ease their pain, but I couldn't. I couldn't help anyone. Not myself, not Benedict, not those wretched trees.

  I began to pedal faster, as though I could outrun the terrible images I was seeing. That's when I came upon the group of dwarves. I'm not talking about little people, although they were. I mean real dwarves, with beards, crossbows, and armor. They stopped me, fascinated by my bike.

  Their names were Diver, Wart, Ferris, and Brown Billy. I tried hard not to laugh as they introduced themselves. It felt good to laugh. It'd been a long time since I'd felt happy.

  Diver was the leader of the group, outgoing and talkative. Unlike the others, he kept his beard short-cropped and neatly trimmed. Wart also liked to talk and had a sense of humor, but the other two, Ferris and Brown Billy, didn't seem to have anything to say. I wasn't sure if they were taciturn or just stupid.

  All of them were dressed in shades of brown and gray. Their clothes seemed practical and sturdy.

  They told me a lot about Aysle, which is where they said they came from. And they talked about Lady Ardinay. They seemed to like her. I felt sorry for them, being duped by that woman. Obviously, she had deceived them into believing that she was good and kind. That she would take advantage of their trusting nature revealed a lot about her character to me.

  They talked about the storms. Slowly, I began to understand what had happened to my world. Ardinay had invaded Earth and imposed this fantasy world on us. My dreams were signs that I had to stop her. I didn't want to be involved with this, but it was beginning to look like I didn't have a choice. If I wanted my world and my life back, I had to take some action to stop her.