Just over 1000 years ago, there were six kingdoms, not five. Five of them were the same as the ones present today – Stalia, Morrock, Enlux, Xin and Binod. If this sixth kingdom had a name, it has been lost to time. However, I have been able to ascertain that the location of this historical kingdom was where the forest of befuddlement is today; at the time it was just a normal forest.
This was a kingdom of satyrs. According to the few surviving documents regarding it, they were even more in tune with nature than the elves, and much less inclined to violence. At some point, Stalia declared war on them, intent on obtaining the rare magical herbs that grew within the depths of the forest.
But when their armies entered… well, they never came out. The forest slowly assumed the form it has today, and neither hide nor hair of the satyrs were spotted from that day forth. They faded into legend…
-An unknown scholar
We gather our things and leave the clearing, venturing once more into the depths of the forest. As we walk, I can’t help but think about the things Glade said. So little of it makes sense, and yet his actions prove that they aren’t just the ramblings of a madman.
I find myself mulling over them, trying to derive some meaning from them. To no success.
We wander aimlessly through the forest, without anything capable of guiding our path or even a destination. Our supplies of water are fine for now, but we have barely any food remaining. What had he said about food? ‘ask nicely’, was it? But who?
Not him, he said. But who else is there? Apart from him, we haven’t seen anyone in this forest. Just a few monsters, trees, trees and more trees…
Honestly, at this point I’m thinking of just asking the trees. May as well try.
So that I don’t seem like a madman, I decide to hear the other’s opinions first. “I tried to ask Glade – that is, the satyr – how to find food in this place.”
“Tried?” Xiltroth notes. “Nothing useful came of it, then?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” I say, before explaining, “He was a bit cryptic. He just said to ask nicely but seemed to indicate that he didn’t mean ask him. As far as I know, the only living things here apart from us and him are the monsters and the trees.”
“Ask the trees for food?” Scoffs Boaz irritably. “What are they going to do, suddenly sprout fruit? And it’s not like the monsters will serve themselves up on a silver platter. May’s well ask the ground to sprout us some vegetables!”
“I don’t know.” I admit. “But it’s not like it’ll hurt to ask.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Boaz waves a hand. “But colour me surprised if anything happens, anything at all.”
Well, we’ll see. I pick a random tree and walk up to it. “Excuse me, could we please have some food?” I say to it.
The tree does not reply.
“See? Grunts Boaz.
“It was worth a try.” I sigh, and we start travelling again.
Not a minute later, we come across a dozen apples resting lightly in the grass. “Seems like it worked after all.” I remark, picking one up and biting into it. Its sourness is extremely refreshing.
Boaz huffs, picking up another and taking a large bite out of it. “It’th just a coincidence.” He says stubbornly as he chews.
An apple falls from the canopy, landing squarely on Boaz’s head. “Eh?” He says involuntarily, completely unhurt from the falling piece of fruit but confused nonetheless.
“A coincidence. Yep.” I say dryly.
But he firmly stands his ground. “Just a coincidence!” He takes another large bite of apple.
I look up, but nothing falls this time. Shrugging, I toss my core and pick up another apple. Stopping momentarily, I turn to the tree next to me. “Thanks for the food.”
Boaz humphs incredulously but says nothing.
Days pass as we wander through the forest. Every time we feel hungry, we ask for food and something always shows up soon after, eventually leaving even the stubborn Boaz with no choice but to believe.
Thankfully, every time we find something different. I like apples, but subsisting only on them… would get tiresome. Sometimes it’s fruit, sometimes berries, other times we find the leafy heads of vegetables sticking out of the grass… pretty much anything except meat.
Water’s the same deal: ask for some, and we soon find ourselves back at the stream. It makes me wander, just how often must we be going in circles, if we keep ending up at the stream? After all, it’s not like the stream can move… can it?
We also come across monsters every now and again, and they seem to be divided into two groups: most of the monsters we come across ignore us or run away, and the rest attack us on sight. Fortunately, we haven’t had any more incidents with snakes, so we haven’t had to worry about poison since then.
Glade hasn’t show up since then either, although we do occasionally hear his music filtering through the forest.
I hesitantly did some earth magic the night before with no adverse reaction, so I’ve been experimenting with that to try and replicate what I’d seen – without the music, of course – but with no success.
Without any hints or ideas to expand from, I’m clueless. It’s like I’m a caveman who’s just seen cooked meat for the first time: I know it’s meat, but I have no idea how it got from raw to cooked.
“Just a thought, but if we can ask fer food and water, do yeh think we could ask to leave the forest?” Muses Boaz.
