The next morning, he woke with the first light and quickly got ready to leave. He decided to keep his extra, empty water bottles with him after downing another bottle for the day, but left the garbage from the meal he'd eaten. Littering felt super wrong, but there weren't exactly trash cans everywhere, he didn't have a shovel, and he also grimly figured he might end up doing a lot worse than littering in this world in the near future.

  Wes cut up the extra water bottle, making it useless.

  Thankfully, after waking up, he'd confirmed that his "energy" was back to 100 units. So his baseline energy reset every day, or after sleep. That was good to know.

  He decided to walk towards a distant valley, still sort of heading away from the village he'd been fleeing the day before. Wes’ goal was to find a road.

  The morning sun cast long shadows across the plains as Wes struck out toward the valley. Dew clung to the grass, soaking his boots within minutes. He adjusted the straps of his new backpack—sturdy as expected for the brand, and checked the pistol in his pocket out of habit.

  His path took him down a hill, then up a hill. This sequence repeated several times. It felt like he was seeing endless miles of grass. After he'd already been walking twenty minutes, he remembered the second wolf-thing's corpse, and cursed. Too late to go back.

  As he crested another hill, in the distance, sure enough, he spotted a road.

  The road was little more than a dirt track worn into the earth by generations of cart wheels and travelers' feet, but it cut a clear line through the rolling plains. Wes's boots dug into the soil as he reached it, the packed earth firm beneath his soles compared to the uneven grassland. He turned left without hesitation—the direction that would take him away from Duskvale and toward whatever passed for civilization in this world. Hopefully.

  He was apparently moving at a good clip, because not too long after he examined the recent remains of a campsite in passing, he actually spotted a wagon in the distance. Wes didn’t particularly try to catch up right away, just paid attention. Sure enough, even being pulled by a draft horse, it was moving a little slower than he was.

  "Power walking," he muttered to himself with a crooked smile.

  The wagon lumbered steadily along the dirt road, its wooden wheels creaking under the weight of stacked crates and barrels. A broad-shouldered man in a leather jerkin guided the draft horse with loose reins, his face shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Two figures sat beside him—a younger man with a crossbow resting across his lap, and a young teen girl, her bare feet swinging above the footboard.

  Wes sped up his walking, figuring he'd overtake them in about ten to fifteen minutes, and content with that time frame. The wagon creaked closer as Wes closed the distance. The older man in the leather jerkin turned his head slightly, revealing a weathered face lined with old scars. His hand drifted toward the cudgel at his belt but didn't draw it. The crossbowman—a young man with patchy stubble—swiveled to track Wes's approach, weapon still resting across his knees.

  With wide eyes, the girl also watched, her bare feet still swinging.

  Wes raised his hand. "Hello! Good morning!" The man driving the wagon didn't stop as Wes matched paces.

  The wagon's driver kept one hand on the reins while studying Wes with a lined face and hooded eyes. "Morning to you, stranger." His voice was rough, like gravel under wagon wheels. The crossbowman shifted his grip on his weapon nervously.

  Then the girl—probably barely of marriageable age, or close, if this was anything like medieval earth, with sun-browned legs and a faded yellow dress—leaned forward. "You're dressed funny," she blurted before the older man shot her a silencing glare.

  Wes nodded. "I'm not from around this area. Eventually I'll probably change my clothes, but for right now, this is what I've got." Then he launched into the tale he’d come up with earlier that day to describe the holes in his common sense. He for damn sure was not going to tell anyone again that he was from another world.

  Wes said, "I'm a mage, from a far foreign land. However, my power is unique, and one cost to learn what I know, was that I would go to another place for a time, learn amazing things, but lose much of my memory and be transported randomly in the world. I remember my name, and a number of other things, but I have...lost my common sense of this world." He hung his head dramatically.

  The wagon driver's scarred face remained impassive, but his grip on the reins loosened slightly. "Mage, eh?" His gaze flicked to Wes's strange clothing and backpack. "What kinda magic makes a man forget about the world while still keeping his language?"

  With a snort, the young crossbowman said, "Sounds like tavern talk to me."

  The girl—her sun-bleached hair swinging as the wagon jostled—leaned forward again. "Can you show us?"

