Tales Of Grimea

by Andrew Mowere

Strangers:

  Year: 982 Post Kerdallus, 128 Pre adventus

  Gurei woke up well before dawn, stirred by something. For a second, things felt alright. For one first blissfully still instant, the world waited and held his breath. More importantly, his own insides waited a little. Then they came crashing down and he closed his eyes again, hoping for the void. “Gurei,” came a voice, gruff with years of use. “Katou!”

  Before the boy could say anything, the other boy sleeping in his room replied, “Coming!”

  The boy groaned, getting up to his feet and hastily changing into something suitable for the muddy work ahead. He glanced at Gurei. “Coming?” he asked, then added, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” said the straight haired youth. He moved a strand away from his eyes, since it sometimes felt the horrid thing would cut him with how straight it grew. He felt like a surudoi, all thorny fur and brittleness. Without another word his twin brother left their small one room lean to and went out to help out with the day’s work. This was routine in its own way, and allowed Gurei to take a few moments for himself. These he used to gather his strength. He had to get up.

  After a few moments, Gueri was able to painstakingly get up to his feet. He pulled on his brown mud-stained tunic over his tall but slender frame. It was to be washed in a few days, but for now the boy had to bear with the stench of work. It was his, after all. He left the lean to, careful not to drop any of uncle Yatushi’s moldy wallboards nor cut himself on a rusty nail. If any damage came to the place, his family would pay. His father, Yukihira Midoriya, was already taking up a big set of clippers. “About time, slowpoke,” he chided, as he often did. His voice was louder than other people’s, which was all very well and good for the weak eared Gurei. His father, however, did not believe that his son didn’t hear as well as others, and assumed he was either stupid or lazy. This was because the mild mannered boy had always slept very lightly.

  “I’m sorry, father,” said he softly. His father didn’t seem to understand that ‘mild mannered’ and ‘Skittish’ came hand in hand for some.

  “Well, there’s no use telling you to make this the last time.” His weathered face cracked, exposing a smile of sorts. Gurei’s father didn’t do that often, and the boy almost smiled back in gratitude. Instead he looked to his right. He and his family lived on a small hill, overlooking rectangular mirror like patches of water. Each was long and wide, and villagers made their way between them using the green grass roads created when the rice paddies were first dug out. To their right was a forest of bamboos rising up, curving slightly as if tired from a long climb. Gurei knew that the forest held more variety, although none really knew how far it stretched and none dared tread too far. Far behind the forest, darkness reigned. The boy knew that a tired sun would eventually start a painstakingly long climb, but that he was still too early for that. “Well, come on.” With those words, Yukihira made his way down the hill. “You were late, so no real time for breakfast. Your mother gave me this for you.” The tall but slightly hunched over man pulled a rice ball out of a pocket as he walked, showing it to the boy. Gurei could looked behind, to where his Katou was saying goodbye to their mother. He waved, and she waved back with a wide smile, although the woman looked tired. Far in the distance behind her, something flew amongst the clouds. Gurei could not be sure if it was a bird or something else. Nobusame came to mind, and he averted his eyes quickly, lest he see the face upon a nobusame’s back and be cursed. Maybe it was something good and cute like a fairy or Tennyo. Gurei blushed, knowing that even if it were a Tennyo, it wouldn’t be as pretty as Natsumi. It was impossible for anyone or anything, even an angelic yokai, to be as beautiful as Natsumi. Of course, anyone who saw a Tennyo feeding on a rat would hardly be able to consider them beautiful anymore.

  The boy made his way down the hill more carefully than his father and brother did. Despite doing this for a good many years now, working every morning had done nothing to improve Gurei’s feeble constitution. Despite his litter containing only two pups, there was no doubt in his mind about which was the runt. Whereas Katou was lean but hardworking and their father strong if sporting a beer belly, Gurei’s twenty years of existence left him looking more like a bamboo stalk than anything else. Still, he was worked as hard as his brother, and as the sun began to find its way up the sky’s canvas, his breath began to catch in his throat. He and his brother had the task of walking around a set area of rice paddy, picking out anything that was getting into the soil and making sure all the plants were growing straight and true. Spending hours stooped in that manner can get into a man’s back, as Yukihira Midoriya had demonstrated with his permanent slightly askew stance. Pain lanced and throbbed slowly through the boy’s body. Come on, he urged himself, seeing his brother parallel to and ahead of him. You’re a man now. Do it for dad. Do it for the village. Sweat beaded his scrunched up forehead, and his breath came cold like stalagmites dropping through his body. Don’t drop, not yet. He could see his father doing harder work with the heavy rusted shears. It was always Gurei who dropped first. His constitution was too different from a healthy boy’s. Twenty years of wishing couldn’t change that. Shadows flitted inside his mind, reminding him of every time his body let him down, whispering weakness. He wasn’t smart, nor was he strong. For those who had nothing else in their favor, perseverance was the only way. Mrs. Kitsune had said so, trying to cheer him up once. Don’t be useless.

  “Boy, weed patch to your left. Don’t get sloppy now!” The words came as if from far away. A rare spot of reflected sunlight in the water below blinded the boy as he turned his gaze left, seeing the patch. He stepped towards it and fell face down into the water. His father glanced upwards, towards the mostly dark sky above, trying to gauge the time. “Yip, that’s about when he usually drops. Break!”

  Gurei remained in a haze as he was hauled to his feet by strong arms. His father grumbled in his ears, and although he couldn’t figure out what was being said, the boy knew that it was something about him. Of course it was, for he could barely keep up with children five years his junior. The sky above looked like rain, he thought, but didn’t say anything as he was plopped down on one of the paddy’s grassy outskirts. A cloth and rice balls were shoved into his hands, and he was unable to determine if he wanted to eat them or bury his face in his hands with shame. In the end, the boy wiped his wet face on his sleeve, sniffed, and began to eat with more enthusiasm than was normal. He kept his eyes down, lest a tear escape them.

