A Mythos Grimmly

by Morgan Griffith

  He froze mid-step, eyes peering into the pre-dawn gloom that was slowly turning the deep black of the forest night to a bleached, mist-laden grey. His hands gripped the musket tight. His palms were slick, his nerves bunched. He guided his thumb slowly up over the hammer and pulled it back, feeling the click when it cocked rather than hearing it. A thin trickle of sweat crept from beneath the rim of his infantry cap, dribbled through his dirty, matted hair and ran down the side of his face, sticking in the thick stubble on his jaw. He mentally cursed the hot and heavy wool of the uniform and stifling weight of the trench coat. He remained rooted to the spot behind the big, gnarled oak, waiting, watching.

  Long seconds passed, the time between each stretching on and on, until it seemed that time itself had stopped. The air in his lungs burned, he had sucked in air when he had first heard the sound and had not breathed out since.

  Then, just passed the trees ahead, through the growing light and fog, he heard it again, the snap of a twig under a heavy boot.

  He threw himself out from behind the tree, his weapon raised and training it from left to right and back again seeking his unseen target, his voice shouting a command.

  “Show yourself! Come forth and prove thyself friend or foe!”

  He stood, aiming at nothing, sweeping the barrel right and left searching. His arms were trembling, his thighs shaking with nervous energy and anticipation.

  How long had it been since he’d slept? Since he’d eaten?

  A day and half was it? Hunger and weariness had distorted perception.

  An upstart king, dubbed Tatterdemalion by some and the King in Yellow Tatters by others, had journeyed forth from the lands beyond the mountains of the Black Forest and invaded their lands. The reasons for his doing so were never made clear to the infantryman. They had been vague and questionable when he had been drafted into the cause and were, even now, just as mysterious and nebulous these many months later. One man would tell you that dark king and his army had invaded for riches and glory, another that it was a blood-feud between their king and some deadly foe from the East, and still another would say it was because the king was demon possessed and sought to unmake the world through rituals dark and dire.

  Whatever the reason, there had been many small battles between this invading army and those who sought to defend their beloved homeland. Until a day before, when the infantryman’s unit had joined up with the defending forces of the Duke, and they had laid a trap for the Tattered King. The ambush had been sprung in the fog of the early morn, as the invaders marched over the hill road, and the first few reports of rifles and guns had erupted into a full scale skirmish.

  In seconds the air had been filled with the crack of rifles, the boom of cannons and the blood-curdling screams of the wounded and dying. Musket smoke had blanketed the clear morning in a fog-filled, shadowy shroud making it impossible to tell friend from foe. For an untold time the battle raged, first surging in favor of one side, then pushing back toward the other. Finally, the invading King had sounded the retreat and the enemy had fled toward the safety and cover of the Black Forest. The fighting was over.

  But the battle weary soldiers would find little respite, as the word to pursue had been given. No quarter! No surrender! And almost as one, the infantryman and hundreds more like him, roars of bloodlust filling the air, had poured into the trees after the fleeing enemy.

  In the forest, it was another world entirely.

  He’d become separated from the rest of his unit as they struggled through the close brambles and undergrowth. It seemed as though it had been only minutes before. How could they have all disappeared so quickly? They had entered into the spaces between the trees, howling with bloodlust, now there was nothing but silence and the dying echoes of war.

  The dark and the fog had been all encompassing and confusing. The air had an odd, eerie quality, distorting sound. Shouts of other men reached him, bounced and echoed, disorienting him. It seemed they were ahead of him, and then behind and then nowhere at all. He had spent the next four hours stumbling through the dark.

  He stumbled onward through the dark, and time soon had no meaning. The landscape was foreign, filled with twisted branches and roots, strange smells and sounds.

  He had called after them, but his fellow soldiers were nowhere to be seen. Alone, all he could do was to stagger through the trees hunting for the King and the last of his ragtag followers.

  Time had lost meaning, and he could not tell one from the other. He had been pushing himself all through the ever-present night, and had grown weary from fighting his way through the tangled undergrowth in the blackness. Stumbling upon a big oak, he hunkered down to wait for dawn, finally falling into a restless, dreamless slumber.

