My first impressions of Shimmerstal ticked all the boxes for a fantasy world city. On our western approach to the city, one couldn’t but appreciate its imposing fortifications with a high, white outer wall encircling the entire hill the city sat on. A similarly imposing inner wall, placed half the way up the hill, paralleled the outer wall. I assumed it doubled as an extra defence should an enemy breach the first walls. An imposing gate marked the entrance to the outer wall and a lesser gate to the inner wall. I later came to understand that an equivalent set of gates protected the opposite side of the city as well. That meant the only gates on the inner and outer walls faced east and west.
Complimentary gold-coloured trimmings lined each gate and wall edgings contributing to their fantasy-like splendour. The picture of the magnificent city battlements hid their strategic importance as any enemy foolish enough to attack Shimmerstal quickly discovered to their demise that the city’s defences covered the city approaches all too well. Finally, and well, unsurprisingly, a large palace adorned the very top of the hill. It didn’t sport the pointless spired type castles pictured on typical fantasy-scape, but only a square white building with similarly gold-coloured trimmings more synonymous of some parliament building than a royal palace.
A sheer mass of people queued ahead of us in a single protracted line before the city gate, extending for longer than a kilometre and we sat there stuck behind most of them. With nothing else to do but goggle the crowds, it gave me enough time to appreciate the ongoings at the gate. An unusually large crowd meant the guards found themselves deep over their heads in administration and processing people entering the city. Being in customs sometimes sucked, and judging by the unhappy voices around us, people’s sense of humour reached new lows as the delay became hours. Likewise, the guards were not in the mood for difficult people. To help them control the crowd, guards sometimes lowered the heavy iron portcullis, a large, latticed grille usually purposed to keep enemies out. I appreciated the effort required to lift that portcullis. It probably weighed a few tonnes and lifting it didn’t impress me as being any less than a laborious exercise.
The length of the gatehouse equalled the thickness Shimmerstal’s walls, which being at least twenty meters deep, included a heavy wooden external gate and inner portcullis gates on both ends of the gatehouse. This arrangement allowed the guards to enclose groups of people between the gates. A recessed door in the outer wall allowed pedestrians to enter the gatehouse through a narrow corridor.
It seemed the wait for entry permits took far longer than usual, but from our position there was no way to know someone managed to damage the portcullis gate. We could only patiently wait until the guard approached us. A solitary guard walked away from the gate, following the queue of people towards us. He issued instructions and pre-empted credentials from people in preparation for the gatehouse guard’s checks thereby shortening the waiting time. When the guard finally reached our cart, Grenfell retrieved the parchment scroll from his bag, the one we received from the military messenger in Obon. That scroll became the solid evidence we supported the military campaign, reinforcing our request to enter Shimmerstal. The guard looked as tired as he must have felt on a hot, dusty midday.
“Present your entry records.”
His short sword, copper-coloured light armour and red feather headdress marked the man as a city guard. Grenfell handed the scroll down to the guard on the ground, who read it, looking up once or twice as if comparing a mugshot photo with the real person. Even I got a couple of looks.
“Are you Grenfell the weaponsmith from the Dryad in Obon?”
“That I am.”
The guard’s whole demeanour changed. He suddenly looked like a fan meeting his favourite popstar.
“My name is Rodergurn and it’s my pleasure to meet you sir. My sword is one of your works.”
“Really, a pleasure to meet you. Do you mind if I see it?”
That surprised Rodergurn, he didn’t expect Grenfell to want to see his sword but didn’t hesitate to give it to Grenfell while holding the sword on the top of both hands, the hilt in one hand and the flat side of the blade in the other. It wasn’t wrong for him to hand his weapon over to a stranger, not while he was within acceptable distance from it. Especially when that stranger was the very blacksmith that crafted it. The guard took it as an honour to show Grenfell just how well a Dryad sword could be looked after. The old man took it in his hands and ran his eye along the length, testing its trueness. His hand felt the flat end of the blade picking up all its small imperfections that only the keen hands of its maker could detect.
“Although I cannot recall when I specifically made this sword, I do remember I made it with a particularly good batch of iron. You’ve looked after this sword well, Rodergurn, you have my gratitude.”
Grenfell said with a slight nod of his head. With that the guard became filled with an honest pride only a man in his profession could understand.
“Rodergurn, I sense your men are experiencing some problems, that we are delayed to this extent?”
“I apologise for troubling you unnecessarily sir, but we seem to have a problem with the gate, and we cannot open it again, no matter how we try.”
It turned out that due to the constant use of the portcullis gate, a ratchet release on the one side of the gate had broken. The repairman that usually fixed those types of things fell ill, too sick to move from his bed, and since they already lowered the gate, they couldn’t lift it again. The guards were more than a little tense given the mass of unhappy people still waiting to enter the city. Since the guard had a little rapport with Grenfell, he felt emboldened enough to ask us for something.