  A sound of sloshing came towards him slowly, and then a plop. Gurei looked to see his brother next to him. “Hey, buddy,” he said gently.

  “Hello, Katou,” answered the older brother, trying to put some cheer into it.

  “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself falling. Dad can be a bit rough, but we really can use all the help we get. You’re doing well. Can’t miss uncle’s deadlines, you know.” The words sounded hallow. Gurei knew that every bit of help was needed. That was the only reason a useless muss such as he was tolerated. He could feel villagers on other parts of the paddy eyeing him with disdain. He could sympathize with them.

  “It’s all because of uncle,” he said, words burning hot.

  “Yeah. If he hadn’t gotten those paddies, we’d be way worse off.”

  “No. It’s all because he doesn’t pay well!” Gurei’s brother gasped at his outburst, although it was still delivered in hushed tones. “Just because he lucked out in Yotaku with what little he got when grandpa died doesn’t mean he’s better than us.” Much like the empire and large glamorous city, their uncle had forgotten his roots and wanted only riches. Gurei hated it, as did any sensible person. The settlements had lost much to Yotaku’s expansion.

  Katou looked at his brother. “Don’t talk like that. He’s older than us. He’s successful. Smart people are successful, and smart people figure out when someone hates them. We have what we have because of his grace.” Further to the side, Gurei glimpsed Natsumi eying them. Beautiful Natsumi with her shoul
der length hair. Usually seeing her calmed him, but not when he looked this pathetic.

  “Grace! We pay rent for our shack. We do all the work and he gets most of the money! And we go to visit, I see how he looks at us. If he’s so smart,” he spat out, “Then how come his daughter is as dumb as a brick? She’s a pig!”

  His brother, always happy, gave Gurei a cold look. “His daughter was born wrong. Sympathy is what that poor girl deserves.” He didn’t say it, but with that last glance and the way he leapt into the rice paddy and his work, Gurei understood what he’d meant. I of all people should understand what it’s like to be born wrong.

  Naturally, the rest of his morning was spent in hard work with intermediate breaks. Katou did not come back to talk to him for a while, but he was too good a person not to eventually check up on his older brother. For his part, Gurei mumbled and said everything was fine when he was asked, but he was born with a fragile heart. The darkening gloom above, usual around this part of Sehkai, mirrored his heart in an uncanny manner. He’d let the ever-present hurt inside him out, aimed at someone who didn’t even deserve it. Gurei wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed like a miserable creature and never come back out again. He didn’t understand why he was so different.

  The boy had always been angst ridden, but brief flashes of happiness were tucked away within his childhood. The memory of being carried upon his father’s shoulders at a Niner festival, watching explosions light the sky, still had a strange warmth to them. Nowadays he just felt out of place, like a thorn stuck where it doesn’t belong. Every day, his own worthlessness would haunt him, waiting for the inevitable failures like carrions circling above a bloody feast.

  That day, relief came in the form of Natsumi’s closeness. Old lady Sakasha had died the week before, and today was Natsumi’s turn in rotation at the woman’s old spot. Gurei’s heart lurched with the glee of her being so close. He tried to talk to her, for they’d known each other since their childhood. However, the pale girl with the shoulder length hair was a fast worker, and so he gave that up after an initial greeting. “It’s fine,” he wheezed as she shrugged. Her eyes, curved like a mountain was, burned with dark concentration and focused on the work at hand. Gurei wished only for money so he could make her happy. It pained him to see the way his uncle hoarded golden ring coins. If he were like that, cute Natsumi would never have to work a rice paddy ever again. The thought made his heart throb, and it staved off the dark numbness lurking in his mind.

  At midafternoon, Gurei was allowed to leave the rice paddy. He splashed off the watery mud, wiping off sweat on his sleeve. It wasn’t the best of days, so the boy asked permission to rest before going on to his second job. His father looked him up and down, but agreed. The man was distracted, Gurei saw. When he followed his gaze, the boys saw trails of smoke in the distance, coming from behind horse drawn carriages. They were coming right towards them. His father spat in distaste, and Gurei knew he thought these may merchants coming from the north east. Distrust was rampant against those who came from those parts, for they might be mixed with those from the northern continent of Jerr, or even the island savages in between the two continents. Leaving that matter, the boy went into his father and mother’s cottage, where he was greeted by the smell of fresh dumplings. For a second they brought good memories, but as Gurei ate, his nostalgia turned into wishful remembrance. It doesn’t really matter, he finally thought.

  “Is something wrong, child?” asked his mother. She had been a slender woman, Gurei had been told, but had turned hard and bellied with age.

  “Nothing, really. Well, it’s just…” He was twenty years old already, and didn’t know anything about what he wanted to do with his life. It wasn’t like he could work the farms well. He couldn’t read and write too well either. No skills, hobbies, nothing except wasting time and going into the forest. He didn’t fit anywhere. There was gaping hole inside him, fertilized with worry and fear, with the only fruit to show being self-loathing. “I’m just worried about the caravans coming here.”

  Gurei’s mother was naturally accepting of others, but had a strong dislike for those coming from the north. “Hope they just don’t steal from us,” she muttered darkly.

  When Gurei finished his meal, he went out to his other job. Being feeble, he’d been often sent into the forest to stay out of everyone’s way. He liked to pick whatever got his interest, and one day a wizard who happened to live in a nearby village caught him grasping a bluish sort of nut. “Bring me three sacks of those each month, and I’ll pay.” Ever since, this became Gurei’s specialty. The wizard used it for something or the other. Gurei didn’t really care, although Katou had prodded him to ask.