  Moments or hours later, something had jolted him awake. A sound. It was then he noticed the subtle change in the light. When he realized the faint lightening of the dark, he had stood slowly, intending to try and find the edge of the forest, to return to the front and find the rest of the unit. That was when he had heard something making its way toward him.

  “Show yourself!”

  He blinked the sweat out of his eyes, aiming with the rifle, scanning the area where the sound had come from. The roar of his shout rebounded and died deep among the trees. Moments ticked by, when thirty yards across the leaf-strewn forest floor, a tall figure stepped out from behind the thick bole of a massive gnarled tree.

  The figure was the tallest – and thinnest – man the soldier had ever seen. He was dressed to fend off the chill and the wet of the fog, in a long shooting coat of dusty olive-green that dragged through the red and brown leaves gathered round the base of the tree. Beneath the coat he wore what appeared to be hunter’s garb, thick wool vest and leggings of patchwork leather. The infantryman couldn’t spot any insignia or badge that would mark the stranger part of the renegade King’s men, but that did not mean anything; the stranger could still prove himself an enemy.

  A wide belt at his waist was adorned with a large brass buckle, tarnished with rust. A hunting knife hung from the belt, and was so large, that the soldier at first mistook it for a short sword. In one long-fingered hand the figure held a ball and powder pistol, the barrel pointed down to the ground. The other hand gripped a long carbine and shooting stick, both which rested on his shoulder; the stock and butt were of a dark, polished wood that had a curious pattern of loops and whorls or swirls of golden filigree that told the infantryman that the weapon was one made by an artisan gunsmith.

  Atop his head the stranger wore a cavalier’s hat of felt, the brim dripping with moisture from the fog. In the shadow under the hat, his gaunt face, with prominent cheek bones and thin hooked nose, was all but obscured by the long black locks that hung limply in greasy strands, well past his shoulders. The lower half of his face was as equally hidden by a thick mustache and beard just as long and as limp as his hair.

  “Who are you?” The infantryman spoke in an unsteady voice, his rifle aimed at the stranger.

  The stranger said nothing, but regarded him with dark, glittering eyes. There was something about him that caused the young soldier to shiver involuntarily, something about the way he carried himself; there was an air of danger, a hint of death.

  The infantryman’s finger tightened on the trigger. There was hardly thirty feet between him and the tall figure. At this distance he could not miss.

  “Who are you? I will not ask again.”

  The stranger maneuvered the hand that held the pistol, so that the infantryman could see that he had taken his finger away from the trigger. The gun now dangled from his thumb, useless. His other hand still gripped the long rifle, but it too was of no use resting on his shoulder as it was.

  “A simple traveler; lost as you are, in this unnatural wood,” the stranger said, in a thick accent. “Who are you that so rudely demands to know of me? What cause do you have to point your weapon at me in such a threatening manner?”

  The infantryman was a soldier, but he was also a man, and a
man who had been taught that courtesy and respect must been earned. The best way to earn a thing, was to give it in kind, so he lowered his weapon, slowly, in a sign of peace.

  “Forgive me my rudeness, traveler. My manners I have quite forgot these many months of fighting. I am a soldier, of late in battle some distance back there, outside the woods, and who is now lost here among the trees. I mean no offense, but am wary you may be not a friend.”

  The stranger stared, silent. Those eyes! They were black as pitch and seemed to see right through him. The infantryman shivered.

  “Friend am I not, and truth be told – I call no man friend. But neither am I thy foe. You have naught to fear from me.”

  The infantryman sighed and lowered his weapon completely.

  “Then fellow traveler, lost as I am, and who is neither friend nor foe, may I ask if you have some water to share? I have been wandering the whole night and somewhere in this forsaken forest I have lost my canteen.”

  The stranger stood, not moving, but simply staring back.

