Tales Of Grimea

by Andrew Mowere

  An hour before it was time to wake, Gurei started trying to get him. He tried threats, goads, encouragement, everything. None of it worked, and it was not until he was summoned that he stood up and got dressed. Maybe I was born to be a servant. Maybe uncle Yatushi will have me clean up after his daughter. When he went out, the “expedition party” looked dashing in their matching cloaks. The scouts were armed with bows and daggers and their leather boots looked more expensive than the shack Gurei shared with his brother. One of them glanced at him and then winked in a friendly manner while the others looked like statues. There were five of them, and they stood a circle around their lord, whose hooded cloak was a dark blue with golden trimmings. His wooden staff was cracked a foot and a half from the bottom. “Ready, boy?” Asked the older man.

  “Yes, sir,” mumbled Gurei. His father and the man exchanged a look and he wondered if they could see the emptiness in his eyes. It was especially bad that day, and he just prayed for things to be over. He needed the ground to swallow him up. He just wanted to be left alone.

  They walked into the forest for an hour or so, Gurei took his six companions on the trail he usually followed, but the going was much smoother. The scouts would flit out ahead and back every so often, making sure there were no dangers ahead and clearing them if they found any. Gurei couldn’t hear their arrows, but could see fewer and fewer of them on the scout’s quivers as time went on. The sky was almost black above them, and there no birds in flight. This caused another type of activity as landlocked creatures used the chance to hunt while sound and smells were blocked by the heavy rains. As they walked, Gurei saw a surudoi under a tree, lying on its back. He went over and flipped it on its stomach, and the needle covered rat scuttled away.

  “Kind of you,” remarked the scout who had winked at him earlier.

  “He might as well go,” he answered, and the man raised an eyebrow.

  “How come you know this forest so well? I do not see a woodsman in you, child.” The forest ahead was starting to thicken, and the formation around them tightened to protect lord Aimatsu. This was far deeper than Gurei had ever gone before, but the magician seemed to follow his cracked staff, tapping it every so often and then choosing a direction. He seemed to backtrack often and turn in strange manners, but Mamuro told Gurei that was normal. “There’s a very specific magical path. He’s following that. Stay close to us.”

  Just when Gurei was about to nod, their group stumbled upon another Dodomeki. The fell creature turned its eyes on them as Gurei gasped, knees turning week. Before it could move any of its four lanky arms, the magician grunted, “All clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied his five guards one by one, each pointing arrows in different directions. He gave his staff a dismissive wave and the beast fell over with a scream. Gurei whimpered, realizing he was in way over his head when none of the guards even glanced at the beast when they walked past it. He glanced at the beast as they left, and still could not see a mouth.

  They walked another few minutes when something went wrong. Gurei couldn’t feel it, but he could see the scouts tighten their circle as their nerves frayed slowly, drawn as tight as their arrows upon curved smooth bows. “Sir…” said Mamoru at last.

  “I know,” retorted his master, quickening his pace. The scouts and Gurei began to walk faster in turn, until they were trotting, as if fleeing from something unseen and unknown. The boy knew not what his betters were abhorring, but he felt bile rise in his throat. The already menacing trees grew more frightening with encroaching danger, and the shadows all around grew ever longer and deeper.

  Just when Gurei’s weak constitution was about to cause him to falter, their leader stopped abruptly. Before anyone could say anything the man turned, sweeping his cloak wide and waving his cracked staff. He recited the words of an incantation old enough that the trees sighed, and Gurei looked about them in fear. All of the scouts were facing behind them, the way they had come. He did so too, and could barely make out a slender figure making its way towards them. It carried what looked like a small dagger, and the boy’s heart skipped a beat.

  The faraway figure waved its dagger and Lord Aimatsu cried. He fell with a thud, dropping his staff. Still he recited his spell furiously, voice mounting, pitted against the sigh of the forest. One by one the scouts fell to their knees. “You are making a mistake,” said the old man finally, having given up on defense.

  The figure was now near, but stood behind a shadow so as not to show his face. “Am I, now?”

