Our tale begins as so many others do. Cascading through the skies over rolling hills and open valleys, scattered and broken mountain ranges throughout the backdrop, and shimmering rivers contrasting darkened forests. Watch carefully as we soar over countless miles on the back of a hawk. In the great Protharian Empire, we shall find the subject of this tribulation and glory.
Some find themselves immortalized in gold while others in stone. Some are left forgotten on dusty shelves or others beneath the dirt. Some find their surname carved through deeds and wealth, through conquest and intellect, or even retain that which was carved before their birth.
Others, as you will find, discover their eternal life through means of disgrace or misfortune.
Let us share in the tale of Christoph Gildenson.
Travel from the capitol city of Dezrana, leaving behind the extravagant sales of food, of service, and of flesh, and you’ll begin your journey through winding roads of dust and packed dirt. Perhaps soon, the nation will continue to build roads for the carts that travel to the north, but now is not that time. Little warfare is dealt within the northern regions, and so little is to be gained by spending the time and manpower.
Instead of cobblestone roads or well stationed checkpoints, you will find scattered patches of woodlands or swampy recesses with all manners of wildlife. You’ll marvel at the untouched landscapes that warp the land with various hues in flora. The land is relatively plentiful when compared with some lands beyond those distant shadows of sharpened mountains; like teeth of the world preparing to close on these lands.
However beautiful the land may seem, it is important to remember certain things. Of course, one should never travel alone. There are dangers around every rock and every twig. Bandits aren’t without their dishonorable tastes and obvious disregard for the law. Injuries often prove fatal when suffered alone in the middle of nowhere. And to top it all off…
Monsters.
Yes, you can’t just go out willy-nilly when goblins can easily hide in the tall grass, ogres behind trees or jutting rocks, or even the occasional woodland monstrosity that might have crawled from a child’s nightmare to drag you into the darkness. These are distressing concepts, but life is filled with such troubling things.
Secondly, you would need to know where you’re going. It’s true that monsters await you, should you be careless, but keeping to the paths can offer some form of security. A larger group moving quickly on the beaten path grants a hasted passing through any sluggish creature’s trap or domain. Keep a watchful eye and a steady breeze.
Thirdly, is that you understand, at least to a minor degree, that your protection is solely set upon your shoulders. You can pay a guild member, a mercenary, or even gather your personal guards to transport you from one place to another. If you step out of line or make the situation worse, you have no one to blame but yourself. Even the most skilled adventurers in these lands are unable to protect against stupidity of one’s own self. In the wilds, you must refrain from becoming your own worst enemy.
Of these adventurers or guilds, we will talk through them later. For now, we continue over these twisted roads, over hills toward yonder, and find ourselves in the quieted village of Rothmire.
It is a quaint settlement of thirty-four individuals. Families structured around a well and lifted, wooden tower in the center of town. This tower is built with the bare-minimum of supplies, but stands as the lookout post for the villagers. Sure footing is needed to climb the three-story, uneven ladder that reaches up into the partially enclosed box atop the thin, angled legs.
Each house is similarly built, though more materials have been permitted. By no means is anyone living in splendor or bathing in gold; however, the faces you see are not without a twinkle behind the clawed winkles about the eyes. They know each other by name. They smile and wave when passing by. Their hands are calloused and their clothes stained.
Not a one of them possesses unnecessary flesh. Food is a reward that is gratefully shared amongst each and every member of their village. You work, you eat. Simple, really. Or rather, it would be had they the means to produce more and still manage the taxes.
Every person must pay to the Empire. That’s how life continues in society. Supplies, protection, services, and much more are offered by the benevolent nation. It’s an offer that none may refuse, and payment always comes due. Fifty percent of all stored foods and lumber must be shipped out to the lords of the lands to be the building blocks of the nation’s strength. Everyone has their purpose, and these people are meant to labor for the greater good.
Christoph was one of these toiling souls. A young man, roughly sixteen years old, that scarred himself against the harsh soils, the lashes of tools and plants, and built his muscle as best he could with the rations of food his family could supply. He worked for his father, Edmond Gildenson, to ensure seeds were planted, weeds removed, and food reaped. There were cabbages, several species of roots, a few rows of something similar to an orange-pigmented corn, and wheat. It was backbreaking, but the labor bore resolve and sustenance. By the natural process, the wheel turns slowly.
Two families in the village had animals that roamed the northern banks where the sloped forests fell toward the arching Sender River. The grass and foliage there were perfect for the small number of cattle and hogs. Chickens ran about around these families’ homes, as well. Truly, it was the hopes that smaller animal populations would deter possible attacks. Large herds often meant notice from travelling packs of goblins or other minor monsters.
