Two minutes into his sprint he slowed down into an urgent jog. For whatever reason, behind him, Hox was crackling, a dry heaving laugh spat between breaths as he put effort to catch up to James’s longer strides.
There was nothing funny about his eagerness to make money. He now shared the urgency the gleemix had been feeling all along. This was a once-in-a-year event and he was only a small cog in the money-making machine of the cult. The cultists who grew the fghels throughout the year had to be paid, no less than the ones who protected the valley until the harvest came due. Comparatively, his job was the easiest one, yes with some risks involved, but he highly suspected he was the least-paid cog of the lot. To make up for it, he was to focus on quantity.
James slowed even further to a comfortable pace. He didn’t want to arrive winded no matter his current fervor. The wisp was lost behind them, unable to keep up with their greed.
Hox overcame him flashing a grin. The motion and exertion of the sprint had a soft touch on his spirits—a versed and true mind-healing technique.
The grass fields were separated by the dusty road their feet traversed upon. In some places, the road held to the length a cart would need, while in others, it would very well be called a path instead. Leisurely nature reclaimed it back from civilization.
Further to the east, parallel in direction, a long winding river flowed passively. It was another road, one of cold de-frozen water, descending Kildashan to reach away towards the thirstier southern lands.
No matter how far his gaze grazed the horizon in that direction, James could not pinpoint where the Shadrahn’s lands began. Just past the river, trees emerged in clusters and then in a solid foresty body. Shrouded by the trees, as told, a line that had no physical form would separate the two realms-–the blessed and the dire.
Beneath them the road divided into two, then into other parts that soon disappeared, hidden by the grass fields. There were many different directions one could follow to reach the impressive mountains. It all depended on each one’s destination. The valley they were heading for was hidden and yet it wasn’t. It was a part of the mountain roots that faced the city, just an hour’s hike away.
Other places such as the Omny cult’s fghel-rich valley, were dispersed among the mountain roots. They were exploited by all who could or would dare face the dangers that came along with them.
Fghels could only be cultivated near the mountains, Hox had instructed him smugly after he had complained about the distance from the city.
“But how can the cult members stay there all year long to secure them?” James had asked concerned that one day it might be him spending considerable time in the wilderness in their stead.
And sometimes things went to hell. A dwarven clan had built a mine in the Kildashan’s bedrock, ‘Ghilmir’ they called it, from where precious ore and metals flowed out until some nasties decided to make a home out of it. Ghilmir now was a place to avoid, and he dearly wished he knew where that was so he would never stumble into it unknowingly.
“Hox, I didn’t know about the payment,” James confessed.
“Dumb human,” The gleemix replied on a softer note than his usual bite.
In this, they were on the same page. A struggle they shared. If he judged accurately the gleemix’s motivation.
As they neared their destination the familiar commotion could be heard in the reluctant breeze. Fghels, cries, and booming crashes mixed in a salad bowl and blended with vigor. The cult members selected for the harvest were eagerly set on the job, culling the fghel numbers. In less than two weeks they would all be gone.
Nearing the gradual decline that formed the valley James saw a dwarf hacking on a fghel head with a dirtied axe bellow a score of trees. Dust was everywhere around him. His beard held it, shifting the grey to a more brownish hue. The powerful swings shook the dwarf’s arm. He moved with agility in a way that reminded him of Hox. The movements flowed between attack and defense making short work of the fghel.
How many fghels were there? If any one of the cult members could take down 10 or 20 fghels per day that meant there were thousands of the creatures buried under the soil. That was a lot of coins for the cult coffers. A lot of coins that he could pocket, if only he had more time.
Hox pulled free one of the axes. “You should get at least one axe, human. Until you learn to use two. Then you’ll need another one.”
“Farming’s expensive work it seems. How much will an axe cost me?” he replied as his hands grabbed onto the wooden handle the gleemix offered.
“About 5 silver if it's decent work. And you need decent work to farm fghels. You don't want the handle to give, or the blade to dull easily. Pff, take care of my axe, will you? You are on your own today, I wasted enough time already, cut some grass-heads human.” The gleemix waved his other axe in salute before setting off.
He felt the slow drum of his heart quicken in anticipation. Choosing a direction at random, one that was relatively silent, to afford him better chances at farming without being in contact with the cult, he set off.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The valley was large. Large enough to host thousands of fghels buried under the vegetation, grey bedrock walls decorating the side ridges, and a cautious hillside forming the open-ended bowl.
James walked for a couple of minutes bypassing signs of battle that littered the entrance to the valley. The greenery increased in volume the deeper he went obscuring the paths, and his sight.
He ducked under a tree branch overburdened with vines, extending his free hand to part the leaves that blinded him. His next step crunched on hard grass, that vibrated angrily from his incursion.
A booming moan of a voice spooked him off the fghel crown, forcing him into a disoriented jump. He landed awkwardly on another patch of green wavy hair he hadn’t initially noticed, and that too didn’t much appreciate his extra weight.