  Wes had given this inevitable situation a lot of thought. Running into Sarena earlier had actually been a lucky thing. He knew now that magic type people, mages, could recognize magic. Or at least some of them could. Further, he wasn't sure if Cosmic Vending was actually technically magic. So the solution he’d come up with was to lie his ass off.

  He said, "My magic is more ritual in nature, but I can bless items to become enhanced, special, but usually it only for me. This means that enchanted tools that give me great power are useless for anyone else."

  Wes was already planting the seeds of his elaborate lie to prevent being abducted by a group who might torture him in a basement to collect random stuff he could create. He didn’t really want anyone to know about Cosmic Vending. After all, creating something from nothing, technically, could be a vehicle for infinite wealth. And while using up his energy wasn't "nothing" for Wes, it might be for some psycho kingpin or something.

  He pulled out his flashlight and set it to laser mode, then shined the laser on his palm. Wes said, "Concentrated light!" The wagon driver's scarred face remained unreadable, but his hands tightened around the reins. With wide eyes, the crossbowman leaned forward, squinting at the unnatural green dot burning against Wes's palm.

  The girl gasped. "It's like a tiny star!" She clapped her hands together, her braids bouncing.

  "Never seen light shine that way before," grunted the older man. His gaze flicked between Wes and the device.

  Wes nodded and said, "I have several effects with light. Calling thunder is also something I can do, but it is a precious gift given to me, and I prefer not to use it outside of life or death situations." He paused. "Last night when the huge, strange wolf things tried blowing out my fire, I used the thunder to kill them."

  The girl gasped. "Rift wolves? You killed rift wolves!?"

  Wes scratched his head. "Rift wolves? Is that what they're called? I built a fire, but like I said, I lost my memory, so I didn't know that rift wolves were a danger. Two of them were trying to blow out my fire and it was not protected. I had to kill them."

  "But they're so fast! They can even dodge arrows most of the time," said the young man. "It's one reasons crossbows are so popular in the plains. Rift wolves don't like them and often won't come near crossbows. The bolts are harder for them to see."

  Wes said, "I did what I had to do."

  The wagon driver studied Wes with narrowed eyes. "Rift wolves don't go down easy." He frowned. You're either lying, or you're carrying something far nastier than that little light-maker."

  The crossbowman shifted his grip on his weapon. "Pa's right. Even a full patrol of Boundary Watchers won't engage rift wolves at night unless they've got wards prepared."

  "I told you I'm a mage," said Wes with a sigh. He paused. "My power is precious. If I can prove that traveling with me will make you safer, what might I get out of a deal? And where are you heading?"

  The wagon driver spat again, wiping his mouth with the back of a calloused hand. We was starting to wonder if spitting was a cultural thing for men on this world. He’d seen a lot of it so far, enough he was noticing it now. The man said, "Mercosa. We’re heading to Mercosa. Got a load of barley and wool to sell at the markets." His eyes flicked to Wes's strange attire once more. "You pull your weight, you can ride in the back. No funny business."

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  The crossbowman frowned. "Pa—"

  "Quiet, Jorn." The older man turned his attention back to Wes. "Name's Harken."

  Wes nodded. "Nice to meet you, Harken. How far away is Mercosa?"

  Harken adjusted his grip on the reins, his calloused fingers working the leather straps with practiced ease. "Two days' ride is best. Less if we push the mare." His gaze drifted to the horizon where the road disappeared into rolling hills.

  The girl, still swinging her legs, obviously intrigued by the conversation, leaned forward with sudden excitement. "Can he ride with us, Pa? He killed rift wolves!" Her blue eyes sparkled with open admiration as she sized up Wes.

  Harken grunted, scratching his stubbled chin. "We'll see if he's telling the truth first." He jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. "Climb aboard if you're coming. But any trouble—" His hand dropped meaningfully to the cudgel at his belt.

  Wes quirked a smile. He couldn't begrudge a father for trying to protect his kin. He asked, "If I prove I'm telling the truth, how about we do some trading, or you help me make some trades in Mercosa, too?" Harken's weathered face remained impassive as the wagon wheels creaked over a rut in the road. "Depends what you're trading." His calloused thumb rubbed absently along the cudgel's worn handle. "Market's full of liars peddling 'magic' trinkets."

  Suddenly, the girl leaned so far forward she nearly tumbled off the bench. "Sir Mage, show us the thunder! Please!"