“Minor” is often enough to mean death for the common man.
Though every person should be considered a hero in their own right, these villagers were far from the important titles that often benefitted by means of land, position, or power. They hadn’t needed, or even understood, such treasures. Life was simple, dangerous, and difficult… but it was life.
Christoph was, in some romanticized fashion, a dissident. He wouldn’t dare raise his voice or displeasures to his father. He knew better than that. He did, however, daydream as he swung his sickle through the base of the wheat that had matured. Every year he’d swung the plants down, and the next year they would grow again. The only thing that changed was the position of the rotated crops and the height he had to bend from.
He’d heard tales of scrolls with words he’d thought he’d never learn. He’d been told of skilled adventurers and soldiers that wielded swords with deadly precision. The thought of saving some fair maiden had crossed his mind on several occasions, and it always brought heat to his cheeks—more than the sun could ever hope to provide.
Still, the single spark of a dream returned to him daily. Destined Blades, he’d thought as a hawk soared overhead, What a glorious title! One of the ten! One of the best!
The world was a mystery to him. He’d never even travelled to another village or to the great city that seemed so distant beyond the hopeless hills and wilds. So, begrudgingly, he bent over and hacked another bundle free.
What wonders went through this young man’s head? I’ll tell you they were far beyond the reach of one born into his life. The odds were greatly against him. Only three or four heroes of the nation had come from such humble beginnings. Each possessed something that set them apart from the hordes of commoners.
They were Gifted.
The Gifted are individuals, like in so many other worlds that run parallel to this one, that were lucky enough to be born with some blessed skill, magic, or attribute that allowed them to shatter the limitations of the average person. Quite astounding to see a man lift another, fully armored, over his head and toss him with ease. Or, to watch a woman that practiced a spell noted to take years to master for only one year… and have it become a perfect extension of herself.
Christoph had heard numerous rumors from some of the folk that did travel between the villages. A man in a cart, with several armed companions, sold goods and wove the historical recollections for all to hear. Buy the potions now! Take up what could even the fields! He’d proclaimed sipping one of his discolored potions could make you as strong or as witty as the heroes Christoph had idolized from afar. Could it have been that easy? Could a Destined Blade truly be distilled into a single, easily shipped vial?
Of course not.
Some were suckered into buying the drinks that, while some worked, dissipated after only a few minutes. Some, by the gods of new and old, did absolutely nothing. The conman was gone before any had a chance to use their low-tier potions against him. Back on the road! Leave the fools behind.
Christoph hadn’t bought one. It wasn’t because he didn’t have the coin. He had saved up a bit for the emergency events like making sure his siblings and parents had food when supplies ran low. He could have splurged just a bit for one of the purple vials that churned with what looked to be a contained thunderstorm. He could have, but he didn’t. To touch greatness and fall back to the ground would be too much for his dreams to survive. It was best, he believed, to let the dreams remain dreams.
So, he chopped and stacked. The sun granted no respite in the open fields. A raging inferno in the summer made sure that any unfortunate enough to be born in low standing would suffer for any fruit of labor. Still, he worked hard for his family; only cutting his hands once or twice with his own tool. That, within the span of an hour, was a success.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
It was that day, sometime in the middle of summer, that the distant hills rose with the vibrating shadows of heat. Christoph hadn’t noticed them until there was a soft rumble reaching his ears. Wiping the sweat from his face onto tattered rags that made his shirt, he tried to focus on the approaching figures.
Five horses, one in front and two pairs behind the lead, charged down the roadway toward the village. Pausing momentarily to watch the armored men and horses ride by, Christoph let his imagination consume him. Decrees or bounties, treasures to behold! They could be bringing fantastic news—though the voices in his head reminded him the past had often held nothing but woes.
The banner of their emperor flapped as the horses sped by. Four banners, each on the pairs of riders behind the lead, were red sheets with black trim and a gold, three-headed eagle in the center of the cloth. As if waves on a vertical ocean, they rippled as if the nation were disturbed.
“Wonder what’s got them in such a hurry?” Christoph spoke only to himself as the winds bent the wheat toward him. Paying attention to the horses, a fuzzy top to the plants brushed over his neck causing him to flinch back into reality. He ducked away and swatted at it with one hand, only to carelessly graze the back of the knuckles against his sharpened sickle. “Son of a…” Three cuts was more of an average.