  “You are. We are here to negotiate peaceful communication. The Empire of Yotaku wishes to initiate contact with your people, now that we know you exist and hide in the forest.”

  “We do not hide. We simply keep our distance from foolish humans such as yourself.”

  “To what end? At least let me speak, so as to search for common grounds. We have heard the tales of elves. When you last saw us, we were but apes. Not so now.”

  “No?” The figure laughed and took one step forward. He was pale, boasted large blue eyes and blonde hair, as well as long ears tipped ears. “You do well to resist my spell.”

  “Believe me, I am trying hard. It feels like… like…”

  “Like your soul becomes enshrouded in darkness. You lose all will to fight, to breathe, and to live. Things become empty and the only sensation you are left with is a numbness filled with self-loathing.”

  The mage nodded, then let his head hang. “Please… release us. Let us speak. I beg of you.”

  “It’s a particularly nasty spell; got me this position as guardian, in fact. If it is peace you want, and relations, then I suppose I can let you through for the senate to hear and the guards to deal with. I must admit, no one has ever gone against it this hard, and it says a great deal about your devotion. This brat is strange though.” The man’s eyes homed in on Gurei, and the boy thought he might die then and there. “He does not seem to react at all. Is he warded?”

  “Not that I know of. How are you still fine, child?” This the Lord asked Gurei, and in wonder at that. The boy felt Aimatsu look at him for the first.

  “I, sir….” Something about the man’s description of the spell felt strange “I don’t really know. I’m just a stupid brat. But that sensation you described, sir elf? The crushing sense of worthlessness and not knowing who or what you are or why you’re alive? The despair and numb and all t-that?” as he spoke, the boy realized that he was speaking to a living, breathing elf. There were magical creatures in all of Grimea. However, the other sentient beings besides humans were all supposed to be either myths or long lost. And he was speaking to one!

  “Yes?” asked the elf impatiently.

  “That’s how I feel all the time.”

  After a shocked second, both the elf and Lord Aimatsu laughed. They laughed in great booming bursts until both wiped tears off their faces and had to lean on something. Even the scouts chuckled. Gurei didn’t quite realized it, but he had cut the tension between two races and united them in mirth for the first time in eons. “May I send him home?” Asked the elf after the long fit.

  “Please, sir,” replied Lord Aimatsu, who had gotten to his feet after being released from the elf’s spell and was helping his scouts up. The elf proceeded to wave his dagger, which turned out to be a small wooden wand. And a light began to shine around Gurei. He instructed the boy to just walk forward. “Thank you!” called the lord after him.

  When too much happens at once, one loses the ability to rationally think. It is a little like having a comfortable rug pulled out from under your feet. This was a fortunate thing for Gurei because it meant that he didn’t have the capacity to dwell on things as he walked, elevating his mood to a neutral level. There was simply too much, and he promptly decided that it was too much for a simple farmer boy. His father had been paid and his job was over.

  Just as he reached the hill where he lived, the boy was surprised to see none other than Natsumi waiting for him. Beautiful, radiant Natsumi. She asked him how thing
s had gone, and he blankly said they’d gone well. It was perhaps the first sentence he’d ever said to her without tripping over his words, and the surprise was evident on both of their faces.

  “Listen,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that yesterday, I didn’t mean that you gave me the wrong flowers. I was really happy for the tsubaki, but just wanted to make conversation. Now that I think about it, I might make tsubaki my favorite flower.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I thought I had ruined things.” It occurred to him that he may have brought himself down by assuming too much.

  “Silly,” she exclaimed, “it made my day wonderful.”

  “I-I think you saying that just made my day good too.” Saying that was a bold statement for the boy, and it was difficult to hide the furious blush stampeding through his face. Above them, for once, the sun shined.

  The blacksmith of Coeur:

  Year: 7 post Adventus

  Every cloud has a silver lining. The troll, in the metaphorical sense, presented an incredibly dark cloud overshadowing the town of Erbhelm, and so needed some exceptional lining to balance things out. That is where the blacksmith of Coeur comes into this tale, and that was because his name was Silver.

