A Tale of Myth

The Age of Myth
Grulda didn’t know who this stranger was or why the raiders were trying to kill him.

To be honest, Grulda didn’t care. The Stranger had stepped through a gate in her wall. The Wall marked the border between the wilds and Grulda’s home. A home she had fought for her entire adult life.

The home had become Grulda’s when she had slain the Thunderwolf, a dread creature whose howls could shatter bones and whose fangs could pierce armor. Its hide now served to keep the rain off her shoulders on nights like this one. The raiders emerged from the trees, weapons in their hands and threats on their tongues. When Grulda stepped out into the driving rain to meet them, they demanded she hand the old man over to them.

Grulda didn’t need to look back. She knew what she would see—her people, staring out from the long hall she had raised. Sharp Eyed Ketal would be at the wall now, effortlessly perched on the palisade, scanning the raiders for signs of a hidden threat.

This home had become Ketal’s when the Dragon attacked it. Before it died, the Thunderwolf’s lair had sat in a rich and bountiful valley. The Thunderwolf’s crushing jaws and tree-felling howl had driven away its rivals, and when she killed the beast, Grulda had taken its place as the most dangerous thing here. First, her family settled here, felling the trees, raising the walls, and building the hall at her command. Others joined them, seeking the bounties of the valley and the safety of Grulda’s strength. The people prospered, but such prosperity attracts danger.

Ketal had come as a thief, hoping to steal the arrows Grulda had crafted from the Thunderwolf’s teeth. He had almost escaped when the Dragon attacked, flying over Grulda’s wall and tearing through the roof of the hall, scorching the flesh off a dozen men’s bones. Had the thief not had a change of heart, forgoing escape to turn the stolen arrows against the dragon, Grulda’s home would have surely fallen. And so, after Grulda had broken her sword off in the Dragon’s neck, after the beast’s thrashing ceased and its heart stopped, Ketal the Sharp-Eyed had joined this home, no longer a thief in the night but as Grulda’s trusted friend.

Grulda’s claim to this home had been challenged many times since that day. Tonight barely counted.

Grulda stared down the obvious leader, a big man with an iron breastplate and a helmet crafted from a dragon’s skull. The raider didn’t bother to introduce himself, clearly feeling the trophy he wore was sufficient proof of his strength.

Adorable, Grulda thought to herself. After breaking her sword slaying her dragon, she had been pleased to find the beast’s jawbone large enough to carve into a replacement. This man wore an entire skull as a helmet. Adorable.

Grulda charged, and the blood roared hot in her ears. Three raiders closed around her like a pack of wolves. She lunged at two of them and felled one, showing the third her back. He took the bait and snagged his blade in the Thunderwolf’s impenetrable hide, giving Ketal the deadly moment he needed to plant an arrow in the raider’s back.

The others kept fighting, a little more cautious but less so than she expected. They were skilled enough to not be fools. Why did they not flee? What was she missing?

Sparks. A glimmer in the shadows at the treeline. A figure, hands empty. Dancing, weaving their hands in intricate patterns. The hairs stood up on Grulda’s back. The big chief shouted, and suddenly the raiders swarming Grulda scattered.

The figure glowed, sparks pouring from their eyes, their whole body crackling with strange light, their arm stretched forwards. Grulda caught herself staring at the impossibility, not knowing—

“GRULDA, TAKE COVER!” It was the old man whom these raiders seemingly pursued. Grulda did not take orders, but she dove behind a stump just as lightning blasted through the air.

Her mind raced. Grulda did not know how a man could hurl lightning like a spear, but she knew what she needed to do. This was an enemy with a dangerous weapon. She would simply slay them before they could use it again. She charged like a bull through the driving rain. Launching herself off a great log, she wound up an overhead strike and took the aberration on the shoulder. Whatever they were, her greatsword cleaved through only ordinary flesh and bone. A few pitiful sparks sputtered out of their hand as they died.

Behind her, the raider chief began to rally his men, only for his cry to become a gurgling scream as Ketal’s arrows planted themselves in his neck. The rest broke and fled. Grulda did not bother pursuing them. The Wilds would see to them, and those that survived its grim embrace would never return to this valley.

Grulda stared at the steaming corpse of the lightning caller. Footsteps splashed in the mud behind her: Ketal and the old man.

“Stranger, what did I just kill?”

“A sorcerer. A man like any other, although one gifted in unique ways. As you have your strength, and Ketel his eyes, some are born, or acquire, an invisible power, one that lets them grab hold of reality itself and shape it to their will. We can all do things others cannot. This unfortunate fellow simply had a more…unusual skillset than most. I’m sure it served him quite well until this night”

Grulda felt herself settled by these words. She had slain beasts with strange powers and men with deadly skill. This “Sorcerer” was no different.

—

In the shelter of the great hall, Grulda’s clanfolk had stoked the fire to a blaze and were preparing a feast worthy of tonight’s victory.

“I must thank you,” said the old stranger, warming his bones at the hearth. “You defended me despite knowing nothing about me.”

“I did not need to know who you were. You crossed my gate, and therefore you were mine to protect or slay. These men challenged my right. That is all I needed to know.”

“Perhaps that is true”, said the stranger, “Or perhaps there is much you would like to know. Tell me, Grulda the Dragonslayer, what do you know of the god Hione?”

“I need nothing from any god, much less one of storytellers and quill-scratchers. What could a god offer one such as I?”

“Perhaps nothing, but perhaps more than you can imagine. My name is Arcos, and I am a Prophet of Hione. I know many things, and I believe many things more than I know. I believe that one day, the world will face a grave threat, one that the gods themselves fear. A threat that can only be faced by great heroes. I believe that you, Grulda the Unbroken, may be such a hero.”

“Well, Arcos the Prophet, when such a battle comes, you know where to find me. I may not need your gods, but anything that scares them is likely to be a better fight than the rabble back there. ”

Arcos sighed. “Would that it were so simple. The day may not come for many years, or even centuries. It is my duty to prepare, not to know.”
Grulda accepted a drinking horn from a passing servant. “Well, then why are we talking? I may be the hero you seek today, but time and the grave will take me well before this battle you promise.”

At this, Arcos grinned. “Funny you should mention that, Grulda Wolfscloak. I believe the time has come to talk about the things I do know. Has this hall yet heard the tale of the Sleepers?”