  The sky had begun to shed a few tears when Gurei got beyond the bamboo forest. Here, the trees were large and ominous, gnarly and close knit. Bark grew from them like malicious growths, and the grass beneath them rose tired and sickly. The sky above was… gone, hidden by more leaves than a thousand men could count. Gurei walked cautiously, listening for howls, scuttles, screams or crashes. He cursed his weakened hearing as a honey snake slithered away from his foot. These snakes were captured and raised for their sweet venom, which was harmless to humans for some reason. Somewhere in the distance, a light alerted the boy to a fairy’s presence, and he made towards it as silently as possible for someone like him. Before he was a hundred steps away the light fled, but he did not mind.

  Fairies, for some reason, gathered near the trees which produced the fruits Gurei was after. It was with a small breath of excitement that the boy found what he sought: A long slender trunk laden with tiny branches, like fingers. Each ended in a small puff of leaves and fruit. Opening the sack he’d brought with him, the boy filled the sack with wonder, disregarding everything around him. The trees didn’t stay in place long, so he had to bag as much as he could that day. For a second, he didn’t seem quite so useless, filled with immediate purpose as he was.

  The boy took to his task with too much purpose, evidently. A crack behind him alerted the slant eyed boy to danger, and he turned to find a monstrosity right behind him. A Dodomeki. It screamed at him, all hundred eyes glaring at him. The eyes covered its ball like body, and it stood on four arms. Not knowing where to look, the boy stammered. “Eh, ah, erm…” He thought about holding his breath, remembering the stories about the beast’s breath. He couldn’t see a mouth anywhere.

  After a second, the beast came and Gurei ran, zigzagging his way around the trees as he tried to put anything between him and a horrid death. Grass and trees and screams blurred in his head as he cut left then right over and over, praying only for a quick end. He was so terrified that it didn’t even occur to him that his life was hardly worth the effort of saving. It was only due to dumb luck that the monster managed to trip on something and lose him, for with his stamina there would have been no contest in a true chase. His bag was only half full, but the boy whooped his survival, wheezing. Then he began to think. He only filled the sack halfway. Filling it completely would have gotten them that much extra money.

  He may as well have let the thing eat him. There was no purpose in anything he ever did, and all of his actions ended in failure. Gurei’s life was just an empty routine, trying every day to summon the strength to smile and enjoy something like normal people did. It was too hard. He knew that every day would be the same, and there was nothing but emptiness to look forward to. Letting that reality crash over him for the first time that day, the boy in the brown tunic sat down and cried. Even that felt stupid, because he didn’t really have any big problems. The shadows flitted in his heart, telling him that nothing will ever make him happy. Someone without a purpose should just lie there and turn to stone. This was the part of his second job that he hated. Keeping the mask of normal life on all the time was difficult, but it kept him from overthinking things. Now, that safety was gone. Desperately, squatting against a tree trunk, the boy grasped on to his knees. Mentally, he tried to think of something to get him up. He needed the str
ength to stand up and go back, face his family, and keep living. The only purpose which came to mind was Natsumi, and so Gurei focused on that. He visualized the beautiful girl in something other than filthy work tunics, cute with done hair and just a hint of powder on her face. He held that image in his head for a few seconds, then got up.

  When Gurei came back out the bamboo forest, the sky was almost completely dark. He could see light from his parent’s shack, but made his way to Natsumi’s with a determined step. He had filled another sack, that one with momo and sakura flowers. He walked a few minutes to where her own shack was, then paused, fist hanging over the door. His knees shook, and the boy realized that he didn’t have it in him. He’d gathered all the strength he had in his soul, and still couldn’t knock on the door of a silly girl’s room. A low moan like sound escaped his mouth. Even if he could, she would never accept his advances.

  Just as he turned to make his way back home her door opened. She eyed at him in surprise. “Gurei?” she asked, and slight irritation ran through him. Then he noticed how cute it was when she asked while knowing the answer. “Uh, yes.”

  “What is it?” she asked, then saw the sacks. “Wow, did you gather that much?”

  “No… half is… it’s…” She waited patiently, looking innocent with head cocked to the side. Then she asked, “Flowers? Are they for me?”

  “…Yes…” Now it was his turn to cast his gaze shyly. He was sure it wasn’t quite so captivating when he acted this way.

  “Awww! That’s so sweet of you!” she stepped forward, took the sack in his right hand, and looked inside. Gurei realized how clammy his palms were, and hoped he hadn’t stained the sack. Then he saw the mark on it and his heart dropped. It began to rain again, slowly. Luckily, this cut the conversation time.

  “It’s amazing of you. I like momo and sakura flowers. Tsubaki is my favorite, though. It signifies perfect love. Anyway, the people from the caravan hired you. There’s a magician and some scouts from Yotaku, want to go into the forest. We were with them most of the evening.”

  Gurei couldn’t sleep that night. After he got home, his father had introduced him to a lord Aimatsu, who was a man around his forties. The lord owned a nicely trimmed beard, bore a green cape, and seemed completely uninterested in Gurei, his guide for the night. He simply told him that he was to take them into the forest and guide them as deep within as possibly. When that was done, the lord retreated back to his wagon, where he and his hardened scouts set up camp for the night.

  Stress wore on the boy. He had not an inkling of what was meant to happen with him the day after. Moreover, Natsumi’s rejection of his flowers had hurt. What kind of idiot doesn’t check the flower types before picking them? Thus he tossed and turned, opening his eyes every so often so as to glare at his shack’s roof. Katou snored peacefully.

  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 f
eels 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 things 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 town’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.

  Before he could even smile in return, something like a lightning bolt jolted Silver suddenly, starting at the top of his skull and travelling all the way down to his riding boots, shaking him and driving the breath away. In an instant it was gone, but Silver understood the significance of what he’d just felt, and was sure the golden haired woman before him- Aria, was it- had experienced the same thing. He could see it in her slightly alarmed eyes, yet knew she’d felt no malice.

  The man to her left, who was huge and had a shorn head as well as arms the size of tree trunks, gave her a disapproving look. “You don’t welcome people who don’t say hello back, girl.” The man’s air of strength matched hers.

