Simon brought a bag of goblin heads back as proof of their victory, and after he told the mostly truthful tale to the Baron about how his heir had charged into the action bellowing a battle cry and cutting down green skins, the man threatened to have one of the heads bronzed and put on the wall of his study. The Baron’s wife, Arys, talked him out of it, of course, but Simon was invited to a feast held in Gregor’s honor when the mine was reopened, where the lord drunkenly recounted the tale.
“There they were,” he told the other guests feigning rapt attention like they hadn’t heard all this before. “Surround by those damn goblins pouring up from the mouth of hell when my eldest son ran screaming into their midst!”
Simon successfully avoided laughing at that and had a decent night answering the silly questions of silly people that were all somehow more important than him while he sampled a variety of halfway-decent wines. He wasn’t going to let people like that bother him, though. Instead, he spent the following days berating himself for how silly it had been that he’d worried about those stupid dreams whenever he wasn’t doing anything more interesting.
After all - there’d only been five goblins down there, not some kind of goblin city. At least that’s what he thought until a few days later when he chatted with one of the men who’d worked on collapsing that entrance so that goblins wouldn’t be a problem again in the future. Apparently, there’d been dozens of the little pests just a little further in that had perished from smoke inhalation. Though he pretended like he’d always known that was the likely outcome, Simon wondered if that made him more or less crazy for wondering if his dreams were somehow true.
The Baron was true to his word and gave Simon the run of a cottage not far from the Baron’s manor for as long as he desired it, on condition that he be available for the needs of his household on occasion. Simon didn’t have a problem with that, though, when he found out that another tenant family had been evicted to make room for him, Simon did have a bit of a problem with that. No one else seemed to care, so eventually, he stopped too and focused on living something like a normal life for the first time in a long time.
He still paid a few coppers to eat and drink at the inn almost every night, but that was only because he had no idea how to cook over an open flame. Letting a soup boil in a cauldron was one thing. He tried that a couple times, but getting all the right fresh herbs and then keeping the fire at the same level for hours was a pain, and after trying it a few times just to prove to himself that he could, he became a regular at the inn instead. In the games he was used to playing, it was so easy: you picked up anything clickable, clicked the button to combine the items, and then had armor or a nice meal.
Simon spent a week trying to tan a hide before he gave up. Not only was it difficult to do, but the way you used the creature’s brains in the tanning process was also more than a little bit disgusting. In fact - the more he tried to learn about medieval life, the more disgusting he found it. Chamber pots, half-rotten food, and no real medicine to speak of made for a pretty awful life, but at least with his stash of gold, he didn’t have to spend all day laboring in the fields like his fellow man.
He frequently found himself sparring with the man’s sons, using wooden swords for lack of anything better to do. He’d noticed the last few weeks that if he didn’t keep himself busy, he tended to stop moving and just exist inside his own head in a way that sometimes felt disturbingly close to being a statue once more. He only noticed it when he was so still outside one day that a bird landed on him like he was some kind of Disney princess. Sometimes it was hard to snap out of that as he relived his traumas and berated himself for everything he could have done better and every trap of Helades that he should have seen coming.
So, he frequently resorted to swordplay with the boys and sometimes even the household guard to sharpen his skills and provide a little entertainment. Though even the Baron’s youngest was more skilled than Simon on a technical level since they’d spent their young lives drilling with actual instructors, they were able to do some interesting things with feints and reposts that he had trouble dealing with, but even with those tricks they seldom beat him. Simon had more than just raw strength on his side, even though the daily workouts were having a real impact on his body. He also had more experience against a real opponent and could spot openings better than anyone else in the sparring yard.
Still, when it came to the guards that were his age or older, all he could do was give as well as he got. He was still better than them, of course, but this was a game that they had played for as long as he’d had a controller in his hand. As much as he hated to admit it, it would take time to improve if he wanted to be able to wipe the floor with all of them as he should.
After a few weeks of this quiet, satisfying routine, just when it was starting to get too hot to be out in armor any time around midday, life was interrupted by news that the King had died. Simon had hoped that he was far enough away from whatever fighting was going to happen. That seemed unlikely, and his fears were born out a few days after the word had spread, and the kingdom was officially in mourning when a pair of riders showed up within hours of each other to deliver the news that they required the Baron to swear allegiance to the new King.
The problem, of course, was that they both disagreed on whom the new King was. The first rider said it was the King’s son, and the second said it was the King’s brother.
“What do you think I should do,” Corwin asked Simon in a rare moment of indecision.
Simon, of course, had little to say on such matters. Still, he did repeat the bar gossip he’d heard so long ago that the King’s brother, Duke Westerfall was the odds-on favorite, even if the King’s son was certainly the rightful heir.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“So you think I should declare for the Duke instead?” Baron Corwin asked. “Even if I gave a weapon to every man that could use one, I’d be hard-pressed to field much over 100 people.”
“It’s not my place to make such decisions, sir,” Simon answered.
Making that kind of choice honestly terrified him. He couldn’t handle that kind of responsibility. Really, all that mattered to him was that he would have to cut his quiet little life here short and move further south to stay ahead of current events while the Baron pledged his loyalty to the King’s Brother.
At least that was the plan until one day, Gregor chose a quiet moment after a round of archery practice to express his fears. Simon was still absolutely terrible with the bow, so he’d mostly just been watching the younger man shoot, but when Gregor said, “Father says that you’ll likely be leaving soon. You and any other man that can sell your sword for a few coins.”