My train of thought immediately derails entirely. “Ah. Um, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe. We can try.”
“Genius!” Jakin exclaims. “I always said that Boaz got all the brains.”
All of a sudden, everyone’s all smiles.
“Alright, go ahead.” I say. “You do the honours.”
“Got it…” He faces a tree. “Can we leave the forest? Please?” He adds. After a moment, he turns around again. “What now?”
“We walk, I suppose.”
So, we start walking again. After a few minutes without any discernible changes in the environment, Jakin breaks the silence. “Don’t worry about it Boaz, we’ll find a way out eventually.”
“Why do you want to leave, anyway?” A voice comes from behind us, and I turn around to see a pair of hairy legs waving in the air. I look down and break into a sweat.
Glade is balancing on two fingers, moving one in front of the other to move towards us, the digits sinking slightly into the earth as he moves. Just how strong is this guy?
“It’s such a great place.” He continues carefreely, not even breathing hard.
“Because we want to eat meat!” Jakin says longingly.
Glade tilts his head. “Meat tastes bad?” He half states, half asks.
“Not if you cook it right. Then it be… delicious…” Jakin wipes away a spot of drool from his mouth.
Glade’s head tilts farther, and he looks dangerously close to toppling. “Cook?”
Jakin raises an eyebrow. “Over a fire. Don’t you know fire?”
“Ah.” Glade nods. “No fire allowed in the forest.”
“Why not?” Jakin asks curiously.
Glade shrugs, the motion moving the entirety of his body due to the position he’s in. “They don’t like it.”
Jakin’s eyebrows narrow. “Who?”
Glade waves an arm, causing him to wobble precariously. “Them.” He says, as if that explains everything.
“Right…”
“So, can we leave?” I ask.
“Yep.” Glade shrugs again.
“So we just… keep walking?”
“Yep.”
“Hm. Why are you upside-down?”
He smiles up at us. “Why not?” He walks away on two fingers, legs waving in the air.
“Huh. Well, I suppose we keep walking.” I shrug.
We resume walking. After a while, the trees start to thin, and we begin to walk faster.
Finally, we burst out into the open, Jakin joyously yelling out, “FREEDOM!”
The regiment of demon troops standing in front of us unanimously look towards us in surprise, which quickly turns to wariness as they take in our motley races.
“Back into the forest?” I suggest.
““Back into the forest…”” The others sigh, and we turn and plunge back into the depths.
“So then, we can now be certain?” Sighs King Allen, looking to the retainer before him and hoping against hope that he would be contradicted.
“Without a shadow of a doubt, sire.” Affirms the retainer grimly.
King Allen grimaces. “But why? They of all people should be advocating peace, so why did they go and start a war?” His grip on the arm of his throne is uncharacteristically tight, the only outwards indication of his inner turmoil.
The retainer wrings his hands nervously. “I’m afraid we don’t know, sire.”
Nodding, King Allen waves a hand. “You may go.”
Bowing, the retainer quickly retreats from the room. The importance of the information he had brought, as well as its sensitive nature had prompted the King to dismiss all others from the room prior to the meeting, so he is now alone.
Confirming this fact, King Allen brackets his face with his hand in great distress. “And the worst part is that we can’t do anything about it.” He groans tiredly. “A war, a war between all the kingdoms, and for what? Why!?” He shouts in frustration.
“A period of peace that might have resulted in racial tensions disappearing for good, tens of thousands of lives in casualties – and that isn’t even counting all the families left afraid and alone without any support. The way it’s going, it will only escalate further! Conscription will become necessary within a matter of years, and then what!? Poverty, famine and disease, not to mention an economic decline that will take who knows how many decades to recover from!”
His tirade stops as suddenly as it started. “Perhaps the heroes could do something…” He muses. “Few know of their connection to us, after all. But then again, what could they do? Even heroes can’t fight the whole world…”
A streak of lightning sparks between four soldiers, who fall limp to the ground with soft wisps of smoke curling up from their armour. From behind the eye slits in their helmets, Greg can see their lifeless eyes staring at him.
Those eyes again. Clearing the image from his mind and choking down a mouthful of vomit, he flips a few pages in his grimoire and a swathe of ice spreads across the ground in front of him, tripping dozens of enemy soldiers who are unable to deal with the sudden loss of friction.
His allies descend upon the downed foes like a pack of wolves, stabbing and slashing through armour with brutal efficiency. Greg looks away.
Twang!
Hearing the crossbow firing, Greg’s head whips around and his free arm shoots up.
