After dispatching a letter to my father, I found a supply wagon back the Lodestone Republic’s Capital, Garnet. Mining was the source of the Republic’s wealth (and nomenclature), and where I would have liked to try my hand. Nothing like physical labor to take one’s mind off the world. Unfortunately, The Republic had determined that slaves were preferable to actual citizens for mining (no need to worry when a tunnel collapsed, or bother with pesky matters such as pay or blunt force trauma).
I had considered working with my father, but the farm and haggling business were in my brothers’ more competent hands. That and the two new wars the Republic had become engaged in had taken a lot of the profits. Me joining could only result in a net loss to the family.
I thought of my biggest reason for instead joining the army and quickly removed it from my thoughts. There’s nothing worse than the self-righteous, if you got to sacrifice, there’s no need to let everyone know. I thought of that square, weather-beaten face atop those broad shoulders, “Men do, my son. If you’re yapping about what you’re doing you’re not working hard enough or you’re trying to peacock. Now shut it and get back on that plow!”
Ah, I missed home. Well, I missed what home had been before I’d turned twenty. That was about the time plants started to harass me and my friends found more and more excuses to distance themselves. My father had stuck by me, often finding the time after the daily drudgery to doublecheck that I still had work to do. He made sure I knew the value of hard work, when everyone was out to get you, it was the only chance you had to survive.
The rest of my family… I wish I could feel more hurt, but I was never close to my siblings, and my mother had always been conniving. Bah, the only thing worse than self-righteousness, self-pity.
Speaking of which, I turned to my only company for the trip, Kevin (other than the driver who made sure to spit in my direction every other league as we traveled). A strange name I agree, but what else can you expect from an other worlder? I would’ve loved to hit him upside the head, but it had been some time since anyone had actually spoken to me without their teeth clenched.
“It’s not fair! You have no idea how hard it is!”
I did, he’d gone through this spiel several times now.
“I’ve been thrown into a cruel, primitive world! No cell phones, video games, or even electronics!”
Apparently these were magic devices that ran on lightning. Everyone in his world had them scattered about their homes and even on their persons. I wondered just how advanced his people truly were, to put something as dangerous as lightning in your pocket. Just how often did these situations result in accidental castration?
“And slavery, how can you own another person?!”
Quite easily actually, that’s what the slave collars were for.
I looked curiously at his short stature and rotund body. While not a peak specimen of manliness, I had to admit that he carried his full plate mail without breaking a sweat. His face, when not complaining (which he did the majority of the time) was jovial and more youthful looking than the average man of 30. Other worlders were brought by the hundreds to our world every year, supposedly in an effort to bolster the forces of humanity. Considering how weak and emotional they tended to be, anyone with a bit of education immediately realized the truth.
They were strictly a means of redirecting anger and resentment away from the ruling classes onto a more assailable personage. They were equipped with the best gear, gaudily ornamented with expensive gems and lodestones. If their haughty morals didn’t do the trick, envy would. It was good to know that he was hated more so than myself, at least the first knife would be aimed at his throat.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
I was glad he didn’t retell his sob story about having to polish his “dusty” armor himself. I had to clench my fists hard that time not to regale him with how I had to remove pieces of the former occupant from mine. The leather portions of my rusty set were not supposed to be a pale crimson.
Annoying as he was, he was friendly enough. He had come to our world from the nation of Colorado, where there were tall mountains, some sport called skiing, and snow. I looked around at the softly rolling, thoroughly forested, green hills surrounding the republic. Close enough.
He described the culture and norms, it was kind of interesting, a little disappointing that their mightiest warriors didn’t own steeds or swords. They had odd things called tanks and guns. How containers of water and petty alchemic devices won wars I will never know (I figure those phones probably doubled as improvised explosives in tight situations). After a few hours, I finally managed to steer him to more pertinent matters.
“So seriously, plants and bugs don’t just randomly attack you?”
“No, why in the hell would they?”
“Because they’re sly bastards, not even poisonous fruit?”
“Tome, I’m really worried about you, I can see bugs attacking, but plants? They can’t move, and don’t even have brains. I think you just ran into some low hanging branches and were unfortunate enough to eat spoiled fruit.”
I looked at him crossly.
“Oh! I’ve heard that you shouldn’t eat apple cores, there’s cyanide in the seeds!”
“I’m not a damn bird, I don’t eat seeds.”
“You don’t eat bread then? Bread’s made from grain, which is a seed!”
He smiled in triumph at his logic.
I groaned; I wonder if every person from Colorado was as daft as he was?
“You know, you never asked me how I speak your language?”
I honestly never cared.
“Shimokamu.”
“What?”
“Oh? You don’t understand shimokamu?”
“No, uh, what’s shimokamu?”
“Sorry, clearly whatever method of communication you’re using is a bit flawed.”
I considered telling him that it is a made-up word, but for the life of me I couldn’t find a single reason to.
“Is it something like a word that represents a long, complicated thought or feeling? In German they have this word that represents the joyous feeling of returning home after a long travel, it’s incredibly beautiful!”
Wouldn’t that be joy? I debated on that one a moment; poetry was something I avoided so perhaps I was missing something.
“Interesting,” a safe answer when I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond, “Back on topic, how would you deal with a man-eating tree?”
“Uh, I would stab it.”
“The bark is incredibly hard; you’ll most likely get your sword stuck in its trunk. You need to first cut off the branches as it’s attacking you. After that, it’ll most likely retreat back into the forest, but if not, aim for the eye holes. There’s some sort of magical connection there, so if you hit deep enough there you can seriously wound it. Also, fire and torches are very effective as the monsters light up fairly readily, something about a high concentration of arcane in their sap.”
I was probably wasting my breath, but we were currently on a forested path. Better to have a useful idiot than one prone to lose his sword in case my nemesis struck. Somehow he had been a worse soldier than me, consistently scoring hits on any allies within three feet of him. In the end they decided to send him somewhere else to be hated. “Luckily” he had a fair crystal reading, so we were going to be spiremates. I thought of him in much the same way as the faster man running from the bear.
“What are you doing? You know we can’t outrun a bear!” the slower runner asks.
“I don’t have to outrun the bear, I only have to outrun you!” the faster, smarter, runner responds.
Now don’t think me crass, I’m not stupid enough to waste such a valuable resource as a slower runner. No, I’d outrun him, circle back, and while the bear was busy mauling, stab it in the groin, then its face. Hopefully Kevin would be just a bit battered, his entrails still intact. He certainly wasn’t ugly, but a few deep scars could only serve to better endear him with the ladies…
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Plus, bears are rare here, but those damned trees are ever present. I’m likely to need the services of a slower runner more than once…
-Tome Rimoude