The Story of Grehadel

By: Hugo Reed

Part I: A Hero is Born

Chapter I:

There is a land, far from the ground upon which we stand. This land was once high above the sea, and shone with the light of it’s own brilliance. However, it has long since been forced to the bottom of the ocean as the continents drifted apart.

There is a tale, older then the time of all history, which has been passed down from generation to generation. However, years have slowly weeded it out, or passed it into legend. However, this tale is no legend, it is as true as the day and night altogether. Consider yourself lucky, for the chance that you shall ever hear this tale told to you again is nigh but impossible.

However, if you were to travel to this land long sunk beneath the surface world, you would easily find a certain grave and respective tombstone. This tombstone and grave are perfectly standing, just as they did on the day they were made, when the land still rode above the waves. The tombstone reads as follows thus:

Here Lies Grehadel Yecha

Hero and Magician

Protector of all Porite and her people.

May Heaven and Hell Curse Thee that Should Disturb this Ground.

This is the tale of how Grehadel Yecha lived, and of how he died.

All was still in the land of Porite. Not even the leaves upon the great oak trees were stirring. The wind had either been quieted or was busy elsewhere that night. In the darkness between the great stone and wood houses, two shadows were flitting here and there. Each time one of them would cross the street, the dirt road would fly up around their feet.

An oil lantern caught the gleaming reflection of a small dagger in the younger boy’s hand. This boy was named Xilic Hirageta. He was blonde with green eyes, scrawny, fourteen, and Grehadel’s best friend. Grehadel was a little behind Xilic, who had quite another stature in body form. Whereas Xilic was scrawny, Grehadel was wide in the shoulders and had large legs. He was fifteen and slim, but far more built in his muscles then Xilic was. He had brown hair streaked with jet black, and he had piercing blue eyes. He held a strung bow in his left hand and a quiver on his back, holding his best arrows.

Both boys were dressed in dark outfits and black cloaks. They were making their way to the armory and had yet to be spotted. Xilic suddenly halted and held up a hand for Grehadel to do the same. Grehadel skidded to a stop and peered around the corner that had halted Xilic, who was picking up the weapons the boys had left there earlier to steal.

Three fully-armored men soldiers were waiting for trouble, pacing at the far end of the ally. Grehadel slowly drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked the arrow with a fluid, practiced movement. Xilic tightened his grip upon the little dagger and Grehadel fired at a dust-bin in an opposing street. The arrow hit and bounced off of the bin and created such a racket that all three came running at the sound. For a while, Grehadel and Xilic stood back to watch. Then, Grehadel nodded to his friend and they both ran off, quickly as they could while remaining quiet. They ran through the gates and Grehadel was forced to backpedal into Xilic.

A moment later Xilic knew why. Each and every soldier in the city kept two terrible dogs. Such beasts were bred for one purpose, and one purpose alone: to kill. The dogs were all awake and yelping or barking at the young adventurers. The soldiers instantly whipped around and came sprinting at the two boys.

“Run!” yelled Xilic, and run they did.

Grehadel dove to the right squeezing through narrow pathways where the walls were sometimes only a foot apart. He knew the alleyways and all their secrets by heart. Even on his first exploration, he’d found no dead ends. It was as though he had a sixth sense warning him of which way he needed to go.

There was a full moon shining high in the sky, and the dim lighting was just enough for Grehadel to see by. He made his steady way with Xilic to his house, trying to loose the soldiers. Nevertheless he could hear their stomping boots all the way along their retreat. Grehadel eventually saw his home and pushed Xilic inward. Once they were in the front door they had only a moment to decide where to go.

“Quick! This way!” hissed Grehadel, pulling his friend to the right.

“Grehadel?” said a timid voice. “Is that not you?”

A woman with pale skin, a slender figure and long, black hair came carefully down the stairs. She was Grehadel’s mother, Elizabeth. Then the door burst open and another figure walked out of the room that Grehadel had been trying to hide in. Grehadel’s father came out of the large doorway. He was a very large man with a thick beard, and messy hair upon his head. He was built like Grehadel, wide in the shoulders, though he was much fatter then his son.

Then Grehadel remembered the door had opened and turned. His blue eyes were reflected in the gleam of the swords being carried in by the pale moonlight. He was worried, not of the blades, but of the demons that surely wielded them.

“Hello,” said Grehadel’s father, Julian, in a dangerously quiet voice. “And how do you want me to try and kill you tonight for disobeying me?”

His father was drunk, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so soft and gentle sounding.

“Sir,” said soldier. “Your boy just robbed the armory of two bows, thirty arrows and two blades, then forced this lad to help him. Under the law of Porite I am forced to arrest him, charge you the fine of two hundred gold, and jail him for the term of one year.”