  Erbhelm had never been a truly quiet town, nor very prosperous. Some stubborn folk had decided generations ago that they wanted to start a community smack down in the middle of a magic forest. “Good people and good food!” their leader had announced, a man who possessed little good sense but was a simple honest man.

  “Sweet beer and sweeter grain!” his brother had exclaimed, who had little time for patience yet was wonderful at enjoying himself.

  At that, their cousin had sighed. “Kind land and kinder sky,” he murmured. This man was a thinker, and prone to praying when he knew thinking wasn’t going to get anything done.

  The three men had gathered their friends and families just before starting their work. With great swooping strikes they axed the trees, with song on their lips they shovelled and grained and changed the land, building a village. They were circled by the magical forest and they could feel the effects: Children laughed brighter and food tasted better. Flowers shone with a light not present anywhere else on the continent of Veld while butterflies covered trees like leaves and left the humans gasping in wonder. “My brothers,” their leader had announced, to many cheers, “We will make this place a home for us all, a place where we can be safe and happy above all else!” Everything had seemed wonderful, especially with how bountiful this soil had seemed. So they called their town Erbhelm, for it was an inheritance to be cherished for generations to come.

  Of course, I had mentioned earlier that Erbhelm had never been very prosperous, and now I shall tell you why. Magical forests are always inhabited. Often these inhabitants are friendly, and are willing to share and trade with humans. However, magical creatures hate two things above all else. The first is the smell of melting candle three minutes after sunset, and the second is the dying cry of a fallen tree. Thus the humans of Erbhelm had unwittingly invited mischief upon themselves. That night it started simply, with pixies stealing things out of people’s pantries. It had gone on for a few days and people began to become suspicious after realizing that one could only misplace so much salt. Then things escalated when an old lady, going into her kitchen to fix herself a mug of milk, had been startled by a pixie. She slapped at the poor butterfly like creature, making its magic dust go dim and lightless.

  The next day came goblins and dire wolves, imps and salamanders, as well as many other types of creatures, some which the townsfolk had never seen before. There were long armed furry gasbys and the winged clawed tesmies and those large dim gosts with their big yellow eyes. In order to combat the invasion, townsfolk had to split their time in between fighting and working their various jobs. In time they learned of the troll, this forest’s guardian and cause for all their misfortune. The troll was thrice as large as a man, with a circular head and powerful arms and tusks. He also carried around a great tree as his club. The troll only came out rarely but caused great devastation before returning so deep into the forest that he could touch the mountainside. He allowed most of the fighting to be done by his minions. A slow war was waged for many years, with Erbhelm holding its ground but being unable to expand. Things settled down a bit after the log fence was erected, but not enough to give anyone respite.

  That was when Silver came. He was a man who strode through Erbshelm’s danger fraught forest trails as casually as if he were a beacon of flame with a sack slung behind one shoulder. There had been determination in his calm, powerful strides and his short ponytail seemed to hop about with each step. He was dressed in light leather armour with linen poking from underneath. His short beard was as neatly trimmed as his gait and as silver as his name. He came from far west, and spoke with a strange accent, as if his original language was extremely soft spoken. “Hello,” he greeted the first person encountered, a surprised guard, “How’s your day been?”

  “Uh... Fine, how about yerself?” Hans was bewildered

  “It was wonderful, my good man. May I speak to your leader?”

  “Sure,” the startled guard answered uncertainly. The road to Erbhelm was dangerous and travellers almost never came, yet he’d never been instructed to keep humans out. Besides, the man had a surprising air of friendliness about him, as if he generally considered people to be well meaning. “You’ll find Lady Aria in the central hall...” with that, Hans went quiet and went to observing this strange man, his left arm firmly grasping his spear.