“If I may be so bold as to bother you; would you mind if you could have a look at the gate for us?”
Asked Rodergurn, with a hopeful look in his eyes. Without skipping a beat, the old man said to him,
“No problem. My apprentice Shane here will help you.”
“Huh?”
Just when I started thinking the old man made for a warm, fantasy grandfather character he went and pulled stunts like that. Judging by the happy look on Rodergurn’s face I would say we made his day. It wasn’t long before we barrelled past the stalled queue on our way to the gate with Rodergurn on board. Grenfell smiled all the way, for him it was a win-win although I wasn’t sure what was in store for me. Had I known what dirty, sweaty work waited for me, I would have told him to put the job somewhere the sun didn’t shine.
Rodergurn led me through the armoured side door to the side of the portico gate. Most of the guards sorted out the people in the queue, while only two guards remained stationed in the gatehouse, then vacant of all traffic.
“Hey Rod, where are you going with the young guy?”
Asked one of the two guards in the gatehouse noticing our arrival.
“I’m taking him to have a look at the gate release, he’s a blacksmith apprentice.”
“You don’t say? I’ll tell you what sonny; if you get that gate sorted out, we’ll owe you one.”
Coming from the guards, their word was their bond. No one dared challenge their word when a guard made a commitment. As for me, after a few minutes and a few flights of stone stairs later we found ourselves at the top of the large gatehouse about three floors up above the outer portico gate in a cramped room with hardly enough room for my head. The place reminded me of an elongated prison cell except with slotted vents near the floor. An overwhelming sensation of sweltering heat and ammonia swept over me as we entered. The room trapped the sun’s heat and judging by the liberal piles of bird poop on the floor, birds used the room as a convenient roost. That explained the ammonia smell. If I thought that was already depressing, Rodergurn pointed me to a slot in the floor near the far end wall.
“I’ll leave you here to sort out the issue, I…I’ve some things to do. Come down when you’re done.”
Rodergurn reminded me that despite my circumstances, I came there to do a job. His disappearance down the staircase didn’t puzzle me because I understood exactly how he felt. No one volunteered to be there unless they intended shooting arrows. The vents functioned as arrow slots looking down into the gatehouse below. Just about an arm’s length through the slot and framed by the arrow slots, stood the problematic gate release. There were three parts to the release; a handle at the gate below, a connection bar that ran up the wall that released a ratchet near me and the ratchet. The problem seemed clearly apparent, a pin connecting the connection bar to the ratchet came off. With time and constant use, the vibration on the split pin probably caused it to slowly drop through the hole in the connection bar and then the bar couldn’t release the ratchet. Why that happened I could only surmise, although it wasn’t hard to guess what must have happened. The last installer probably sat with the same access challenges I faced but they only did a half job. Not wanting to spend a second longer than necessary there, the installer never inserted the pin correctly. Who knew, it might have taken a lifetime for the pin to slip out, for all I knew the last installer probably died ages ago. Looking towards the bottom of the arrow slots I discovered a high stone ledge, about a hand’s breadth, running the length of the guardhouse. I could see the top of the ledge through the slot, noticing that the ledge stopped just short of the ratchet and the problematic pin lay there near the ratchet.
I had to get onto my knees to see the ledge properly and for the first time I could appreciate the challenge that waited for me. Someone trying to get hold of the pin using a thin wire or a piece of wood would find it difficult because the angle of access made it difficult to lift the pin. Stretching my arm through the closest arrow slot I groped for the pin while trying not to breath because my face lay just above the smelly bird droppings. No matter how much I tried to touch it, the pin lay annoyingly just outside of my reach. After countless tries and minutes of waiting to regain my breath, my air skill managed to bring the pin closer to my hand. The challenge lay in limiting the wind pressure I applied to the lighter pin. Too much wind and the pin would shoot past my hand or fall off the ledge. Too little wind pressure and the pin wouldn’t budge. Luckily the ledge blocked the guards view of my operations from the ground.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The split pin felt light in my hands. Strange to think something so small caused such a large problem. I straightened it out and used air skill to send the pin back to the hole in the bar. Luckily, the bar hadn’t slipped out of the ratchet arrangement, otherwise the work would have been more complex to repair. I watched the pin float towards the connection point. It slipped into the hole easily enough but at that moment I took a break to carefully think about my next move. Splitting the pin required me to hold the pin in place while applying a force in the opposite direction to split the pin. Anyone could easily do that with two hands, but a serious challenge for someone like me who was still a relative newbie to skills. After a combination of thirty minutes, lots of effort and foul language, I successfully split the pin.
