A New Name, An Old Grudge

The Stranger made his way through Fiskrtre, unimpressed with every new sight he saw. The town was nothing but crumbling ruins filled with destruction and the stench of the long dead. The travellers he had met on the road had told him as much, in between staring at him with unease. They also claimed a small group had set up in the town to work on rebuilding and preparing it for new settlers. As the Stranger walked, he saw more and more destruction and began to think an army would be required to repair this much damage—not a small group.

As the man neared the centre of the town, having come from the southern entrance, he saw what appeared to be a cleared pathway leading towards the harbour. The path connected at the centre of the town, where the crumbling remains of a large manor resided. As he watched, he slowly made out figures crawling their way through the debris, carrying tools and guiding horses and carts filled with rubble. The appearance of the creatures made him clutch the small dagger he had been given, almost retrieving his friend’s weapon from his bag. The creatures, however, seemingly cared little for him as they continued their work, not even glancing in his direction.

The creatures were roughly two feet tall, hunched over and crawling like rats, only standing on their back legs to complete whatever task they required before returning to all fours. They had long, muscular tails, which many were using to hold tools and equipment; some even hung like monkeys with them. Their hands had four claws that appeared razor-sharp, allowing them to climb walls and surfaces to complete their tasks. Their bodies were covered in black fur, leaving only the underside of their bodies and their narrow faces bare. Their eyes were beady and pure black, more useful in caves than under the sun. They had mouths shaped like long beaks, curved downwards, with small holes near the tips.

The Stranger continued to watch, impressed by how productive and efficient they were as they moved as though of one mind, passing tools and equipment while holding objects for one another without needing to ask. Finally, one of the creatures sniffed the air through the tiny holes at the top of its beak, turning in his direction. The creature let out a squawk, bringing hundreds of beady eyes to stare at him. Most moved to clutch their tools like weapons, clearly terrified.

The Stranger and the creatures stared at one another for what felt like an eternity, as though they might turn invisible if they did not move. Both sides waited for the other to act. The stalemate ended only when one of the creatures, robed in black and clutching a staff made of solid bone, crawled into the clearing, seemingly upset. It squawked in their direction, causing the creatures to resume their tasks as though the man were no longer there. The newcomer then set its eyes upon the Stranger before crawling over and tilting its head like a confused dog.

“If you are here to fight, then we submit. We will agree to whatever terms you demand,” the creature said, its voice accompanied by a birdlike squawk. However, the words were pronounced with the confidence of a fluent speaker. The Stranger relaxed, seeing that these creatures posed no threat, though he kept his blade at hand in case this was a ruse. He lowered the hood of his worn, beaten cloak, revealing his deeply scarred face.

“I am not here to fight, merely a man far from home. I am simply looking for food and a place to rest my head,” the Stranger replied, offering a half-truth, still confused about what these strange creatures were. He had seen countless beings during the war, but none like this.

“I wish I could help, but we have very little to offer, especially for a human’s palate,” it replied with a chuckle that sounded more like a whistle. “You are a human, one from western Eden, correct? I have worked with your kind before in the mines back home. You’re a hard-working lot. Come with me. I shall share what we have. In return, I only ask for your story—it must be a good one for you to be so far from home.”

The creature did not wait for a reply, crawling away. The Stranger considered it might be a trap, yet decided to follow, confident he could fight off any assault. As they continued through the city, more and more of the small creatures appeared, swarming throughout the town, taking no notice of him. Finally, they reached an entrance to a small sewage system running underneath what was once the wealthy part of town. Descending underground put the Stranger on edge, but he was fascinated by how they had tried to make it homely. They had cleaned as much as they could, placing small candles and collected items (no doubt salvaged from the rubble) as decoration. They entered a room off the main pipe, finding it oddly spacious. It had been turned into a communal area with a small fire pit, the smoke floating up through a grate in the ceiling. Chairs and tables were made from debris and common household items. The Stranger even noticed a noblewoman’s dress being used as a tablecloth, grease dripping onto the silk as the creatures gnawed on small bones.

Eventually, they reached a small cove with a table missing two legs, replaced by rocks, and several chairs made of piles of books. The Stranger sat across from the peculiar being, watching as it squawked across the room to one of its kinsfolk. A female creature tirelessly rushed around, feeding and giving filthy water to those who requested it. The Stranger and his new companion sat in silence at first, the quiet broken when two bent, dirty cups filled with murky water and two small morsels of meat on the bone were placed in front of them. The Stranger decided it was best not to ask where either had come from. Concerned he might offend his host, he began eating the badly cooked meat—but only after the creature took the first bite.

“May I ask, what are you? I mean no insult, but I have not encountered your kind before,” the Stranger asked, in between tearing off what little meat the bone had and sipping the water, attempting to suppress a grimace.

“We are Skal. I must admit, I’m surprised you do not know of us. We are a plentiful race, owned by many in Scarvo,” the creature replied, tearing a piece of meat from its bone with a satisfied hum. “Are you new to our shores?”