  “I have coin, I am will to pay for –”

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the infantryman thought the stranger would raise the pistol and put a lead ball between his eyes. Instead, the tall thin man quickly re-gripped his pistol and with a fluid flick of his wrist, stuffed it in between his belt and coat.

  “Keep your coin; no man should die of thirst in this accursed place,” the grim stranger said.

  He set the long gun down against a tree and shrugged a full pack from off his shoulders, withdrawing a wineskin, which he then tossed to the infantryman.

  “My thanks,” the infantryman said, gulping the sweet red liquid. After the months of marching and fighting, the long night, the fear that had gripped him, nothing that had passed his lips had ever tasted so good.

  After a moment, he noticed that the tall stranger had hunkered down across from him, and had pulled out other objects from the pack, among them a roll of vellum from a leather tube. On the vellum the soldier could see markings and lines. A map!

  He took a step forward, but stopped short when the stranger’s head snapped around and fixed him once more with those dark and dangerous eyes. Curiosity overcame his fear however and he found his voice.

  “Is that a map you have there? Does it tell of path out from these dark an oppressive trees?”

  The stranger said nothing, but turned back to gaze at the map, fixed his eyes upon it, searching. The infantryman took another long gulp of wine. It was flavorful and cool, deep bodied and with a hint of some flower he could not put a name too. For a moment he forgot the map, his mind turned to the liquid in his mouth. How had it been made and by whom?

  “What is your name, soldier?”

  The stranger’s voice startled him out his thoughts. The light had grown and he could see more and more of his surroundings. He blinked, for the fog had all but disappeared. This wood was passing strange indeed, and the sooner he was quit of it the better.

  “I am – my name,” the soldier faltered, “is Baird.”

  The stranger did not look up from the map, or even glance in his direction, but continued to study the paper before him.

  “Now it is you who is being rude. When a name is given, it is simple courtesy to give one in return.”

  The stranger looked up then, slowly. And the soldier saw one hand come to rest on the hilt of the big hunting knife.

  “What, may I ask, is your name traveler?” Baird asked, his own hand tightening once more on his own weapon.

  The stranger’s face betrayed nothing. It was pale as a mummer’s mask, still and impassive, as unreadable as stone. His eyes were two points of black flint, filled with a frightening anger.

  “Those who know me,” the stranger said in his thick accent, “call me Gelbe.”

  The word was odd and thoroughly foreign to the soldier, though the sound of it tugged at his memory, as though he should know it. Did he know it? How did he know it? Should he know this tall, uncanny man before him? Perhaps it was the weariness or the headiness of the wine, either way; too much thought had set a dull throb in his brain. Best not to think too much. He let the thought go for now; it was just a name after all, if a foreign one. Baird instead forced a smile to curl his lips.

  “Well met, Gelbe the tall, wanderer of the wood.”

  The stranger’s eyes held his for a long minute, and then he let the hand drop from the knife hilt, turning his eyes once more to the aged vellum map.

  “Well met,” Gelbe rumbled in his thick accent. “There is a road, yes. I will not lie, it is some distance from us, if I read this paper true.”

  “I do not mean to impose, and I would understand if you refused,” Baird said. “But as we are both in unfamiliar territory, perhaps we should throw in together, and find a way through this wood as brothers, rather than stumbling about alone. What say you?”

  The stranger gazed off into the trees, considering. The silence of the forest around them grew quieter still.

  “If you do as I do, move when I move, then I agree.” Gelbe’s accent rumbled. “But if you turn laggard, or fall and injure yourself, or do anything that to endanger either of us, I will gut you and leave you to your fate. I have come too far to falter in my quest. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” Baird replied.

  “Then,” the tall man said, rolling up the vellum and slipping into its leather casing, “I will guide you to this path on the map, after that, we go our separate ways. Agreed?”

  “That would be most kind,” replied Baird, relieved, and nodded an affirmation.

  And then, also with a brief nod of agreement, Gelbe stalked off across the leaf strewn forest floor. And after a moment’s hesitation, the young soldier followed.

  Soon both men were trudging once more through the undergrowth, Gelbe in front and Baird following behind.