  Lady Aria- who hardly looked like a girl to Silver- shared a laugh with the man. “And how would you know-“

  “If he’d say hello back? You wait for him to talk first, bahahah!” Silver got the feeling they took his silence as a sign of intimidation and were trying to make him feel more at home. The large man had an enormous war hammer resting upon his lap and slapped at it in his mirth.

  “Oh, uncle,” remarked the woman, her blue eyes already mid roll. Everyone else at their table sat patiently and silently, as if these two were usually best left to their shenanigans. After a few seconds both niece and uncle seemed to settle down.

  “I apologize for any rudeness, my dear lady,” started Silver with a simple bow. “My name is Silver Vermillion, and I wish to settle here.” Her eyebrows rose at that, seeming as if she couldn’t quite believe her ears.

  “Settle here?” asked an old lady almost on the far right side of the table. She was obviously blind, and had a piece of blue cloth tied around her eyes. This lady was dressed all in purple and her hair spread from her head in thick black ropes despite the obvious wrinkles on her face. “Do you know about what happens here, young wolf cub? Don’t answer that,” She added with a cackle, “I can tell that you do.”

  Silver pulled at his leather collar. Spring was still a bit away, but there was already no hint of snow around and this forest had started to heat up a week ago, while he still made his way. “True... Are you a truth reader, ma’am?” At that she laughed again.

  “I have a bit of the gift, but hardly need it now. If you came through the forest, you’d sure enough have seen the beasts.” At that, the atmosphere turned a little darker. Children and families at the two tables by the hearths huddled slightly closer, as if to protect each other.

  Silver smiled and replied humbly, “Only once or twice. They generally stayed away though.” At that, the entire hall fell silent. Only the crackle of fire in the hearth interrupted the stunned nature of it, and Silver could tell that he had said something wrong. Even the children looked at him with slightly upset expressions. Aria looked angry too, and it made him sad. I need to get used
to this bonding business soon, he thought to himself. His master had warned him, back when he was still an apprentice, but Silver had never expected it to hit quite so hard.

  “This forest’s beasts fear nothing,” the leader started in almost a whisper, barely holding in her rage. “Not even death. They rush headlong into it upon our walls every day. Erbhelm’s combined might does not phase their determination, and has not prevailed for many generations.” She went deathly quiet for a moment, obviously aware of her rising voice and wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. With a start Silver realised that they thought he’d been bragging. “Are you telling me that you’re a greater warrior than all of us combined?”

  “Oh no, I terribly apologise. They avoid Surge, not me. I’m sure if your mage will inspect my sword outside he’ll agree that any beast with magical senses would be quite afraid of it indeed.” In a moment the elder man with his star patterned robe and pointy hat was prompted by many bemused stairs and made his way outside, grumbling that he was being made to do this. Silver allowed the man through, sighing politely. The mage turned outside the hall, a bored expression on his face, and immediately gasped with a recoil.

  “How... how the hell was this made?!”

  At that, Silver smiled, glad that they were finally moving along. It was uncomfortable to just stand there and talk, but it would be rude of him to fidget or go to a bench until given permission. Everyone around seemed taken aback at the mage’s reaction, and Silver reckoned the old man was usually far more collected than that. He could feel his quiet air of competence.

  “Ah, straight to the heart of the matter,” he announced, smiling pleasantly. “This leads me to explain my profession. You see, I am a type of mage blacksmith-“

  “A mage?” a few of those present murmured, perking up, and Silver let them talk politely. True war mages were rarer than spell weavers, and were therefore well prized in many societies outside of Indellekt. Aria’s eyes were fixed on him. Silver couldn’t decide if he enjoyed her staring at him, for he became too frightened of doing something she doesn’t like. Luckily, he had Coeur with him, and so he let it centre his being. “Let him finish,” she said sternly, and her peers obeyed.

  “Thank you my lady. My magic is very specific, called Coeur, which in my language means heart. I am able to understand people’s hearts as well as my own, and this allows me to create better weapons. My weapons fit costumers like their own hand. Added to that, I can directly pour feelings into my creations. Positive ones, mind you, that’s a law of our tradition, and there is only one official blacksmith of Coeur each generation so it becomes vital that we don’t turn bad. Friendship, admiration, care, determination, the more of these are present in me, my costumer, or the bond between us, the greater my weapons become. Arcane forces sit within them like the life in a tree. They turn more lethal, and can hold their edge longer. Now, before you ask,” he added when he saw that the mage, who was now back in his seat, was about to interrupt. The blacksmith walked over to a nearby hearth after asking with an eyebrow and receiving an affirmative nod from Erbhelm’s leader. He warmed up his fingers whilst talking. “Before you ask, Surge is special. He is passed on each generation, and each of us put in our self respect and willpower in him. Everything that has made each of our legion good lives on in him. He shall be only used once before breaking, and only against a powerful foretold enemy.”

  At that Aria stood, almost angrily. “I will be the one to slay the troll!” she challenged, pointing one finger behind her, at her slender, almost bow shaped sword. Silver was a master fighter and swordsman, and could tell that her style depended very much on inner flexibility. The sword reflected that perfectly. “What right does an outsider have, to come here and take our fathers’ fight into his hands?”

  Silver was taken aback by her proclamation. What had this troll done to anger her so? What am I thinking, it must have hurt this town immensely.

  Silver felt angry on her behalf, but the leader misunderstood his intentions.

