Michael Chatfield
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Alric, Fantasy, Modern World to Urban Fantasy World
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 21:34:24 +0000 UTCFlash Fiction Friday
Father Alric stretched as he walked along the country road, raising his hand in greeting as he passed the Sutherlands heading the other way.
"Back from Trivia night already?" Keith Sutherland asked, his breath visible in the chilly evening air.
"Early night for me," Alric replied with a warm smile. "I thought I'd let everyone else in the pub have a chance!" He chuckled, though the sound felt hollow to his own ears.
"Well, see you on Sunday for service."
"Sunday then," Alric raised his hand in goodbye, watching as the couple continued on their way.
He continued up the road, passing his church—no, not his church. Not really. He was just a volunteer here, helping the elderly parish priest who couldn't manage alone anymore. Just another way of atoning, he supposed.
His footsteps slowed as he approached the gates leading up to the weathered stone building. The structure was worn and old, the stone stained with centuries of lichen and moss prints—and there was light inside.
Alric dropped his hand to his pocket, reaching inside and finding his keys. Seeing as I'm the only person with keys, someone's up to no good.
He opened the gate, closing it behind him with barely a sound. It was probably some local lads, bored with nothing better to do in a country town. He'd dealt with his share of hotheads in the army, during his time as a military chaplain.
The gravel crunched under his feet as he went around the church to its front—finding a blacked-out transit van with its rear doors open.
"Come here, you!" A man growled from inside the van, followed by the sound of shuffling feet before a slap and steadier footsteps.
Alric backed up to the corner of the church, using the shadows as cover. Fifteen years since he'd left the service, but the training was still there, buried under layers of prayer and penance.
A man emerged from the van, dragging a woman with him, her mouth and hands duct-taped together. Her eyes darted around in terror as the man easily pulled her along—much stronger than his slight frame would suggest.
Alric reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
No service.
He looked back to the house some two hundred meters away on the other side of the cemetery. Too far to get help in time.
"That's the last of them," the man who dragged the lady into the church said.
"Good, our contractor will be pleased," another man replied from inside.
"We're going to be gods!" a third voice yelled, jubilant and manic.
"Keep your damn voice down. We don't want to be waking up the folks around here," the second voice hissed.
Alric's hands clenched into fists. Not your fight anymore. Call the police. Be smart. But another voice, deeper and more insistent chilled his bones and hardened his resolve.
By the time help arrives, it will be too late.
He moved along the wall of the church, careful to keep his feet flat against the ground so the gravel wouldn't betray his presence. He reached the open door and peered within.
He’d assess, then he’d take action.
He reached one of the windows and looked within.
The pews had been pushed back against the walls, and a dead sheep lay upon the altar, its blood used to create an intricate circle.
Four women had been dragged to the cardinal points of the ritual, all bound and terrified.
The sight made his blood run cold.
Alric turned his foot, the gravel shifting underneath.
"Did you hear that?" one of the men inside whispered.
“Go check it out,” Another hissed.
The man moved towards the door.
Alric's mind flashed back to Kandahar, to the smell of cordite and the sound of men screaming for absolution before death took them. He'd sworn never again. He'd sworn to walk a path of peace.
Sometimes peace came with a cost.
The man pushed it open with his hand holding a pistol, blinking at the sudden darkness as his eyes adjusted.
Alric didn’t give him the time. He grabbed the pistol slide with his left hand and slammed the side of his hand into the man’s throat.
The pistol went off, but the slide didn’t go back with him holding onto it, shooting into the gravel that sent shards into Alric’s leg—painful but not debilitating.
The other man tore his hands away, eyes bulging as he grabbed at his throat.
Alric kicked him in the balls pulling the pistol into his right hand and pulling back the slide with his left, ejecting the casing within and loading a fresh road as he stepped into the church—gun up—head up.
"This is consecrated ground," he said, his voice echoing through the ancient stones. "And you are trespassing."
The two men, one standing at the front of the ritual and the other with the woman from the van turned toward him, their faces contorted with surprise and anger.
"Father, you picked the wrong night for a visit," the man moving the woman sneered and pushed the woman away, reaching into his waistband.
The other man started chanting, the blood on the floor glowing.
Alric advanced on a pillar.
Show me a gun, just show me. He did not want to go to prison for this shit. He could see the headline now ‘army officer turned church caretaker kills three men in church’.
The man pulled around a fucking wand. And a streak of white light shot out, hitting the pillar and blowing a hole in it that would have made a fifty-cal round have performance anxiety.
Thankfully dipshit had aimed high.
Alric didn’t as he fired and advanced, dumping half a mag until the man went down. What the fuck was he on to not hit the dirt after the first?
"The ritual cannot be stopped!" the last man shouted, producing a ceremonial dagger. "Our passage has been paid for!"
The man raised his blade and Alric fired on him, the man’s body flinching with the impacts as the shots rang out through the church, the pistol’s slide locking to the rear.
The man dropped behind the altar as Alric drew out a blade, reaching the first bound woman and cutting her hands and ankles free. She tore off the tape.
“Thank you! Thank you!”
“Take this and help the others get free, there’s a door behind the choir benches that leads to a fire exit out of here,” Alric looked in her eyes, keeping his awareness on the altar.
“Okay,” She said, wide eyed.
“You’ve got this,” He squeezed her hand and moved towards the first man he’d put down.
He stared up at the ceiling, blood running across the stone, Alric kicked the wand away into the middle of the ritual and frisked the man, pulling out a pistol, he pulled back the slide, checked it was loaded as the second woman was freed.