Oh, to hell with this.
The two fghels unearthed themselves aggressively, throwing soil and clouds of dust in the air. Their gingerlike bodies wiggled like gigantic worms, uprooting the nearby tree and smashing it on the ground. If James had not retreated with a terrified plunge, he might have had the same unfortunate ending as the tree that spread mashed on the ground.
He hadn’t been given many instructions as to the proper way of farming these things, but he was certain that going against two of them together was violating several safety concerns.
Two silver Verithians coins squirmed in irritation on the ground. James stared at them for a moment and knew, there was no question of retreating. He had come here to farm.
—-
He chopped and chopped, working through the strain and the pain in his arm from the pushback of the hard outer skin.
It was a true blessing that one of the creatures after an awe-inspiring bounce had gotten itself lodged under a massive rocky nook. No matter how vigorously the thick tail-end spasmed, it was unable to eject from the heavy craggy embrace that held it rigidly in place.
James went to work with the axe, eyeing the boulders above him with distrust. It wouldn’t surprise him if the half-ton creature could produce enough force to bring down the whole nook.
If the other fghel had any notion of helping out its distressed kin, it didn’t immediately show it. On the contrary, after several minutes of thrusting about at random, it picked a nice cool spot in the shade and reentered the soil like a screwdriver, bottom first.
That left James eagerly hacking at his sole agitated target, making quite good progress. Despite the adrenaline rush, he was able to focus on the blessing of Minor Agility, enhancing his speed. He reveled at the pace of his strikes, the swiftness with which he shifted his weight, twisting his hips and core to produce the heavy impacts required to chop through the hardened exterior of the fghel. It was an elevating feeling, only to realize in dismay that he also tired as much faster.
An implication that the blessings weren’t foolproof. If he were to move faster, it was logical that his stamina could not keep up with the exertion. There was some kind of payback to them then.
He started thinking of them as less of a miracle and more of an actual bodily enhancement. A way of increasing the natural limits his birth set upon him. Like a drug, a wonderfully magical drug. Steroid’s cooler cousin. Just in case, he should check his back in a mirror for the unmistakably suggestive pimples that revealed he had strayed from the natty path.
It was an interesting thought. Would he need a blessing of minor stamina to compensate for his increased speed? What would the detriments be? Increased appetite? Or would his body adjust, increasing his metabolism, and ATP production?
How dearly he wished to have a blood test done and examine exactly how the blessing affected him. If that was even possible to observe.
“FGHELL!” The creature-ending cry pierced his thoughts and brought them back to the task.
The crown fell off hitting rock and soil with a calm plop, messing up the fghelhead’s grass into an after-sex hairstyle.
He carefully picked it up and inspected it for damage. The chopped wound was not clean. There were chips and scraps along the edge, where the axe missed the intended target, leaving a sticky saplike substance that he unfortunately hadn’t avoided touching.
It produced a prickly burn to his fingertips, a sign that it was at least a little acidic. He settled the crown on the ground and rubbed soil to his palms and fingers. The sap turned to crumbling gumballs before falling to the ground.
One more to go. He thought with determination. If the first, immobile as it were, had taken him a quarter of an hour, then the next one would probably take a little longer than one. He had the time for it. Two silver Verithian coins would be in his pouch tomorrow. He grinned at the thought and readied his axe, windmilling his shoulder in the excitement.
His second harvest wasn’t as smooth as he wanted it to be. The damned ginseng-sea lion-sized creature was as active as bees in spring. At least he didn’t dive and scramble as much anymore. Instead, he used well-trained front rolls to avoid his airborne foe and kicked off into a balanced rhythm in his hit-and-run tactics. All was well.
That was half an hour ago.
At the halfway point he felt drained of oxygen and energy. Every hit and run he put in was akin to a HIIT set at the gym. The elevation he had felt initially now tore at his throat as his diaphragm tried to enlarge enough for more oxygen to pass through. His heart pounded in his ears.
“One more to go…” He whizzed as he disengaged from his last attack. He was a big man. No matter how fit, he was never meant for prolonged fights. He could run for hours at a steady pace. He had finished an Iron Man in his early twenties. He had…
He dearly wished he had a blessing of stamina or vitality right then. He didn’t know which was right for the task. The only thing he knew was that he could not take the second fghel down before he was forced to back off.
Leaving a wounded fghel unattended? A big no-no in Hox’s book. Before long the sap would solidify into a crust around the wound that if hit would soon dull his axe into uselessness. There was only one way to farm fghels and it was to cull their heads off before any of that happened.
Leaving a harvest half done? Ah, that was a Hell no-no in Omny’s book. And that meant what it meant.
His gaze locked on his opponent’s bright green crown.
“I’ll make you mine!” He declared, flipping a finger of his free hand and showing it off to the creature. "Go suck yourself."