  “I never claimed Surge was for him, my lady,” he reminded Aria, taking her aback. After a moment of challenge, she sat back upon her chair in a huff. “No, Surge’s enemy won’t be met for many generations more. He is simply for safekeeping until then. I simply propose that you allow me to make weapons for the townsfolk while I live here. My weapons will allow these beasts to stay dead much longer before regenerating, giving humans the edge as well as much greater respite between attacks. Furthermore-”

  “Done,” Aria exclaimed, her blue eyes eager. Everyone looked at her shock except Silver. He understood her wish to have him nearby, for he felt exactly the same. The electric shock felt earlier had bonded them on an astral level, and he had no control over either of their feelings anymore. It happened only once in every Coeur blacksmith’s life, when he found a perfect match. His master had warned him to not let that love go, because if one of them ruins things or dies, the blacksmith would never be able to be happy again. Without happiness, they cannot practice their craft and would need to retire. His master had told him that in front of a campfire at night, and a younger Silver had shuddered to see eyes colder than that season’s frost. He hoped to avoid such a fate. Luckily his own successor was ready and roaming the lands, gaining real world experience until such time that he was allowed to carry Surge and practice the craft.

  The gathering spoke to Silver at great length, learning more about his abilities, personality, and wishes. One by one, all ten of her council agreed to have him stay, until finally her uncle conceded with a great booming laugh, stroking his great mustasche. All the while Silver and Aria looked at each other in a manner that could not be truly understood but happened to be unmistakable.

  That very same day beasts attacked in waves, just as the sun’s orange disc sank back towards a green horizon backed by twin mountains. They howled as they came, and Silver sensed deep rejection from them, burning just as hot as the limitless determination emanating from Erbhelm’s townsfolk. The people here were going nowhere, for their will was so strong it soaked into the very wood of the many huts and buildings. Old lady Grathilda, the keenly cynical truth reader in purple, had stood atop the central hall and rang a bell twice as tall as she was, sending an ominous gong across the town. Within ten minutes soldiers lined the town’s wall and a wedge of warriors had been formed before the town’s gate, standing proud and tall.

  It seemed that everyone who was of fighting age had joined. Uncle Bast spun about his mighty war hammer near the front, standing almost half again as tall as most others. Hans was also there, and Silver felt bad for not having the time to craft that man an axe. It would fit him better than a spear. All in all, there must have been around twelve hundred warriors present. Lightning lined Mervan the mage’s fingers, and Silver had been told that Mervan’s job was to stay by the gate and make sure no monsters made it inside whilst everyone else met the horde. Silver himself had pulled out a simple dagger he’d made for himself a few months back. It reflected his whimsical disregard for danger, and was meant to be quite versatile. Now he held it in a reversed grip, barely noting the disjointed army of all manner of beasts coming at their ordered wedge in loping strides, screaming all the while. No, Silver’s attention was held completely captive by this goddess of war he saw before him.

  She stood at the forefront, rolling her shoulders in extreme confidence, relishing the fight to come as her golden hair scattered the sunset. He went to her and stood by her side. She didn’t complain, and rather smiled at him warmly. “I like to fight,” she said cheerfully, as if it were a secret.

  Silver wanted to scratch at her smile’s corner, but of course he didn’t. He wasn’t crass like that. “I can feel something,” he said instead, smiling warmly and trying to tell her that he loved her. His beautiful lady looked almost concerned and tugged at her vest of what seemed like silver wolf fur. Her eyes promised him an ocean’s wealth. “How much can you feel?”

  “A little. What is it?”

  “
Just the emotions, and mostly projected ones. It’s like a higher form of empathy.”

  “Oh. In that case we’re going to need a talk later.” At that he nodded, and she looked forward, expression reflecting joy. “Charge!” she exclaimed simply, and sprinted forward. Instantly her warriors complied, and Silver was almost left behind before catching up. Trying his best to not worry about her, he focused his attention to the fight, but the blacksmith still decided not to stray too far from Aria just in case something tried to get her back.

  His first opponent was a green giggling imp, with hellish wings and a trident. It flew straight down at Silver and he deflected its stab with the flat of his knife, spinning. As he did, the blacksmith allowed his right leg to sail high above him, and as he brought it down in an axe kick he went on his left toes, allowing his attack to not only send the imp so forcefully into the ground that it bounced back up, but also allowing his right leg to then sail further behind him, pulling him lurching forward and downwards. He used that momentum to stab the thing in the heart, but caught his fall with his left hand. Silver didn’t want to get dust on his clothes, after all. As soon as his knife entered the imp, it screeched horribly and exploded in a shower of magical dust. Everywhere around, Warriors dismantled other beasts in a similar fashion, yet their dust shone with a brighter inner light.

  So the battle raged on, Humans slowly pushing the beasts back towards the trees. Silver spun and wove about the whipping branches of a mandrake, one of the treefolk. Halfway up its trunk gaping eyes sat, and a matching maw yelled at him, but Silver tumbled forwards over the last branch and landed in a neat stance, stabbing inwards with his right hand, other arm pointing left to lend force to his blow. The tree went down instantly. Then came a minotaur and then a dire wolf. Where he went, Silver kept dodging blows while remaining close to Aria, who was flanked by her uncle. She seemed to be doing the same thing, and stole glances at him as he did at her.

  Both Erbhelm’s leader and her uncle were amazing fighters, but whereas Bastion Stormbreather balanced enormous strength with smaller movements when haste was needed, Aria seemed to be a master of using her body’s flexibility in order to create enough striking power for her slender blade to slice through foes. She seemed to tense and twist before every strike, then unleashing all that power like a catapult, slicing foes in twain with barely a backwards glance. At times she even curled up or crouched just before delivering devastating attacks potent enough to cut a tree person in half. Through it all she looked graceful and balanced at all times, and Silver had a few moments to admire her beauty. Not once did she look crazed or barbaric, rather more like a master of blades, a fighter in her element. Most of all, she kept her comrades safe and checked on them often, more than once pulling someone out from harm’s way. She kept a certain look in her eyes, which Silver understood to be respect for her opponents. Beautiful, thought the blacksmith, not just meaning her form or her face.