Clutching his trivial wound, he returned his attention to the horsemen that entered the village. They slowed their gallop and dismounted nearest the chief’s home. It must have been something important.
Christoph dropped his tool on the stack of wheat. He’d only be gone long enough to check. No one would steal it. Nothing would destroy it. It would be right there when he returned—as it was every other day in his common life.
By the time our young villager reached the first homes that surrounded the tower, which no one was currently in, he found a number of persons gathered about. They were all waiting patiently to hear the news that came on the backs of muscular horses clad in sparkling armor.
It was only a short time before the chief exited his home with the man that had ridden the lead horse. The man was tanned from the high sun and covered with sweat; though, he had done nothing but ride. The armor he wore was barely covered with cloth. He was like a walking oven and did his best to remain in the shade cast by the building.
This man wore glorious silver and white metals. His armor fit snuggly against him; made to his measurements and status. His neck was bound in a black fabric that twisted and fell behind him like a shortened cape. Both gauntlets, made by a series of fragmented bits moving in unison along his hands, rested at his sides; though one fell over the sheathed blade that hung on his waist.
He was a man of means. Surely, this is plain to see. His black hair cut short regularly, his beard trimmed to line the bottom of his jaw and curve slightly up his lip until it disappeared, and his skin was clear of the regular filth these villagers donned daily. His chin was always held upward which made his eyes glance down toward whomever was in his gaze. He did not scowl or scoff at the villagers, but he examined them with learned eyes and gears grinding in his skull.
“Everyone!” Chief Hammond lifted one of his aged hands; the work and sun hadn’t allowed the skin to shrivel with the years. “We have news from our Emperor!” His voice was strong. It had to be. He was the leader of this village. Years and resolve had allowed this man to mold himself out of clay into the highest post a commoner could hope to achieve. “Please listen. There have been reports of raiders toward the west. We are one of many villages along the way our good Lord,” the chief paused to look at the man in armor, “Sir Griffon Nodure, must gain a suitable force against these barbarians.”
The villagers shuffled, whispered, and gasped amongst themselves.
“Please, please.” Their chief waved those aged hands through the air to settle his people. “He asks for only a few of our young men to travel with them. It is our duty to provide for these conscriptions.”
Conscriptions?! Christoph’s spine tingled with the possibilities. Either good or bad, he was most likely to be sent. He’d been left behind on a few of these required services in the past, and the village was in a region that was often off the usual routes or maps when it came to gathering a considerable force. But they’d come for men, and he knew he’d be one of them.
“Please, all young men come inside. Sir Nodure has requested viewing of our men.” The murmurs amongst his people grew, but the chief stood strong. “The rest of you, please return to your work. They will have time to say goodbye, should they be chosen. Save your words and embraces for the proper time.” With that, he turned and reentered his home.
The four guards that accompanied Sir Griffon Nodure began unloading boxes of materials, tying the horses, taking names and directing those young men that stepped forward, and then settled into their positions around the door. Each had their face covered by their dull metal masks that fell from their helmets. Of these faceless specters of metal and duty, only one entered the home to join the chief, the chief’s wife, and the man in silver armor.
Christoph had moved closer to his family and found his mother close to tears. There was hope that none of her sons would be sent to battle, there were odds that one would be sent, and there was a probability that two would be. Christoph looked to his younger brother, the boy of fourteen, Malin, and led him to the house. As Malin shook with fear and anticipation, Christoph lost himself to the future none could foresee.
They waited in a short line as the boys were directed to enter once the last had been reviewed. Many of the young men left with their heads hung low as if they’d slept wrong the night prior. A small slip of paper was in their hands. Most couldn’t read it. It could have said “Turn this paper in for your weight in gold”, but the words spoken behind closed doors told Christoph and his brother hope was dwindling.
“Next!” One guard shouted from under his helmet when the door opened to a boy of fifteen. Phillip Mordin was his name. Good lad that always offered a hand. His mother handled most of the villages sewing, and he was quick to make deliveries or see if you needed help in the process. My ma make that up quick for you! Sadly, that chipper twinkle had been locked behind a grim mask.
“Name and age?” One soldier, shielded behind his helmet, asked with a harsh tone.
“Christoph Gildenson,” the name felt difficult to utter. The truth, when damning oneself, can be a razor within the throat. “Sixteen,” the young man turned to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Reassuring the lad was all he could do as a brother, as a man, before they were examined for their worth on the battlefield. One quick interview and your fate could be decided.
