The horse moved at a steady pace through the thinning forest. The red leaves of the weirwood vanished behind him, replaced by gnarled oaks and spindly birches, their branches interlacing overhead like a jagged vault. The ground was muddy, scored with puddles that reflected a sky perpetually gray. The air smelled of damp and decay, with a persistent undertone of distant smoke—burning wood, probably from domestic hearths. Now and then, a stream gurgled at the edge of the path, its banks eroded by the slow, relentless flow.
Riverlands, Alex thought once again. Fertile, but unstable. Rivers that flooded without warning, fields sodden enough to become traps of mire. A place where a man might drown without ever seeing the water come.
For the first hour, he met no one. Only the wind whistling through the trees and the distant cawing of a crow that seemed to follow him, appearing and disappearing among the branches like a sinister omen. Alex kept one hand near his sword, senses taut.
Mistake number one: traveling alone.
In this world, the road belonged to thieves, deserters, and the desperate. But he had no choice. He had to orient himself, understand where he was, gather information. The sun filtered weakly through the low clouds, marking several hours yet to sunset.
At last, the path opened into a ragged clearing, and the village appeared.
Nothing grand. A dozen wooden and thatched huts, gathered around a central well. The walls were low and ramshackle, more useful for containing livestock than repelling a real attack. From the roofs rose gray smoke, carrying the scent of stale bread and overcooked vegetable stew.
The atmosphere was oppressive, as if an ancient weariness had settled over the place: houses curved with age, mud-choked streets marked by deep ruts of carts, a distant mill turning slowly, creaking like a continuous lament.
Game of Thrones in its true element, Alex thought.
Not the glamour of castles and tournaments, but the filth of small men. Places where hunger was a constant companion and strangers always brought trouble.
The villagers were scattered, absorbed in monotonous tasks. An old peasant hoeing a meager garden, back bent, face carved with deep wrinkles and old pox scars. Two women, wrapped in tattered shawls, carried buckets from the well, speaking in low tones: one with a baby strapped to her chest, the other missing teeth that made her words slurred. A group of filthy children played with sticks, pretending swords, but fell silent when Alex approached, eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
A blacksmith hammered iron in an open forge, sweat dripping down his muscular chest; he looked up, scrutinizing the armor and horse. No one appeared armed, save for a lean man with a knife at his belt, leaning against a fence, observing everything with narrow, calculating eyes.
Common folk, Alex thought. Poor, weary, distrustful. In a world where lords play at being kings, these are the pawns who die first.
He spotted the inn at the far end of the village: a two-story building, sturdier than the others, with a faded sign depicting a plucked hen—or perhaps an eagle; it was hard to tell. He tied the horse to a post outside, next to a half-empty water trough.
Better not trust stables in places like this. Too easy for a horse to vanish overnight.
He checked the saddle one last time, then entered.
Inside, it was dark and thick with smoke, lit by a flickering torch and the fire in the hearth. The smell of sour ale, sweat, and rotting straw filled his nostrils. Three rough tables occupied the room: a pair of peasants muttering to each other, a traveler in a threadbare cloak staring into the bottom of his mug, and behind the counter, the innkeeper.
She was a sturdy woman in her forties, gray hair tied in a thick braid, face marked by toil, apron stained with old drips.
Alex approached, keeping his tone neutral.
"A room for the night. And something to eat."
The woman sized him up quickly, then replied in a phrase uttered a thousand times, flat and uninflected:
"Two copper stars for the room. Three for the stew."
Alex rummaged in his pouch and produced a golden dragon. He placed it on the counter, waiting for the change.
Silence fell.
The innkeeper's eyes widened: first disbelief, then a flicker of greed, finally a veil of fear. The patrons lifted their heads. One of the peasants stared at the coin as if it were cursed.
"A… a golden dragon?" the woman whispered, barely touching it with her fingertips. "I have no change for this, ser. Not here. We are not used to… gold."
Alex cursed inwardly.
Mistake number two: not knowing the currency.
Golden dragons for nobles and wealthy merchants. Silver and copper for everyone else. I've just shouted "I'm a target" in the middle of a pack of desperate men.
But the innkeeper composed herself, perhaps out of honesty, perhaps from pure survival instinct.
"You should go to the Crossroads, ser. On the Kingsroad, half a day south. The inn is large, well-known. Called the Crossroads of the King. You cannot miss it: where the King's Road meets the River Path. True stone, safe stables, clients with heavy purses. They will exchange your gold without trouble."
Alex nodded, retrieving the coin.
"Thank you."
He stepped outside calmly, yet feeling eyes on him like blades. The traveler still stared at the door. Outside, the blacksmith had ceased hammering.
In another place, he thought, with a less prudent or hungrier innkeeper, I would already be dead. Or attacked tonight.
This world was cruel to the unknowing.
He swung back into the saddle and urged the mare southward. The sun was still high enough to reach the Kingsroad before dark. The landscape shifted slowly: forest giving way to cultivated fields, slow rivers lined by grassy banks. Gentle hills dotted with flocks of lean sheep watched by shepherds armed only with staffs.
From time to time, a cart laden with vegetables or wood passed; the drivers nodded cautiously.
Riverlands, he thought again. Land of rivers and betrayal.
If I am truly in 298, war is close.
And I must find my place before the world begins to burn.
The wind carried the scent of impending rain. The crow followed for a stretch, cawing like a prophecy not yet decided.