  Finally, after about two hours of fighting, the remaining beasts retreated back towards the forest and mountains where the troll resided, leaving humans to cheer. The wounded were carried off to be treated, but none had been slain. This was because an old strategist called Flint had created a system where inferior fighters were grouped in fives and were never sent individually against beasts, even if it was a goblin or imp. They were trained in five man battle stratagems, prioritizing survival over destruction.

  Aria looked perfect as she thanked everyone for their efforts and assured them an eventual victory. She then introduced Silver to the entire town, allocated him an old empty house with enough space for a smithy to be constructed where he couldn’t keep anyone awake, and told them of his craft. “I saw him fight,” she announced, eyeing him with enough open admiration to make the swordsmage scratch at his beard. “He’s good.”

  “Damn good!” yelled uncle Bast from the side, eliciting a few laughs.

  “Indeed. He’s also going to make us better weapons , although he didn’t exactly explain the process yet.” With that, Aria stepped to the side and gestured the blacksmith over. He could feel the people’s acceptance of him as he went, and those who knew him or saw him fight cheered. He waved in appreciation.

  “As you all know, all these beasts here are under the troll’s curse,” Silver started after introducing himself again, getting nods from everyone. So far so good. “They cannot reproduce, they cannot die, nor can they flee run. Each time they are destroyed, they are reborn of its power. With my weapons, the time taken for regeneration will increase. You can tell the length by the light present in the magic dust left at death.” Mervan nodded knowingly at that, but a few villagers looked puzzled. Silver pulled out two pouches, which he’d filled from the battlefield earlier. He emptied one, which glittered like gold “This is the dust left by usual weapons. From the shine, seems it takes about a day to regenerate into a fully formed beast, which says a lot for the troll’s power. This is another from a monster killed by my knife.” The second bag contained dust little paler than fresh dirt.

  “How much slower is it?” this was Flint asking the question, looking extremely curious; calculating even. Silver could feel his devotion for this town, as well as a deep inherent sense of guilt. Perhaps it was why the old grey man refused to wear his last name.

  “A couple of months, I’d say.” Everyone gasped at that, and Silver hastily added, “Remember, this was with my knife. I can only promise weapons that are twice as effective at first. My skills are based on positive feelings and bonds. With time, they will grow more powerful. I could make something that keeps them dead for a week if I only pour MY feelings in, but then they’d constantly need to be close to me and I can’t do that for a whole town. The weapons would be bonded to me, not to its user.”

  Aria looked at him. “But you’re saying that we can now fight once every two days?” All around the ring of people, hopeful faces looked at him, but Silver only had eyes for her. How could one person be so perfect in caring for others? The blacksmith knew she loved battle, but he could feel how much she wanted respite for her warlike town’s sake. He could feel her will for peace, if only for them to have a chance at a normal life. I love you, he said with his eyes again. She seemed to stir.

  “Aye, starting next week I’ll have weapons made, but first I’ll need to befriend all of you.”

  It took a while for his word’s significance to reach the crowd, but when it did they went wild with cheers.

  A week as well as a few parties later, Silver had managed to make weapons for most of the townsfolk. Of course, each fit his or her owner perfectly, and didn’t need much training at all to become usable. This allowed many fighters to go from mediocre to slightly above average in a short span, which caused them to fight much more effectively as a unit and with fewer injuries during battle. Most warriors were taught by either Bastion Stormbreather or Aria, but the blacksmith started to teach a third martial arts class, for those who were neither compatible with Uncle Bast’s or Aria’s. Some people had neither strength nor flexibility, after all. For those, he taught his own martial art, based on dodging and creating directional force. This meant, basically, pointing your limbs precisely in the direction that you want your strength to flow. Hans seemed particularly adept at this martial art, and so managed to do extremely well in time. As days wore on Silver became very popular in town, for he was not only the cause for its increasing periods of peace (as monsters began to need a week to regenerate), but was also in fact quite a likable and empathetic man. One day, he was surprised to find Aria Stormbreather, in her well-worn black boots and usual attire, shield proud on her shoulder, standing in his workshop.

  “Lady Aria!” he exclaimed, heart skipping a beat, “to what do I give the pleasure?”

  She took a seat and waited pleasantly while Silver put away the sword he was sharpening, wiped himself off with a towel, and caught the breath that had fled her arrival. “Well, firstly I wanted to say hi,” She said, accepting a glass of the apple juice Mrs Copferstal ha
d brought him earlier that day. Mrs Copferstal was Flint the strategist’s wife, and was far more forgiving of him than the man was of himself. “Secondly, I wanted to ask why you haven’t made me a new sword yet.” Her eyes looked slightly upset, and it confused Silver for a moment. Then he realized that she thought he’d shunned her.

  “Lady Aria-“

  “Just Aria will do. Look here,” she said, clearly hurt now. “I know you felt what I felt when we met. I want to know that it wasn’t some kind of sorcery... You promised me a talk.” He could see clear determination, and Silver understood her fears. She thought he had seduced her with magic, and after their initial agreement they had avoided the subject.

  “Aria... Listen, I’ll tell you everything, but I promise you that it wasn’t a trick. I...” The words stuck in his throat. “Emotions have a way of being instant, but also building through the knowing of others. My magic goes around that. I love you too,” at that she gasped, almost making the blacksmith think he’d misunderstood, despite knowing of the magic and being sure that he loved him too, but then nodded in a show for him to continue. “I can’t control it, but wouldn’t stop it if I could. It’s part of my magic, Coeur. When I meet the one person who fits me perfectly, my magic reaches out and entwines our souls, and if I let them go there’s no chance for happiness left in me. Not through love, and not around it. It is a way of… hastening the inevitable.”