“Go on.” The soldier directed him through the door into the chief’s home. Christoph could only recall stepping into this residence once or twice in his life. He took a moment to swallow back the anxiety this aged doorway had suddenly created—a gloomy wood splintered with devilish fortunes. “Get movin’!” The guard lifted his armored leg a bit to hurry Christoph inside.
With a quick swing, the door was yanked back by a rope that acted as a handle. As the light of day began to retreat from the abode, thick wood struck Christoph’s shoulder. He spun a bit in reaction to the closing door—a guard making sure the meeting would be private.
“Come in. Join us.” Sir Griffon Nodure sat beside the chief; though the chief’s position at the table was obviously for presentation only. One guard was inside, and he sat between his leader and the potential soldier on the longer side of the table. The armored man, smiling smugly at the whelp, dipped his quill into a glass jar of dark liquid. He had several papers set out before him.
Christoph did as he was told. He couldn’t have hated the man for doing his job, but he did pray, to whatever gods might hear, that his brother be spared. Taking his time to get to the table, Sir Nodure began to tap his gauntleted hand against the table.
“Please hurry, boy. I’d like to be off to my next stop.” The charming man’s face couldn’t match his arrogant tone. Whatever you did, it meant nothing to him without a title preceding your name. That’s how it was, and how it would remain.
Christoph did mean to hasten himself for his superior. Such beautiful armor, was what he thought as he pulled a slightly-slanted chair from the table and tried to take his seat. Once he stepped forward, his waist bumped the table. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, of course. However, it was just enough that the jar of dark liquid on the other side of the table was just light enough to slide on a paper it’d been set on. Tipping over, the liquid sloshed outward, the quill like a boat riding the oceans over the edges of the globe, and filling every crack in the armor around the lord’s lap.
“You dense beast!” Sir Nodure stood with enough force the chair was sent toppling over. The silent guard instinctively moved to reclaim his lord’s seat while the chief tried to assist in the cleaning.
“I’m terribly sorr—”
Christoph had begun sitting down but jumped back up once he saw the commotion he’d created. In doing so, the table lifted slightly again. This time, the jar toppled off the table. Falling to the floor with a crash, the man in his shiny, partially stained, armor had a choice to make. He could either be understanding and realize he’d done wrong by placing his inkwell so close to the edge to begin with. Reasonable as that seems, he chose the second option.
Disgrace had found him, or so he thought. What more could a commoner do to him? A noble?! The absolute injustice of it sent a burning rage up the spine of the Captain in the Protharian Empire’s military.
“Sit down!” The voice boomed through the small kitchen, which was also most of the home, and Christoph followed the order without hesitation. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense!” His armored hand swung up. The Chief caught a bit of the metal on the collarbone and slid back into his seat. “I’ve come for men to send against barbarians. What good is a boy upon the field of battle should sitting be too great a task?!”
“I’m sorr—”
Another apology cut short as Sir Nodure shouted. “Silence! I’ll not be spoken over.” He’d shouted and dipped in his volume, but he’d been wronged. That must be set right. “Perform the spell.” He spoke to the guard that had gathered up his chair, but his eyes hadn’t left the poor lad before him.
After a moment, the guard retook his place at the table. He straightened some utensils he had in front of him and straightened an empty bowl in the center of the table. It didn’t look like much, shallow and carved with waves along the rim, but the caster needed such tools to continue his work.
“Eh-hem.” The guard’s voice was muffled by his drawn-down helmet. “Inspect.” One hand pointed out toward Christoph. Most wouldn’t know a spell such as this had been cast on them; that is, most of the population had no real concept of magic. Christoph, however, felt a momentary breeze escape his forehead. It was as if his mind had exhaled softly. After this spell had been cast, the guard moved his hand toward the bowl. “Projection – Screen,” and with that came the light of a hovering orb. Words were scribbled out in the floating, blue light that rose above the bowl.
“No levels at all.” The man in stained armor stretched out one hand and tapped at one corner. The image moved upward or to the side, depending on where he touched, to reveal expanded explanations on the boy. “Experienced in farming and very little fishing. No considerable status on any useful attribute.”
“Sir,” the guard quietly broke the monologue.
“Yes, yes. Let me take a…” His voice trailed off and the caster moved the screen to the topic. Both the Chief and Christoph gawked at the image with no hope of understanding what the images meant. “Hm.” Sir Nodure inhaled deeply and puffed out his cheeks a bit; frustration mingled with disbelief. Our poor boy, sadly, couldn’t distinguish these expressions. He waited patiently to be told the news which fell from a twisted smile. “You have no experience worth anything in a battle.
“You’ll be on the front lines.”