He kept his pistol at the ready and moved heel to toe, around the altar—the man’s mouth opening as if to get more air.
The third woman was freed and the group set to work on the last woman.
“Run to the house at the other end of the cemetery, the back door is unlocked, use the phone to call the police,” He called out to them, hearing the rip of ductatpe being removed and sobbing.
“Say it back to me. Alric said as he moved up on the man gawping his last breaths.
“House other side of cemetery, through the back door, call the cops!”
“Go!”
The man turned his eyes at Alric, a vindictive smile on his face.
He stabbed himself in the chest—the gem on the back of the knife glowing.
A scream rung out and Alric looked up to see the first man he’d hit in the neck running up the aisle.
“Stop right there or I’ll put you down!” He yelled.
He felt it, the power swelling within the ritual. Chains of red jumped out and latched onto Alric and the other man, dragging them into the center of the circle.
The chains burned as Alric screamed out, feeling his clothing burst to flames.
The wand in the middle of the circle detonated and his world was pain, being torn apart and remade, it burned through his veins and not veins. He was remade and reborn and sensed movement.
Then he was not in his church but that fire it burned through him.
“Where are the subjects?” A voice called out and the fire burning through Alric was released.
***
"Boss! Boss!"
Alric shook his head at the incessant yelling. The door to his office swung open, bashing against filing cabinets with enough force to make the glass shudder.
Alric sat back in his chair, daylight starting to stream in through venetian blinds, a glass tumbler on his desk, and the smell of a fully burnt cigar hanging in the air as a leftover from the night before. His reflection in the glass cabinet showed a face he still hadn't fully reconciled as his own—angular, with pointed ears and ritual scars that burned like embers across his left cheek when his emotions ran high.
A squirrel—an oversized one, wearing armor of course—climbed upon his desk as Alric opened his drawer to retrieve another cigar.
"You're looking for the mask of All-Seeing, right?" the squirrel asked, tail twitching with excess energy.
"That's the one," Alric said, conjuring a flame from his fingertip and setting the cigar alight. The ability had manifested during his transformation—a cruel reminder of how he'd arrived in this world.
"You said that it was able to see into this other world? One with tech-or-ogly?"
"Technology," Alric corrected.
Cliff was a well-meaning soul, if not an energetic young were-squirrel knight paladin—it was complicated.
In a world where magic reigned supreme and technology was rare, Cliff's fascination with "the other side" had made him a valuable ally.
"That's it! That got me thinking, about the new gadgets and things that don't use no mana, or little of it. The Mundane Machines Corp has been producing all things non-magic for the last five years. Every few months or so they come up with some new—thing."
Alric drew the cigar's smoke into his mouth and swirled it around before letting it out slowly. He'd learned patience in this new life—a necessary skill when dealing with the Fae Courts and their endless games. T
hree years of investigation had led him to believe that whoever had been conducting the ritual back on Earth hadn't stopped with just one church.
He drew out a second cigar and held it in the air.
"Adroni?"
A cat of metallic fur appeared, wrapping around his hand, taking a deep sniff of the cigar. The Fae creature's eyes glowed with intelligent malice—as much a predator as Alric himself had become.
"A trade?" he purred, claws extending slightly into Alric's skin.
"Information," Alric said. It was best to use short answers and complex questions with the fae.
Especially now that he found himself as one of them. They loved to trick others, but within their own groups, they were merciless in their manner.
"A question for a smoke," Adroni said, eyeing the cigar hungrily.
"Where have the Mundane Machines Corp been getting their ideas from, specifically?" Alric asked, careful to frame the question precisely.
"From Earth, of course," Adroni pulled on the cigar, but Alric didn't release it.
"Specifically?" Alric pressed, his scars glowing slightly as his patience thinned. The fae and their creatures all loved to play at their game of questions and answers.
"Two questions asked," Adroni hissed, eyes narrowing.
"An incomplete answer given," Alric countered, unphased by the angered cat. Even if the creature could level a city block out of amusement—or boredom.
Adroni laughed, as if savoring the moment.
"Ah, you are refreshing and so stubborn." Adroni plucked the cigar from Alric's fingers. "Yours. The one you call home. Where else would they get such wonders without magic?"
His weight disappeared from Alric's arm as he and the cigar vanished into the shadows.
Cliff's tail twitched excitedly. "So can I—"
“Yes you can tag along Cliff. I think I may have need of your powers and ability," Alric said, rising from his chair and picking up the shotgun that lay against his desk and opening another drawer to pocket several potions, placing them in different pockets.
He checked the shotgun was loaded before pulling out a warded case and placing it within.
"We’ll find out just who is summoning people.”
His scars burned bright as anger flared within him. For three years, he'd searched for a way home—not to return, but to stop whatever organization had caused his transformation and was continuing to prey on innocent victims.
"Time to pay Mundane Machines a visit," he said, his voice carrying the weight of both worlds. "I think their CEO and I need to have a conversation about where exactly his 'inspiration' comes from."
Cliff scrambled up Alric's arm to perch on his shoulder, tiny sword gleaming in the morning light. "Do we get to use the boom sticks this time?"
Alric allowed himself a small smile, feeling the familiar weight of violence settling back into his bones.
He'd tried to be a man of peace once, and it had burned away in the flames of that church. Now, he was exactly what this world had made him: a weapon forged in fire.
"Only if they give us a reason," he replied, knowing they almost certainly would. "Let's go find out who's been playing god between worlds."
He’d talked to the gods of this world—and they left much to be desired.