I kneeled on the ground, exhausted. For a minute I sat there only staring straight ahead while I focused on regaining my senses in that heat. That’s when something with a shiny gold tint on the ledge caught my eye. It seemed to be jammed inside a crevice where the ledge met the wall.
I had to put my hand into the slot to get it as close to the gold item to scan it properly.
Whatever, I thought. It seemed a gold ring slipped off someone’s finger while they were up here and when someone tried attempted to remove it, they ended up jamming it deeper into the crevice. It wasn’t stuck in the crevice, all it needed was for me to carefully use air skill to gently blow the ring out, amidst a lot of dust and bird droppings, I might add. Seemed the portico was also a favourite roosting spot for feathered rats.
Once the ring was free, I retrieved it just like I did with the split pin.
The ring felt heavy laying in my hand as I appraised it.
Item Name: Pocket Dimension Storage
Class: Ring
Material: Gold 30%, Silver 10%, ?? 60%
EE: 0/50
Attribute: Pocket Dimension Storage
Cost: 150 Small gold
“Oi! You still there? It’s an awful amount of dust you’re creating there.”
Rodergurn’s voice echoed from the gatehouse shouted a question at me. Perhaps the dust was good for covering up my actions from the guard’s keen eyes.
“Yes, I’m finished. I’m coming down now.”
I reluctantly delayed my testing of the storage ring until a more opportune time. Judging from my earlier experiences, there was no telling what weird and wonderful things could happen if I tested it there and then. Besides, the last thing I needed were gatehouse guards questioning me about strange events in their gatehouse.
Painful slaps of adoration pelted my back when the guards realised the outer portico gate was working again. They couldn’t stop thanking Grenfell and myself. At first, I refused any compensation, but they insisted on paying me after telling me it would be troublesome if their commander discovered that they didn’t pay me. I received three gold coins for the work, a lot more than would ordinarily be expected from a similar job but the payment amount was apparently included factors like work difficulty and time taken to repair. As an additional bonus we were allowed to take our cart into the city before everyone else and only after a cursory check.
Grenfell knew Shimmerstal well enough to know where the best places to stay would be. He turned left after we left the gatehouse and headed down a broad road. All roads in the city seemed to be paved in grey stone and fitted with water drainage channels. Single and double storey stone houses with wooden rooves lined both sides of the street. The houses looked older and motley. Their rooves and wooden window shutters looked a bit patched up. From what I came to understand, houses in that district near the gate were more middle class belonging to merchants who liked to stay near the gate for easy transport access of their goods outside the walls. I couldn’t smell any sewerage, the bane of many early cities on earth, which meant Shimmerstal had a way of dealing with it. As for the normal issues with horses around, there were certainly enough cleaners that regularly picked up any horse manure laying around because I certainly didn’t notice any.
After fifteen minutes of travelling, we arrived at our destination, an inn called the unusual name of the Black Dragon Slave Inn. I spent a few seconds trying to figure out whether the black dragon in the inn’s name was the slave, or if the sign meant a slave belonging to a black dragon. I realised an apostrophe ‘s’ was missing from Dragon. The issue naturally resolved itself when the picture on the sign depicted a European styled black dragon with a slave collar around its neck. Sheesh, I thought to myself, how would one get a collar big enough to enslave a dragon, let alone get one to stand still enough to put one on? That would have to be one seriously peeved-off dragon.
Our Inn lay near the western gate making it a good option for merchants looking to transit the gates early in the morning or late at night. As such, it catered more towards merchant’s needs, with enough stabling and places for parking carts etcetera, facilities merchants generally needed while travelling.
“Stay with the cart, I’ll sort out the accommodation.”
Said Grenfell as he strode into the large rectangular building. Although crime wasn’t rampant in Shimmerstal the loss of our cart would be a serious drawback, so we stayed vigilant. Soon a young man walked out of the inn, I later understood to be the owner’s son, and led our horses to the back of the building to a large courtyard where he unhitched the horses and prepared to stable them for the evening. We wrote off the rest of our day because quite honestly, after a day’s travel and that gate repair I felt exhausted, and despite his lack of involvement in the gate issue, I think the old man felt the same.
Evening descended quickly in that part of the city because the sun set behind the citadel wall which cast a shadow over the inn. We didn’t dally and Grenfell arranged a single room with two beds through the innkeeper. The first thing I noticed as we walked into our spartan, but sufficiently supplied room, was that the room’s only window looked out onto a prime view of the city wall. Obviously, the inn catered to working groups and not to tourists meaning panoramic vistas over the city expected by the inn’s usual guests. The room contained a single desk and chair parked between the two beds and in front of the window. The bed mattresses looked like the typical straw filled variety.