The demon soldier who fired the bolt pales visibly and turns to run as Greg flings the intercepted projectile back at him. It goes wide by a meter and thuds into the dirt, but the soldier doesn’t notice and keeps running.
Shaking his head, Greg ignores the man. He looks around with a sense of detached disbelief as men and woman who he has known for years – some of them very kind, very sweet people – wield cold steel against other people.
Explosions rock his surroundings and swarms of crossbow bolts hiss past. Hardening his heart, Greg hurls himself back into the fray.
Some time later night begins to fall, and both armies order a retreat. Keeping wary of surprise attacks, the group of heroes retreats along with the rest, the two holy magic specialists within the group treating what few wounds they had taken as they walk.
Feeling a sudden wetness in his hair, Greg looks up. Dark clouds hang overhead, threatening to release their payload upon the battlefield. Greg winces at the thought of fighting on mud. With enhanced speed, a single misstep could easily send one skidding into an enemy spear.
For whatever reason, Greg looks back. He takes in the hundreds of corpses littering the battlefield, and the blood that gilds the grass and trickles through the dirt. He grimaces and turns away, hardening his heart.
Carrying nothing and wearing only simple clothing, Greg sits on a log in the darkness and frigid rain, thinking.
A child who can’t be older than nine walks hesitantly up to him, looking like he’s on the verge of crying. “Sir, do – do you know where my dad is?” He asks.
Greg regards the boy before him with some surprise. After a moment, he replies, “What’s his name?”
“Alex.” The boy says quickly, then adds, “Smith. Alex Smith.”
Shaking his head, Greg says, “Sorry, I don’t know him.”
Almost immediately the child’s face screws up with worry, but he manages to get out, “Thanks anyway…” He starts to walk away, but Greg quickly shoots to his feet.
“Woah there, you aren’t going to go wandering around in the rain like this, are you? You’ll freeze!” Greg says with concern.
Shivering, the child says frantically, “But I need to find my dad!”
Thinking quickly, Greg says, “Your dad would hardly be happy if he found you sopping wet and shivering yourself half to death, would he?” The boy looks unsure, so Greg says, “Look, I’ll get you warm and dry, and then you can go look for your dad again.”
The boy nods hesitantly, and Greg gets him to sit down on the log while he starts scrawling in the dirt with a stick.
“W-what are you doing, sir?” The boy asks.
“A magic formation. Haven’t done it like this before, but it should work.” Says Greg without looking up. “First we need some shelter from the rain, then I can get a fire going.”
“Magic? Are y-you a magus?” The boy asks, hugging himself for warmth.”
“Something like that, yes.” Greg replies, then mutters to himself under his breath.
“Do you think I could be a magus?” The boy asks.
“What? Oh. I don’t know, maybe. You’d have to get your aptitude tested to see if you’re magically gifted.” Greg says distractedly.
“How d-do I do that?” The boy asks curiously.
“Uh… for me there was this plate that just took my mana and showed my aptitude, but I don’t know where you’d find one.” Greg says, then puts some mana into his makeshift formation. A large earthen umbrella quickly springs up from it, protecting them both from the rain.
“WOAH!” The boy cries in amazement.
“Huh, that worked surprisingly well for a first try. Terrible mana efficiency though, no wonder nobody does this.” Mutters Greg, sitting on the log and setting a large ball of fire on the ground, where it hisses and crackles as it reacts to the water there.
“Woah… that’s so cool.” Says the boy, momentarily forgetting his worry as he stretches his hands out over the fire.
Greg sighs. “Depends what it’s used for.”
The boy tilts his head at the comment, not quite understanding what he means.
“It’s nothing.” Greg waves off the unspoken question. “So, what are you doing out on the battlefront? You’re a bit short for a soldier.”
The boy goes silent. “My Ma got sick a couple years back. They couldn’t figure out what she had, and she died soon after.” He says finally. “We don’t have any other relatives. When the war started, and dad got orders to come out here, there wasn’t anyone who could look after me. So he brought me with him instead.”
“Must be hard on you.” Greg sighs.
“Not really.” Says the boy sadly. “It’s harder on dad.”
The two lapse into silence, The boy rubbing his hands together over the fire in an effort to warm himself faster while Greg leans backwards, uncaring that his forehead is outside of the umbrella’s reach and soon becomes doused with fresh torrents of rainwater.
Sniffling, the boy wipes his nose on a still damp sleeve. “What,” he pauses for a moment before continuing with a trembling voice, “what do I do if dad doesn’t come back?”