  Wes nodded. "All of you plug your ears." Then he pulled his pistol and aimed it at a nearby patch of damp soil. He held a hand over one ear, and put his other ear into his shoulder. Then he shot the dirt.

  The gunshot cracked across the plains like a thunderclap, sending a spray of dirt exploding upward from the point of impact. The draft horse reared with a panicked whinny, nearly breaking part of the wagon before Harken wrestled the reins under control. Jorn fumbled his crossbow, the bolt clattering to the footboard as he clapped both hands over his ears. The girl shrieked and tumbled backward into the wagon bed, her yellow dress fluttering around her knees.

  Wes calmly holstered his pistol and put it back in his pocket. "If you are attacked, it will not be a problem if I am with you."

  Harken's hands were tight on the reins as he brought the spooked horse under control the rest of the way. The animal snorted, tossing its head as foam flecked its bit.

  "Frozen hells," Jorn hissed, scrambling to retrieve his dropped crossbow bolt. His hands shook slightly as he fumbled it back into place.

  The girl—still sprawled in the wagon bed—pushed herself upright with wide eyes. "That wasn't thunder," she breathed. "That was...that was..."

  "Power." Harken finished for her, his voice gravelly. His gaze locked onto Wes with new intensity. The cudgel remained at his belt, but his posture had shifted–now less guarded, more calculating. "You'll ride up front with us. Jorn, make space."

  Jorn scowled but scooted over on the bench, keeping his crossbow leveled across his lap.

  Wes nodded, understanding the gesture for the sign of respect it was. He clambered up onto the wagon bench, the wood creaking under his added weight. The girl was now sitting upright in the wagon bed. She scrambled forward to peer between them, her hair brushing Wes's arm as she leaned in.

  "Can I see it?" she breathed, eyes wide with wonder as she stared at his pocket where the pistol rested. "The thunder-maker?"

  Harken shot her a warning look. "Lissa!"

  She pouted but sat back, folding her arms.

  Wes looked back at Lissa and said, "You want to see it? Absolutely not. Ever. If anyone else touches my artifacts, they might die,” he lied. “At the very least, it could make the power vanish. Only special artifacts I have for trade are able to be handled by regular people." Then with a smile, Wes handed over a fidget spinner he created the night before, right before sleep.

  After demonstrating how to use it, he said, "Try that." Lissa's fingers trembled as she took the plastic trinket, her rough thumbs brushing the smooth edges. She flicked one of the lobes experimentally, gasping when it spun with unnatural ease. "It's like a tiny windmill!" Her cheeks dimpled as she grinned, utterly enchanted by the simple toy.

  Jorn scowled, snatching it from her hands. "Let me see—"

  "If you break it, you buy it," said Wes, repeating the old earth saying. He didn't actually care that much, the spinner had cost less than one energy point. But acting like it was precious was a good way to help it actually be seen as precious on this world.

  Jorn scowled at the spinning toy, his fingers clumsy on the smooth plastic. "What kind of magic is this? No runes, no incantations..." The spinner wobbled to a stop between his fingers. Lissa snatched it back with a triumphant grin.

  Harken kept his eyes on the road, but his shoulders had lost some of their tension. "You'll fetch a fine price in Mercosa with tricks like that," he muttered.

  "Good," said Wes. Then he turned. "It's not actually magic. The magic was in the tools that were used in order to create it..."

  Wes continued to lie his ass off.

  ***

  Hours later, back at the old shed that Wes used for shelter the night before, several members of Duskvale, including the elders, Sarena, and Mikal with his bow examined the area. "He was definitely here," said Mikal. "But none of this makes sense!"

  Sarena stared at the dead rift wolf, now bloodless and dry.

  "What happened here, Sarena?" asked Utara, the female elder.

  Suddenly, one of the children that had tagged a long, little Reemus, came running up. "I found another one! Another rift wolf! Dead! It's amazing!"

  To one side, Targ stood sucking on his gums, looking disgruntled but Sarena could see the fear he was hiding, too.

  The stranger had not been bluffing. Ordinary men did not survive without preparation in the plains, nor kill rift wolves. Sarena knelt beside the desiccated rift wolf corpse, her fingers hovering over the gaping exit wounds. The edges of the torn flesh were blackened, as if scorched from within. Her staff's runes flickered faintly blue in response to lingering energy.