-------------------
Alex rode for another full hour, the path narrowing between low hedges and abandoned fields. The sun was low, yet still enough to light the road. The landscape opened further: meadows yellowed by early autumn, scattered wind-bent trees, a stream running parallel to the track, gurgling over moss-covered stones. Now and then, a bird took flight, startled by the hooves. The air carried the scent of wet earth and dead leaves, a constant reminder of the dying season.
It was not silence that troubled him. It was the fact that the silence was too perfect, unnatural, heavy with foreboding.
He felt the first sign when the horse pricked its ears, snorting softly. Alex tightened the reins, slowing. A distant noise: snapping branches, muffled steps in the mud. Not one. Two.
He turned slightly. The lean man with the knife—the one from the village fence—emerged from behind a bush, some thirty paces ahead. Knife in hand, crooked smile, eyes glinting with greed. From the other side, the silent traveler from the inn stepped from a lateral ditch, a short axe in his right hand, dagger in the left. He had shed his tattered cloak: beneath, a patched tunic, movements precise, the hands of someone who had done this work many times.
The golden dragon, Alex thought. A novice mistake. I've flaunted wealth in a place where men eat black bread and turnips for supper. And now I will pay.
No space to flee. The path was narrow, the horse tense. The fight was inevitable.
Alex dismounted with deliberate calm, letting the reins hang. His heart hammered in his chest, but not from fear: pure adrenaline. In his previous life he had done MMA: cages, gloves, controlled strikes, distance management. He could read the opponent's body, anticipate movement, exploit rhythm. But here there were no referees, no rounds. Only blades, only the brutality of real combat.
He drew the longsword from its scabbard. The blade slid out with a clean hiss, heavy yet balanced. He gripped it with both hands, guard low, guided more by the body than the mind.
The lean man struck first, yelling to frighten, knife high. The traveler moved to the side, seeking to flank.
Alex did not think. He reacted.
As the blades neared, something snapped inside him. Time did not stop, yet perception slowed. Every detail became sharp: how the lean man shifted weight to his right foot, how the traveler lowered his shoulder to swing the axe, the sun glinting on the knife.
Then, like lightning, foreign fragments invaded his mind. Not his memories. Rough, incomplete patterns:
Grip firm, thumb long on the pommel for tip control.
Middle guard, elbows tight, blade angled to deflect.
High parry, then lateral step, without retreat.
It was not full training. It was brutal knowledge injected, as if someone had uploaded a file directly into his brain.
A stabbing pain exploded behind his eyes. Alex staggered for a fraction, vision blurring. The price of the gift. Bes gave nothing for free.
But it was enough. He instinctively parried the lean man's first strike: the longsword deflected the knife with a metallic clang, sparks flying. The man cursed, startled.
The traveler came from the left, axe raised. Alex rotated, using MMA footwork: oblique step, body low, blade rising to intercept. The axe scraped his shoulder, tearing leather and skin. Hot blood ran down his arm. Sharp pain, but not crippling.
The fight became chaotic, dirty, brutal. No elegance of knightly duel. Only desperation and instinct, every strike an instinctive calculation, every movement a precarious balance between life and death.
Alex used distance: he stepped back, let the lean man overextend, then countered with a clumsy but powerful thrust. The sword's point grazed the arm, ripping flesh. The man screamed, but did not halt.
The traveler charged again, axe spinning. Alex narrowly dodged, tripping on an exposed root. He fell to one knee, blade sinking into the mud. The traveler raised the axe to finish him.
Alex rolled aside, grabbed a stone, and hurled it at the man's face: it struck the cheekbone with a dry crack. The traveler wavered, blood streaming from the eye.
He rose, panting. The lean man attacked again, knife low, aiming for the leg. Alex parried with low guard—another fragment of knowledge burning in his skull—and pushed with his shoulder, using armor weight. The man fell backward, hitting a tree.
Alex did not hesitate. With instinctive movement, he plunged the sword into the lean man's chest. The blade met resistance, then slid home to the hilt. The man gurgled, eyes wide, then collapsed.
The traveler, blinded in one eye, roared and charged blindly. Alex dodged, but the axe struck him flat on the side. The armor took most of it, yet the blow stole his breath.
Pure desperation. Alex seized the man's arm with his free hand, pulling him close. He clinched as in MMA, then smashed his head against the nose. Crack. Blood everywhere.
The man fell to his knees. Alex drove the sword into his throat: swift, filthy, final. The traveler gurgled, collapsed face-first into the mud.
Silence. Only Alex's labored breathing and the gurgle of the nearby stream.
He sank against a tree, sword still in hand, blood running from side and arm. Pain came in waves, yet his mind was clear, icy.
Two truths became clear:
First: Bes's gifts were real. Those fragments of sword knowledge were not his. They had been implanted. But every use demanded a price: splitting headaches, nausea, as if the brain were overloaded. Bes was no benefactor. He was a usurer.
Second: this world punished every mistake. Flaunting gold in a village of starving men had been foolish. If the innkeeper had been less honest, or more men present, he would be dead here, throat slit for thirty coins. Gold was a resource, yes. But also a curse. He had to learn to hide it, appear poor, move in shadows.
He cleaned the sword on the lean man's cloak, then sheathed it. Gathered the fallen weapons: knife and short axe. Useful. Further back, tied to a tree, another horse—probably theirs. He took it by the reins and tethered it behind his own.
He swung back into the saddle, ignoring the pain in his side. The sun still rode above the horizon. He had time to reach the inn on the Kingsroad.