During our dinner that night I got a good look at the interior of the large dining room which took up most of the building space on the ground floor. They put up a reception desk at the only guest entry door which was the main thoroughfare into the building. The kitchen was a room positioned behind the reception desk, and a wooden staircase on the opposite side of the building to the door led to the top floor rooms.
“I like what they’ve done with the place.”
I casually voiced my opinion on the medieval aesthetics. Grenfell only nodded in agreement while mostly engaged in noshing on what looked like a braised lamb shin, or whatever that was. The inn’s décor, in keeping with its name, related to knights fighting dragons. All the fighting regalia like swords, bucklers and armour lined the walls. A particularly long, heavy spear graced the wall above the fireplace, no doubt an indispensable tool for dispatching a dragon…unless the spear’s last owner died while using it. A managed fire with red coals crackled in the fireplace under drips of fat, while a staff member roasted the side of meat while turning it slowly. My cholesterol jumped up a few points just looking at that, although it smelled bloody amazing. Occasionally, they would tend the fire or baste the meat while keeping the rotisserie turning. As much as I enjoyed a nice piece of meat on a spit, I still liked my vegetables. Luckily, they offered roasted windroot vegetable on the menu along with some other unidentifiable vegetables to balanced out my carnivorous meal a little. Since we were ready to settle for the night, I asked Grenfell the burning question on the top of my mind.
“What’s our plan for staying here?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m not too sure but I’ll know by tomorrow after I visit a few people. Time to cash in on some favours.”
He smiled mischievously. I knew that smile all too well. Run people, my only advice was for those who owed him a favour, was to run while they could.
“There’s no telling how much time it will take for things to settle down again. I’m sure the road to Obon will be dangerous to travel on for at least one moon cycle, luckily winter is still a while off.”
Winter. Something I didn’t know about that world yet because I seemed to be living in a perpetual summer. The warm season hadn’t radically changed for me.
“What are the winters like here Grenfell?”
He watched me quietly for a while. No doubt he considered the merits of my question because most people my age would already know the answer to my question since they already lived through a few winters. He probably wondered if I suffered from some sort of amnesia or that I wasn’t originally from around there. I wasn’t going to back down though because something deep inside me said it was an important issue.
“Shane, winters here are rough for people and animals. Heck, if the constant threat of hungry monsters doesn’t worry you, cold, exposure and hunger are constant companions to most of us. Only the very wealthy can boast of easy winters. All indications are that this winter is going to be a bad one.”
“How long are the winters?”
“There are as many summer moon cycles as there are winter moon cycles.”
Which meant winters lasted an arduous two years.
“What happens to the monsters?”
“For some unknown reason, larger monsters don’t seem to be affected by the cold as much as humans. We think it has a lot to do with their size and natural protection against the elements. Unfortunately, they’re driven by an insatiable hunger. Unlike humans, monsters don’t store food for the winter. That makes people natural targets for monsters in winter.”
I could see where things were leading to.
From what Ara told me, the cross over from summers to winters had very small shoulder periods which meant anyone not prepared would be in serious trouble.
In previous conversations I heard others mention summer seasons as a way of mentioning longer time periods but golly, two-year winters sounded like a long time. During earth’s history, the endless winter around the sixth century permanently changed world nations, what could a winter lasting two years do? On the other hand, winters lasting that long seemed normal fare there, perhaps I needed to change my thinking.
“What about the length of shoulder seasons?”
“I’m assuming you mean the beginning and end of summer. The beginning of winter starts off mild at the start then suddenly hits with a terrifying cold. The beginning of summer starts off mild as well.”
It seemed that world alternated on its axis far longer than earth creating far longer seasons. The dynamics of survival in that world started to make a lot more sense, and the reasoning behind Shimmerstal’s tall, imposing walls suddenly made more sense. Where would hungry monsters normally go looking for food in winter, at the humans who stored it, of course.
“Grenfell, how do people prepare for the winters?”
“They store up and preserve food as best they can. Long winters can still be a problem though. Unfortunately, most people spend a lot of their warmer weather preserving food and gathering fuel to be able to survive the harsh winters. The kingdom spends a lot of its time and resources on gathering food for the coming winters. Those kingdom’s which are unable to do so, usually don’t last that long.”
It added up, probably one of the reasons technology and human population has not advanced well, people spend most of their time preparing and then surviving through the winters. It’s one of the reasons you don’t see a lot of beggars around, the unfortunate and the poor don’t last long.”
It felt like I arrived in the gulag, only worse. I didn’t even have a fur coat, let alone any other paraphernalia one needed to survive. I certainly couldn’t survive anything like that in my current circumstance. Just how did anyone survive a winter like that?