  "Four wounds," she murmured. "Precise." Then she walked, following the lead of Reemus, as he led her to the other body.

  Mikal followed and nudged the other wolf's corpse with his boot. Its skull was half gone, the remaining eye socket staring vacantly at the morning sky. He said, "Wounds like the others, but it got hit in the face, the ass, the gut, and a leg. It was running away! What the hell do rift wolves run from!? They can dodge arrows!"

  Sarena traced her fingers along the shattered skull fragments of the second rift wolf. The bone had been pulverized inward with impossible force, as if struck by an invisible hammer. Her staff's runes flickered erratically near the wound, reacting to lingering traces of something unfamiliar.

  "Not magic," she murmured. "But not natural either." She paused. “I think.”

  Targ kicked the carcass, his missing fingers twitching at his side. "Demoncraft," he spat.

  Sarena shook her head. "There is no corruption." She grunted in frustration. "Fascinating. I wish..." Her voice trailed off as she studied the strange wounds more closely. The edges were too different, alien, not conventional weapons, yet lacked the telltale signs of fire or earth magic.

  Utara knelt beside her, bone charms clacking softly. "Boundary Watcher, we sent a stranger to his death last night." Her wrinkled fingers traced the air above the corpse's ruined skull. "Yet here stands proof he was no ordinary man, and did not die."

  Targ growed, "Or he was no man at all!"

  Utara turned and gave Targ a withering look. "An outsider man who could make rift wolves run away, and you think he couldn't have killed you as nice and clean as these dark monsters? You old goat! And you were provoking him the entire time before he was gone, too!"

  Targ's remaining fingers curled into a fist, the stumps twitching. His teeth ground together as he glared at the elder woman. "You think I fear death? After what I've seen in the Borderland Wars?"

  Sarena rose from examining the carcass, brushing dust from her woolen skirt. "Your bravery isn't in question, Targ. Your judgment is." She tapped her staff against the packed earth. Her will ran through her staff, partially for craft, partially for comfort.

  Targ frowned. "Watch yourself, Boundary Watcher. You do not lead, we do."

  "Yes, we did a great job of that," said Falnorman, the last of the three elders as he leaned atop his stick.

  Sarena's thumb rubbed her staff as the three elders began bickering amongst themselves. The runes pulsed faintly, reflecting her growing irritation. Nearby, Mikal shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the tension.

  Utara raised both hands, her bone charms clacking. "Enough! We have two dead rift wolves here—something no hunting party has managed in years. And we drove away the man who did this." She turned to Sarena.

  Sarena knew they wanted to hear her decision. She thought, and finally said, "I will not be sending in a report about this. Nobody back at headquarters would believe me or know what to do anyway. He was human, or at least mortal. I verified that. Unfortunately, I believe our window of becoming friends with him has closed, but who knows? If you want to send one youth each to the largest farms in the area, and one to Mercosa, that might be a good way to find him and pass along a message, though."

  "Why pass along a message?" asked Utara. "What would be the purpose?"

  Sarena's fingers traced the grooves of her staff's runes, considering. "Because men like that don't disappear, not from history, not unless they die early by the sword. If he survived the plains alone, he'll turn up somewhere else, likely with power…whether in Mercosa's gutters or Valdrin's courts." She glanced at the withered rift wolf corpses. "Better we know where he lands before he decides last night's hospitality warrants repayment. And if he's friendly...we found him first."

  Targ looked like he’d bit into something sour, his missing fingers twitching against his thigh. "If he's so gods-damned powerful, why aren't you reporting this to your superiors?"

  The Boundary Watcher turned her cold gaze on Targ. "Because my superiors would either dismiss it as backwater superstition or send a hammer squad to burn this entire valley clean." Her staff pulsed once, intentional this time, a sharp, warning flare. "Do you want Boundary Watchers of Rank 4 poking through your grain stores and questioning your children?"

  Utara sucked air through her teeth. "She's right. This stays here." She gestured to the younger villagers who had gathered. “At least we will have willing volunteers. We’ll just need to make sure they stay safe. Nobody goes anywhere unless they are trusted on the plains by themselves. All agree?”

  “Agreed,” said the elders.

  Sarena watched, feeling regret and irritation. If things hadn’t been handled badly with the stranger, what else might she be talking about right now? Other worlds? Different types of magic? She sighed.