“Does he now?” Simon asked. “That’s news to me. Who am I going to fight for?”
“Does that mean you’ll stay and help us when the troubles come?” the boy asked.
“Well, I’m pretty comfortable right now, so I had no plans to…” Simon’s words trailed off as the boy gave him an uncharacteristic hug. Only then did he understand the depth of the lad’s fear.
Simon let the moment linger, appreciating the first human connection that he’d had in lifetimes. Still, after a moment, he pushed the boy away and did his best to reassure him. “Leipzen is a long way from here, Gregor. I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about for a good long while.”
Simon was wrong, though. The peace didn’t last long after that, and within a few weeks, there were already rumors of battles and raids in nearby fiefs. Slany was only spared a few more days after that, and though most of the village had fled to the Baron’s manor before the soldiers arrived, Simon could still hear screams in the night as he watched homes, including his own set ablaze from atop the hill.
The house was a large one, with an enclosed courtyard that could fit hundreds, but it was never intended to be a fortress, and like it or not, Simon would have to fight. Somehow the idea of fighting professional soldiers didn’t seem like as much fun as fighting goblins had been. That wasn’t because Simon understood their greater threat after spending so many idle afternoons dueling the Baron’s guards, though, but because of the number of crying children he could hear behind him as he watched the gates rattle under the axe blows of the invaders.
The baron had sent a messenger to the opposing army with an offer of surrender. Still, Simon knew how that would end well before the boy’s head had been tossed back over the gate. These men didn’t want a victory, they wanted an example, and that meant a pile of dead bodies to put the fear into the other lords of the region.
Simon hadn’t been sure if that knowledge would put steel in the spine of the surrounding men or if it would bring them to their knees. He wasn’t very good at judging people when it came to emotions, so he just stood there at the ready, waiting for his chance to do some good. After all, he was the one man on either side who didn’t fear death, so he could go all out in a way no one else could.
They held like that for an hour or two, with a few men on the roof harassing the force of almost 300 men with arrows while a few brave men and women put out the fires that the attackers continually tried to start. Eventually, that wasn’t enough, though, and all at once, the interminable sense of waiting was replaced by sudden violence as the gates swung inward and the attackers swarmed in.
No one ran. That was the highest compliment that Simon could give as his world narrowed to the width of his opponent. They’d expected only farmers with spears to be huddled back here, and Simon made sure the first man to face him regretted the decision as he smashed the dark-haired axe wielder hard in the face before stabbing him in the gut and moving on to his next opponent.
The fighting after that was desperate and chaotic, and Simon took more cuts from not knowing that an enemy had gotten behind him than from anyone that had dared to face him directly. He was certainly on the losing side, though, he decided, as he stepped back from the fray to whisper, “Ä̴̮̦̯́̅ű̸̡̙̩͛f̶͈̦́̃v̸͚̬̀̕ả̷̩͙̼r̶̦̀͊ú̶̪̮̉͝m̷͔͔̃͋ ̷̩̯̈́Ḣ̸̲̗̲̽̚j̸̺͔̓͘͜a̸̢̘̎̋k̶̞̀k̴̤͇̏̑̈́” as he imagined the muscles on his sword arm knitting back together. All the little wounds were adding up, and even the extra stamina he’d built over the last few months wasn’t enough to stave off exhaustion forever.
Plus, he increasingly found himself outnumbered in the back and forth that had taken place over the last ten minutes as the defenders sought to protect their loved ones in the face of overwhelming odds. Despite the fact that Simon was exhausted and surrounded, though, he still had one trump card left to play. “G̴̝̈́͒͠ḛ̷͕̮̕͘r̵̛̫̮̔͠ͅv̴̿̀͠ͅu̷̝͚̜̎u̴͚͈̎ḻ̸̣̈́ ̸̦̟̜̈́̍M̷̪̹̪̓̓͒e̴̪̎i̴͓̗̔̔͆ͅr̸̹͓͚͐̅è̵̛͇̱̾n̴̩̜̍” he shouted, imagining a firestorm almost as wide as the gate backed by lethal intent.
Simon had enjoyed his time here, and he knew that from the way the other woman had reacted, what he was doing was likely to get a negative reaction, but sometime in the next minute, he was going down, and a minute or two after that there would be no one left to fight.
The result of his spell was a wave of incandescent fury that killed those closest to him outright as they were consumed in a blazing white inferno. Their corpses did shield those behind them for an instant, but even so, the shockwave of hellfire spread outward, engulfing almost everyone between him and the gate.
Simon tried to enjoy the sudden panicked retreat that he’d caused, but the amount of energy that the spell took from him made him waver as his vision blurred, and he threatened to lose consciousness, spoiling the moment.
“Alright, men," he called out as loud as he could as he pointed ahead with his sword. "We’ve got them on the run. We just need to—”
Simon’s words were cut off by a sword that pierced his back, followed by another in his side that left him coughing up blood.
“Witchcraft!” one man shouted.
“He’s a warlock!” cried another.
Simon had hoped this wouldn’t have been the reaction, but he accepted it anyway. He spun as he fell to the ground, landing on his back, and smiled as he saw that Gregor was alive and his sword had no fresh blood on it.
At least he’d made one friend here, Simon thought as his consciousness faded to black.