  The day had grown steadily brighter and now he could see well through the trees, but in every direction it seemed they were still surrounded and there was no path apparent anywhere. Was the stranger leading him along the right course? Could he trust him? These were the questions on Baird’s lips, but they went unuttered. Before he could speak, the stranger asked one of his own.

  “You say you are a soldier, yes? And that you belong to those who were fighting outside the wood?”

  The infantryman was caught off guard.

  “You know of the war?”

  The stranger did not slow his pace, but kept walking down a gulley and up again on the other side. Baird followed.

  “Aye. I did hear, and have heard, the boom of cannon and the din of men killing and dying. Not even the thick stands of trees could keep that sound from my ears.”

  The stranger’s words conjured up the memory of the battle, and the horror of it as well.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I fight for the Duke of Maubeuge. We battled against a tyrant who oppresses his people and who seeks to enslave the world; an enemy of God and a fiend who consorts with devils. We have been fighting day and night these last five days, and through strength of arms and with the blessing of the Holy Father, we managed to push the evil monster and his last remnants of his army into these woods.”

  The tall stranger halted a few steps ahead, and turned back to look at the younger infantryman.

  “And you believe this man to be evil? That he seeks to destroy all, to enslave the world?”

  Baird stared blankly.

  “I had no feeling other than my homeland was threatened. I took up arms to defend her.”

  The stranger said nothing, no trace of any thought or emotion could the soldier read on that hollow-eyed face.

  “A young man like yourself should not so blindly follow. You have a mind of your own, do you not?”

  “I did not blindly follow,” Baird retorted. “I fought for my country, my king and so that the will of the Chu –”

  “Keep your loyalties, your politics and your religion,” the stranger interrupted. “I care for none of
them. Your war is a vain and pathetic thing, and will be remembered by none. What care I for anything of man, after having seen what I have seen, after knowing what I know?”

  The strange traveler’s eyes burned into the soldier’s for a moment longer, then he turned to continue the trek through the forest.

  Baird found himself calling after him.

  “You may not choose a side, Gelbe of the wood, but one side or the other will choose you nonetheless.”

  The tall thin man stopped, and turned his head over his shoulder, his voice floating back to the infantryman.

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. We all have a duty, to fight, to stand against the dark. You cannot stand idle while evil walks among us.”

  The traveler turned his face away. And then spun back toward him, a mad grin shone on his face, and his large yellow teeth showed between red lips.

  “Evil?” Gelbe’s laugh was a harsh and bitter one. “Evil you say? You know nothing of evil.”

  “I have seen enough!” the infantryman barked. “Women and children slaughtered, bodies rotting in ditches. Elders starving in the streets, diseased and forgotten…”

  The tall man’s laughter grew in volume and exuberance.

  “You call that evil? Tis naught but suffering, caused by pettiness and stupidity, ignorant want and vanity; the callous and indifferent machinations of a few who do not feel compassion, or comprehend what true evil is.”

  Gelbe’s laughter died as suddenly as it had come, but the mad glitter of it still shone in his eyes.

  “War is not evil, boy. War is folly. Suffering is not evil, it is a consequence. They are all brought about by man’s selfishness and greed, the products of ignorant beings who think they are alone, uncomprehending of that which lies beyond their ken.”

  And with that, he turned and stalked off once more through the endless growth of trees.

  The young man watched him and wondered. What had this mad stranger seen that he thought nothing of death and slaughter, suffering and pain?

  They tramped through the trees and undergrowth for the better part of the day, down through ditches and into gullies and back up the other sides; they made their way up steep rises and along the edges of long ravines. They clambered over rocks and boulders slick from the rains and covered in carpets of grey-green moss. The light of the day was dimmed by the thick branches and leaves of the ash and birch and elm and oak, clothed in their fiery cloaks of fall. Above them was a canopy of deep reds and purples and browns, simmering oranges and a riot of yellows, and the same blanketed the forest floor. They waded through low streams, their banks overgrown with wisteria, ferns and wildflowers.