Greg sighs to himself and thinks. “A place like this, it always has people coming and going, ferrying supplies. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to hitch a ride with one of them, get yourself back to town.” He muses before continuing, “After that, you’ll need a way to get food, money and shelter. Maybe you could work for a farmer in exchange for food and board?”
“Maybe…” The boy repeats half-heartedly. They lapse into silence again.
After a while, the boy stands up to leave.
“Hey, kid.” Greg calls out quietly. “If you don’t find your father, come back here. I have a spare cloak you could use.”
The boy turns and bows in thanks before running into the rain again, navigating through the tents with the help of the occasional lamp lighting the way.
Greg stretches out a foot, scraping a furrow through the makeshift formation in the dirt. The earthen umbrella begins to fragment and crumbles into nothingness within seconds, the fire winking out at the same time.
“Hero…” Greg laughs spitefully at himself in the dark and damp. “Even the kids in this world have gone through more hardships than I have. What qualifications do I have to be called hero instead of them?”
About an hour later, the boy walks back through the rain with slouched shoulders. Greg leads the boy to his tent, ducks inside and comes out with a cloak. “It may be a bit big, but-“
The boy throws his arms around Greg, crying into his already sodden tunic. Greg pats him softly on the back. “Hey, hey.” He says soothingly. “I know. I know. You’ll have to be strong from now on, and smart. And careful, very careful.”
Nodding into Greg’s tunic, the boy continues to cry profusely, and Greg pats him comfortingly as they are both drenched in the rain.
Eventually, he calms down and takes the cloak.
“Do you have a place to sleep for the night?” Asks Greg. “It’s probably best if you don’t leave until morning.”
The boy nods numbly. “My dad’s tent’s still there…”
“Alright. Good luck, kid.” Says Greg, lifting the entrance flaps of his tent to one side.
“Thank you, sir.” The boy says earnestly as Greg disappears into his tent.
As the boy moves away again, Greg sits on the ground and contemplates. “War… what is it good for?” He mutters sullenly.
For hours he sits there thinking until he finally comes to a conclusion and reluctantly admits, “Absolutely nothing. Phil was right, why are we getting involved in this at all?”
Torn with grief, frustration and indecision, Greg weeps.
The next morning, the boy wakes up and looks around with just the faintest hint of hope. Tears well in his eyes when he sees that he is still alone, but he quickly wipes them away. Pulling the voluminous cloak tighter around his body, he is about to leave the tent when he notices the cloak feeling heavier than it should down the front.
Running his hands down the fabric of the cloak, he quickly finds a large bulge. There is no give in the area that might indicate a pocket, so he checks the inside of the cloak, and indeed there are a few pockets there he hadn’t noticed last night. This particular one, he finds to his astonishment, contains a pouch heavily laden with coins. Most of them are coppers, but he spots the unmistakeable glint of silver once or twice, as well.
‘He must have forgotten to take out his coin pouch when he gave the cloak to me!’ Is the boy’s immediate thought, followed swiftly by, ‘I need to return it before I leave!’
The boy hurriedly tucks the pouch away again and leaves the tent, trotting through the camp and out of it until he finds that same log, now empty. ‘Of course, he must be in his tent.’ The boy thinks, so he walks over to the tent and knocks on one of the tent poles.
There isn’t any reply, and he doesn’t hear anything from inside, so he tentatively peeks in-between the entrance flaps.
“What’re you doing here, kid?”
The voice that suddenly comes from behind him causes the boy to jump in shock, but he is somewhat reassured when he turns around and sees that the person who spoke looks more curious than angry.
“I’m looking for the person who sleeps in this tent. Do you know where he is?” Asks the boy, trying to sound more confidant than he feels.
“Greg?” The man groans. “He left about an hour ago.”
The boy’s eyes widen in shock. “Another battle, so soon!?”
“No, it’ll probably be a little while yet before the next one. He’s gone, as in, gone.” The man shrugs. “Left the battlefront entirely. Who knows where he is now.”
“Thanks anyway…” The boy walks away, feeling conflicted. The money isn’t his, and yet there’s no way to get it back to it’s original owner. It feels like he shouldn’t use it, but he knows he might very well need to…
A man hikes up a hill, moving smoothly and quickly upwards despite the lack of a proper path. Reaching the crest, the man looks over at the distant plain that had hosted yesterday’s battle with a mixture of sadness and relief as the early morning sun peeks through the clouds, sending down streams of light that illuminate the damp lands below.
After a minute, the man looks away, and with a hint of anticipation sets off towards the east. Sword on one hip, grimoire safely secured within its pouch on the other, garbed only in simple travelling clothes and carrying a pack containing only a few essentials, Greg sets off towards elven lands.