  “I assume I’ll find it, uh, in the centre then?” asked the man, then added “My name is Silver Vermillion, by the way. Sorry for not saying that earlier.” The two shook hands for a second and Hans felt a tingle go through his arm. How strange, he thought to himself. Usually it wasn’t so easy. Remembering his manners, he then introduced himself and the two chatted for a bit about the Erbhelm and how the town was doing at the moment. “Oh, I know about what’s going on here. In fact, I came by to help all the way from beyond Indellekt.” The guard scratched his head under his spiked helmet at that, not knowing how any one man could change things in this town.

  Then he noticed the man’s blade, a short sword belted to his left thigh. He hadn’t noticed it as Silver came through the gate but now, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, curved as if drawn by a pen and glinting in the light. Its metal was woven over itself yet it still held a terrifyingly sharp edge. “You’ll have to leave your blade outside the hall, no weapons allowed. Sorry about that.”

  With that, Silver bade his new friend farewell and went further into the town. He greeted people where he went and where chats presented themselves, he chatted. Each time a connection was reached with a person, Silver would reach out a glove and shake a hand, sending that strange surging tingle through his or her body. Each time he did, Silver was surprised at how friendly people were around here. Back in his own hometown in Indellekt people had seemed far more distant to each other.

  Finally, Silver reached the central hall. Listening to Hans’ and the other’s advice, he left Surge leaning next to the hall’s door, along with the sack filled with his tools. Both arched door portals were opened wide as a sign of welcome and so the man strode in confidently, taking in the warm scene before him.

  The Hall was wide and made entirely out of logs, from floor panels running along its length to tall standing pillars and even the beaming. Two long rectangular hearths sat cosily between dual long heavily laden tables with benches on either side of them, populated by women and men both young and old. Families spoke and chatted, then became slightly quieter as he passed by. Between the hearths was a path running down the hall’s centre, lined with runes, connecting the entrance to where the leader’s table was nestled, proud and strong. Along that table sat both grizzled and younger men and women, obviously wise and tough. Each exuded an air of physical power except for the intellectuals and the mage halfway down the right side. Those were this t
own’s leaders, and each of them had started at Silver’s entrance. Perhaps they could sense that he was a mage, or a swordsman. Such things created an aura, after all. He stopped three steps shy from this hall’s centre, waiting politely while having a stare off against each and every of them. He went first down the right, then down the left, gaining and giving acceptance as he went. There were men boasting war braids riddled with beads, strategists eyeing him keenly, and of course the mage, eyes almost blazing with lightning and boasting a beard so touched by frost that it almost matched Silver’s natural hair colour. With each sweep, Silver stopped just shy of the table’s centre, saving that figure for last. He could feel a pure and feral sense of space, something that marked the greatest of warriors. Whoever this town’s leader was, Silver could tell it was a warrior whose very physical aura reached out from in grasping tendrils, asserting its strength. Then he looked.

  The first surprise was that she looked as old as he, perhaps halfway into her twenties. Her golden strands had many beads in them, marking her off as a slayer of ogres, tree folk, and many other types of monsters. One bead was traditionally added every ten kills, and she had almost a hundred of them, holding two long strands that wrapped from her temples and joined, presumably, at the back like a circlet. She was dressed in a skirt of fur, finished off with grey leather and iron at her waist but left loose at her ankles to allow freedom of movement, as well as a matching vest going up to almost halfway up her neck. Her arms were left bare for no show of strength, Silver understood, for she had little more muscle than would be usual for a woman of her stature. Those arms were unmarked by tattoos, and in fact sported nothing more than twin simple armbands. In fact, the only thing on her which didn’t seem meant to facilitate ease of movement was a buckler attached to her left shoulder. It looked ornate, fixed yet still made to be used, and was etched with crisscrossing wounds. Behind her wooden chair stood a long slender blade, scratched all over yet still in excellent shape. Despite her apparent lack of physical strength and her average height, this lady sat there leaning forward, her face resting on one fist, with the absolute balance of a master. Full cheeks dimpled at him and her almost delicate jaw made way for a wide kind smile that swallowed her heart shaped face. The golden hair tucked gently behind her ears shook. “Welcome, traveller!” she exclaimed, voice carrying like a powerful piece of music.