  They spoke for hours then, about how they felt and why. “And now?” the beautiful golden haired woman inquired at length, “You say we love each other, and I feel something. I won’t be with a man I don’t know, not because of magic.” Silver thought that Coeur had chosen perfectly, for he thought the exact same way. What small hint of doubt had been harboured in his soul fell away. “I think we should accept our feelings, but not rush into them. Let’s get to know each other, our likes and dislikes. We could start off as friends and see where it goes.” They had by now drained their glasses of apple juice, but the furnace’s warmth and each other’s company gave them a comfortable escape from the cool weather outside. “Deal?” he asked, and she nodded happily. Start slowly and see where it goes. “So where exactly did you meet your…”

  They were married within the year. The wedding was a joyous occasion anticipated by everyone. For some reason Uncle Bast insisted on presiding over the affair, and looked slightly out of place in a priest’s robe. He also had not known that he needed to have his words memorised for the whole thing, and had thus caused a month long delay. By that time, attacks only came once every two weeks. New clothes were prepared for everyone, even Old lady Grathilda, and Mervin wept for joy so much that he got his beard covered in magical frost. A guard called Mense, who was special for being the only one holding multiple forged weapons, exhibited his knife juggling skills for everyone. All in all, it was a wonderful day for the entire town, who loved Silver for who he was and what he’d done.

  A tragedy struck, however, less than a month after the wedding. In one particularly ill fated battle, Hans slipped and was struck down by a goblin. He fell into his precious Helga’s arms with his last shocked breath and managed to tell her that he loved her for the ninth and last time, but that did little to lessen the hurt on her face. After his burial she had gone into Silver’s smithy and thanked him for the confidence he had given her lover, as well as the longer periods of peace that he allowed their Erbhelm. “You know what else lies in my heart, blacksmith of Coeur. Tell me what it is,” she’d asked stiffly, standing tall and proud. Hans had never been one to be sentimental either, thought the blacksmith.

  Silver sat in his chair and sobbed bitterly. “Yes I do, Ma’am,” he’d answered truthfully. He could feel her grief like an open wound. “You wish that I never came, that I’d stayed west. Hans would have remained weak and alive. He would never have told you that he loved you, that day under the oak tree, but he’d have been alive.” She nodded and left silently, leaving Silver crying hot tears in her stead.

  If he lived long enough, would the same pain reach his own wife? He didn’t tell Aria of Helga’s visit, although he explained her pain. His lovely had nothing to say, but her mere presence helped. It was all because of that troll, Silver decided. It was all its fault.

  It was six months later that it happened. That week Silver spent an unusual amount of time in his smithy, working on what seemed to be one blade, long and straight and strong. It was double edged, its guard was of silver and red, its grip ribbed and its pommel rounded. The blade reflected runes along deadly edges, each in a different language. For seven days and seven nights Silver worked on it, until exhaustion took upon his soul. He poured everything he had into it, and Aria had allowed him space as he did it. She had understood that he did something important, and thus had asked no questions. On the seventh night, however, another villager came.

  Grathilda.

  She cackled at him in that way of hers and Silver smiled tiredly back at her. “What are you doing, young’un?” she asked.

  “Forging a sword,” he said simply, causing her to nod.

  “I can see that!” Out of the corner of his eyes, Silver spied her point at her blindfold and a laugh was forced out of him. Then the old lady sat, scratching at her arm. “Got any milk?” She’d demanded, and Silver paused in his work to pour them both some, groaning as he stretched. His sword was almost complete, after all. No need to rush it now. She demanded that they exchange mugs because hers had less in it. Silver chuckled and complied, wanting to appease her.

  “Now, child. Mervan sent me here because he felt you pour more strength and care than he’d ever felt into that thing. Well, other than that monster sword you have. He said that in the Astral realm it looked like you were calling a tornado to connect the sky and that blade.”

  “Well, with all du-“

  “Said that much strength scared him, and he sent me here to see the truth of it.” Despite being blind, Grathilda nonetheless had an uncanny way of looking at people as she talked to them. She was sly too, Silver knew. There was no way around it.

  “It’s a sword to kill the troll,” Silver whispered, causing her to gasp. “It was never impossible, just takes a lot of power. This blade, it will kill the troll then break, and then you can live happily here. No troll, forever. Even the magical creatures will be free from its grip.”

  The old purple robed lady eyed him carefully whilst licking her lips, probably mulling things over. Silver could sense her distrust. She trusted very little, but she was willing to give him a chance. “And the cost?” she asked finally.

  The blacksmith of Coeur almost thought of lying, but could tell she’d find out. “Forbidden technique,” he answered gruffly, hoping to end it there.

  “Well? Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Damn it. Miserably he said it, cursing both her and old man Mervan. “It’s called the Coeur Tueur, the heart slayer. It needs to be quenched... in the life’s blood of a loved one.”

  The truth seer looked stunned for a second, then something shifted and Silver couldn’t tell what she felt. Confusion, perhaps. “Ah, well... best leave you to it,” she remarked finally, getting back to her feet. After draining her mug, Grathilda turned to leave, her black ropy hair swinging around her wrinkly face. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything, thanks for the milk.” Silver thought of finishing the deed then, but unnatural tiredness took him somehow and he fell asleep.

  The next day, Silver was arrested. An oblivious Aria had tried to protest, not knowing what the matter was, but uncle Bast almost challenged her to a duel in his rage. It was all the guards could do to stop him from killing Silver then and there. The blacksmith was chained, locked for half a day, then brought to the central hall for trial. He was manacled and chained, although no one had the heart to beat him. The hall seemed a very different place indeed, for it was now filled with grim faces and both hearths were extinguished. The place looked bleak and blue with cold, and even the runes along its floor middle seemed more accusing, somehow. Silver rea
lized that much of the phrasing had been purposely vague. Now he stood once more before Erbhelm’s grim faced council. “Good morning, sweetheart.” He said sheepishly. Aria, apparently, hadn’t yet been told a thing and was completely bewildered in her seat. Bastion Stormbreather stood slowly in his seat, for once leaving his weapon behind. Presumably he didn’t want to touch anything that Silver had made at the moment. Or perhaps he didn’t trust himself with a weapon around the blacksmith. The thought made Silver nervous, especially with how he could feel the warrior’s rage. It burned. Something else niggled at him as he stood surrounded by his peers, however. Silver knew everyone in this town, but he now felt a presence that he’d not felt before, coming from the leader’s table. He could see no one unknown at the council, however. He quickly dismissed the thought, however, for Bastion seemed ready for murder.