Grehadel couldn’t believe his ears until the man took the weapons he had stolen away from him. The man turned Grehadel around and tightened the metal shackles around his wrists. He turned around as quick as he could, and glared with hate at Julian. The man’s face was red, and he was unsteady.

“I hope you burn for eternity in the pits of hell, you bastard!” said Grehadel.

“Likewise, blue-eyes.”

Then the soldier smashed the hilt of his blade into Grehadel’s gut and the sheer pain caused the boy to double over. Then he could feel the chain being attached to the shackles and fought with as much grace as he could against the pain of being dragged up the streets. He cried out for justice for the poor. The problem was, condemned men, or thieves were lower in class then that of a dead animal.

Grehadel moaned, and pressed his hands hard upon his face. The soldiers looked back and hit him in the shins with their staffs to make sure he kept moving; he obeyed.

His life was utterly spent, worthless now. He had always intended to go and do any old job he could, just get through his life, and maybe have a family. Now though, what was he to do? He was worse off then the trash in the streets; he’d surely messed things up this time.

“Hope you’re ready for a yeara hell, boy!”

“You should consider yourself lucky,” said another guard. “Most that go in never come out, but you’re still just a youngling, if only just.”

Grehadel made no response, content to die at that moment. He no longer cared what happened to him. If his life was destined to be hell, wouldn’t death be a blessing? He shrugged it off. He had no reason, and no motive, but he decided that death was not yet for him. He was roughly lead into the dark, damp cellar of a place that was Porite’s main prison. Grehadel was then released and thrown into a coffin-like bed. Indeed he was actually incased within a small box with holes to breathe through. Over the night Grehadel found no sleep, for his nightmare kept him wide awake.

He kept thinking about people tearing open his flesh and muscle and bone. He always felt that he would suffer from the cruel whips of soldiers, or the knife of some killer within the place. So, he wept. Quietly, softly, tears leaked from his eyes until the sound of marching came to his ears. He was quickly freed, which allowed him about two seconds of enjoyment, before he was shoved into a place in line and made to march. Throughout the morning he grew to hate the sound of marching and all that accompanies it. He looked forward in a grim uncertainty.

By the time the sun was properly in the sky, Grehadel was glad to finally be aloud to go back inside for something to eat. He kept touching his sun burnt neck and face. Then someone came up behind him. The man smelled of vomit, and was covered in dried blood. He grabbed a knife off of a table and pointed it at Grehadel’s neck.

“What the—“

“Fresh meat,” said the man, interrupting Grehadel. “I think I’ll take care of your… acceptance into this place.”

Grehadel slammed his lids shut, and was suddenly put through excruciating pain. He could feel the cruel metal as it pierced his skin, just above the eye. The line of steel ran from his right temple, to his neck, to his right shoulder, then across his back to the left hip. He felt the blood drain out of him as he fainted, sure that he was to die. Then, all that was visible was the blackness.

Grehadel awoke several hours later in a daze. Everything was a blur and his head ached with the pain of a thousand red-hot arrows being shoved through his body. He looked around as best he could, but was unable to see anything clearly. Then he heard a voice. It was deep, oily and smooth, like a snake whispering lies.

“Lay still boy! You’ll damage that back of yours even more! Just go back to sleep, you’ll be able to move again in the morning.”

Grehadel was unsure why, but he obeyed. He slowly passed out upon something as cold as ice. The next time he awoke, it was because he was, again, being forced out of his coffin. He reached around his body. A thick bandage spread from his right temple along the injury to his left hip. He got up and slapped his legs to get the blood flowing through them. Then he felt the pain in his right eye as he tried to open it. It hurt like the burning pain of hell. He looked with his left eye at a guard.

“Get in line, scum!”

So Grehadel jogged on, knowing that his right eye would never work properly again. He didn’t know what they were doing, but he knew that suddenly, something was wrong. The villains were lining up, and being handed long knives. Grehadel tapped the point of his dagger against his palm, and it bled. Then he got a look at what the people were lining up for.

It was a battle area. Groups of ten ran in striking, struggling and killing. Grehadel was intelligent and knew just why they were doing this; it was to control the number of full coffins. To control the space that was open, kill half the people. It made perfect sense.

A villain walked out of the pit, alone. Then Grehadel was shoved in and everyone around him yelled.

“Get him!”

“Fresh meat!”

Grehadel got down in the position he knew from soldiers whom had hurt him for stealing bread. Then the nine other men broke off, and two went for him. Grehadel reached out, striking with a hard arm. He was too new to the battle to actually pose a treat to the one on the right, but the one on the left was as new as he and fell to his blade. Grehadel felt no pain or discomfort from his kill. He rolled to his right and held the blade in front of him, and spoke in a proud voice to the next foe.

“Come and get me!”