Skye is the Limit by Phenomenal Pen (detective books to read TXT) 📗

Too late. Some foot servants and knights had spotted him. The train halted and the nearest servants murmured nervously amongst themselves.

Fairy followed Blacksmith’s lead and hovered above his shoulder. Next came Warrior, rather timidly. Then Elf and Mage. Naturally, Ranger was the last and left his hiding place with a great deal of reluctance.

The knights were communicating to each other in an archaic language. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ranger asked out of the side of his mouth.

“These are NPCs,” Blacksmith explained, while keeping both his hands raised to show he’s unarmed. “They’re predictable.”

A knight rode forward to have a closer look. He was wearing a black gothic plate armor from head to foot and even his visor was lowered to cover his face. The equally shrouded foot servants were keen to keep a safe distance from the outlanders.  

“We. Come. In. Peace,” Blacksmith slowly spoke. He was following the human instinct to enunciate every syllable in the hope that a being from another world would somehow instantaneously understand his language.

With one hand on the rein, the knight unsheathed a sword from a scabbard across his back and pointed its tip at Blacksmith’s neck.

“Hwæt is þīn nama?” the knight growled.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Warrior cried out. “Things are happening too fast.”

Mage stepped in and said: “We cumaþ innan fréod.”

First, Mage had had to process the knight’s few words and then compare them to his vast database of human languages, both modern and extinct. To the Dreamwalkers, the language sounded Scandinavian. It gave the impression of runes being engraved in stone by a murmuring brook, as enchanting as it was arcane.   

The knight snorted and continued glaring at them from behind his visor. But he also straightened from where he sat on his horse, withdrew the tip of his sword from Blacksmith’s neck and instead pointed it at Mage.

<Who are you?> the knight demanded. <Which clan do you belong to?>

Mage bowed and said: <Forgive us. We are Dreamwalkers. We hail from and are on our way back to the north.>

<The north, huh?> the knight sneered, holding his sword in a less threatening way and looking each of them up and down.

From behind him, a groom had caught up. He wore a livery that was hickory on one half and hazelnut on the other. Attached to the livery was a hood that hid his face in pitch blackness. Blacksmith wondered if this was a natural feature of the place they were in, just like how faces in dreams would be fuzzy and barely recognizable.   

<Sir Delamere, the master would like to know what is causing the delay,> asked the groom, who was jittery for being so close to the foreigners.

<Tell him there are Dreamwalkers from the north…> Sir Delamere instructed.

<And we seek an audience with the chancellor,> Blacksmith interrupted, taking advantage of Mage’s instant translation and all at once speaking fluently in the foreign tongue.

His boldness stunned the knight and horrified the groom and the rest of the Dreamwalkers. In particular, a hiss emitted from inside the groom’s hood.

<If you please, milord,> Mage interceded again, bowing deeply. 

Sir Delamere glowered at them with a distaste that even his visor couldn’t mask. But he made a small gesture with his index and middle finger that sent the groom off with the message, including Blacksmith’s request.

A few tense minutes passed as the groom hurried off to the carriage-like box. Then, someone blew a fanfare on a trumpet and the knights and their horses trotted into formation. All the servants and grooms also scurried to the sides and followed their assigned animals. It was all done with military efficiency.

Sir Delamere made a mock bow while remaining on his horse, simultaneously gesturing to the now clear path as if to say: After you. The Dreamwalkers could picture him smirking behind the visor.  

“Be careful what you wish for,” Warrior whispered to Blacksmith. Warrior had stepped forward when Blacksmith stood frozen and no one looked willing to accept the invitation.

Blacksmith snapped out of his space-out and began walking. Fairy flew between him and Warrior, and the pragmatic Mage followed without any hesitation or glance over his shoulder.

Ranger and Elf elected to remain where they stood.   

****

As they passed, Blacksmith tried to study the NPCs and gather more clues about them. One thing that confused him was how the NPCs, regardless of caste, were attired like desert-dwellers. They were all covered from head to foot. He wondered if it was because the program that contained them wanted generic NPCs and didn’t add details like face shapes and features. Even the latest A.I. had trouble creating photorealistic faces.  

He was thinking of all these things as they walked nervously towards the carriage and the two horses that carried it, one on the front and the other on the back. To Blacksmith, it looked like a gama or litter more than anything else.