  “Silver Vermillion,” uncle Bast started in a booming voice. “You are accused of plotting with the intent of murder.” The audience, which was of course the whole town, seemed shocked. Especially Aria. Before she or Silver could say anything the older man bellowed for silence and immediately called for Mervan to come forward and explain Silver’s magic again to everyone. After that, old lady Grathilda stepped in his place and told of Mervan waking her up at night. “Quite rudely,” she added. She then relayed the entire contents of her conversation with the mage and her subsequent visit to Silver’s smithy, finishing off with how he’d confessed to the blade needing to be quenched in a loved one’s blood. When she was done, both uncle Bast and Aria were visibly shaking with anger. “See, brothers and sisters?” said the warrior, “This is what he plotted behind our backs. Kill the troll, but take a loved one to do the deed. And who does he love? Who of you all was going to pay the price?” He looked furious, working himself into a greater rage. Silver could feel the mountain of a man almost slip into bloodlust. “Your leader, my niece! Do you want my niece dead in exchange for the troll? Would it appease our ancestor? Cold blooded sacrifice?”

  “Nay!” bellowed the crowd as one in response, and Silver couldn’t help but admire their unity. This is why he had decided to use that technique after all. This town deserved a happy ending. Now they booed him to the rhythm of Bastion Stormbreather hammering his right fist against his table repeatedly. The hall shook with their volume and dust came from the ceiling. Then moustached man brought his arm down and silence reigned. “Now, what say you we do to this-“

  “Bastard!” yelled his niece suddenly, cutting him off. She looked almost as angry as the man was, but Silver could feel that she was much more furious. Hurt lay inside her too, for she felt betrayed by her husband and it cut at him like a knife. This was why he’d wanted to finish the night before, while she still believed him a strong good man. He hadn’t wished to see such a beautiful woman look so hurt. “You were going to kill me!” she screamed, and uncle Bast turned as if to comfort her.

  “Yes, child, but for now we will take care of-“

  “You don’t understand, uncle!” she accused, “It wasn’t my blood he’d wanted to use for the sword.” At that the man looked baffled, and Silver stared at his feet in shame. “Coeur Tueur, uncle... that blade was meant for him!”

  Silence reigned for a while, and Silver tried to look no one in the eyes. It wasn’t meant to be like this. He was supposed to be dead and gone by now. They would have cried, then gotten over it, then persevered as only Erbhelm could. “He was going to kill himself so we could live free of the troll!” his wife insisted again.

  “Is this true?” asked him Grathilda in the silence, and for a while Silver didn’t answer, then whispered a weak affirmative, hating his tongue. She looked to Bast and repeated the nod.

  “Why? Why not me, Silver?”demanded his wife, and Silver looked at her in astonishment.

  Then he saw the look in her eyes and said “I love you.” She didn’t respond, and Silver added “I didn’t want to be like Helga, to see you go first. I thought it would be better if I died to make everyone here happy.” He then felt anger and hurt coming from everyone in the crowd. They were all friends. “You would have been crushed at first, but peace would have made you all happy eventually! Don’t you understand?”

  “Everybody would have been happy eventually, that’s true. They would have gone back to their loved ones and hugged them and cried… Except for me,” Aria countered, then knocked the buckler at her shoulder. “This shield belonged to my father, Karl Stormbreather. He held the troll down singlehandedly the last time it came down the mountain. He died because he used this shield to save uncle Bast instead of himself, and I never saw a man so broken to be alive.” Her uncle said nothing, but his eyes said everything. “I wear this shield to remind myself that throwing your life away will leave others even more hurt.” He uncle nodded, pride and sadness both apparent in his stance. “If you don’t believe me, love, then see for yourself.” She looked at the people in this hall, people who have suffered against the troll for many years, and who had lost loved ones to its cruelty. “Would you here exchange Silver’s life for the troll’s?”

  “Nay!” they bellowed in defiance. The heat of their will and their love almost brought Silver to his knees with its force. Then he thought of the strange presence he’d felt. Aria came down from her place, stepping slowly. Silver could feel her start to forgive him already, and it caused a lump to form in his throat.

  “Now what say you,” she announced, “That we do away with these manacles, make my husband break that sword, and keep fighting by our side until we one day rid ourselves of our sworn enemy, united as one?”

  “Aye!” cried each and every one. The blacksmith of Coeur felt blessed to have such friends, and knew that he would never allow his sense of self value to suffer again as he heard them cheer. That was the meaning of carrying Surge, after all. The blade would be sent to his successor in time, but not yet. One by one, his friends came and scolded him for his actions before apologising for doubting his intentions. Uncle Bast even bent down to embrace him fiercely.

  Still, Silver looked at his feet in shame. “Thank you, wife,” he said, “but even with your forgiveness, how am I ever to forgive myself for this foolishness?” Just then, he felt a coarse hand rest on his left shoulder. It was Flint Copferstal, who of all people understood being ashamed of your actions.

  With a wizened grin and a wink, the old man said, “If you can’t forgive yourself for your own sake, then at least do it for them.”

  Aria had reached him by then, looking splendid in her fur vest and skirt and shield. She was perfect, in body and mind and soul. “What say you, Silver Vermillion?” Erbhelm’s leader asked, as beautiful as the goddess of the morning, “Will you fight for the two of us?”

  “I will do it for the town, but more importantly,” he said slowly, looking at her belly, which still a few weeks shy from starting to swell. Found you, he told the presence that had been nagging at him all morning.

  “I will do it for the three of us!”