“I have been here two weeks,” the Stranger replied shortly, not wanting to reveal he had been here before—the last time, bringing the capital to its knees. Glimpses of razing the Midnight City flooded his mind, unleashing the anger of seventy-two years of suffering as humanity exacted vengeance for their fallen Emperor. His eyes remained on the creature, wondering how it would react if it knew. The Skal nodded solemnly, ceasing its eating as its own thoughts clouded its mind.

“I hope your being here is not part of some invasion?” it asked cautiously, staring up at him. The Stranger wondered what about him suggested he was a soldier. Was it his scarred face, the cold aura he exuded, or perhaps his eyes, which Chris had once claimed were overrun with pure rage? Wanting to ease the creature’s distress, he replied truthfully.

“I was a soldier during the Immortal War. For the last forty-seven years, however, I have been nothing but a prison guard,” he said, attempting a smile to put the creature at ease. The expression felt alien on his face.

“That was a bloody affair. While my race did not take part in the fighting, we were worked to the bone in the mines and factories, producing weapons and equipment for the war. I lost many of my kin to accidents or being worked to death, just to keep up with demand. I lost even more when the counterattack came, and the bombardments tore open the earth, flooding our hive and drowning many who slept beneath.”

He expected anger to appear on his companion’s face, but it remained solemn, stating the facts as though they had happened to another.

“I understand your loss. I lost many good friends, as well as more brothers than I wish to think about,” the Stranger replied, feeling no animosity towards these small creatures. His hatred was reserved for the elves and the other races that had marched in their army. “The way you speak—I take it you’re a slave then?” he asked, curious about the Skal and not wanting to linger on the war.

“I would not say slave. A slave is forced into servitude. My kin would have it no other way. We live to serve; that is our purpose. It is what we were designed and created for. We live to fulfil the desires of others, as that is how my kin survive,” the creature said solemnly. The two settled into silence, devouring both their food and the creature’s disheartening words. “My name is Minion. May I ask your name, Stranger?”

“You can. I can’t give it to you, however, as it was stripped from me, along with my purpose, as punishment,” he replied, staring into the murky water as bitterness filled his mouth.

“What did you do to deserve that kind of punishment?”

“It was several mistakes, fuelled by anger and stubbornness,” he said, thinking back to the second-worst moment of his life: the Old Man stripping him of everything, leaving him to die a man without a purpose or reason to live.

“Nothing leads to bad decisions more than anger,” Minion joked. His face, though beak-like, still gave the impression of a smile. The Stranger twisted his lips into a grin, trying to be civil, before his face returned to its usual solemnity.

“I’m surprised you’re fine joking with a human. Shouldn’t you be blaming me for destroying your lives and my ancestors forcing you out of Eden?” he asked, surprised at how comfortable this creature was in his presence.

“I no more blame you for the actions of your ancestors than I blame the ancestors of the elves we swore ourselves to, for the actions of their descendants. As far as I’m concerned, everyone’s a bastard when you look at them as a collective,” Minion replied with a slight grin before continuing, his tone more sombre. “Besides, how do you think I speak fluent Imperial? You are not the first human I have seen. Back home, I worked with many humans who had been enslaved. I know not all of you are as evil as the elves claim, just as I know not all of them are as evil as your kinsmen claim.”

Both left much unsaid with that statement. The Immortal War had ended only forty-seven years ago, and its echoes still rippled across the world, leaving a sour taste and ingrained hatred in everyone it touched.

“This is ridiculous. I cannot simply call you ‘nothing.’ You need a name. Even I have a name. The question is: what is most fitting for you?” Minion said, sizing him up. The Stranger had light green eyes that flared like torches in the night when his emotions were high. His body was covered in thick white scars from countless battles. His hair was short and brown, cut haphazardly with a blade. His most prominent features were his monstrous size—just under seven feet tall—and his bulging muscles, giving him the appearance of a human giant. “Perhaps Abel, Buel, or Taft? I know you children of the West like four-letter names. Or we could call you something strong, like Thunder or Mountain. You look like a Mountain to me.”

The Stranger raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in amusement. “Nice to know what you think of my appearance. I will agree to be named after my size if you change yours too, Stumpy,” he said, unable to help the grin as they both laughed.

“Fine, I’ve got one! We should call you Max,” Minion said, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “It’s perfect. There’s a tale of a giant human warrior who went by that name. He had your same disposition—a towering monstrosity. He was also a ruthless butcher who stole children, so perhaps it’s not the best.”

“Max. I like it. Simple and strong,” the Stranger said, testing the name on his tongue before deciding it was fitting. He knew the story of Max the Mighty Winterhorn, closest friend and right hand of Liam Ironheart the II, though he had not heard he stole children. Considering they both had failed to die before their beloved ruler, the name seemed fitting.

“Then it is settled,” Minion laughed, raising his cup in a toast, which Max matched. He downed the contents, grimacing as he remembered it was not wine but vile water. “So, tell me, Max, why have you come to Scarvo? You must know how they treat humans here.”

“It’s complicated.” Memories flooded Max’s mind, and his grin disappeared. “When my name was taken, I was told I would never again be allowed to step foot on Eden. Even if I could return, there would be no point. I was trained from childhood to be a warrior. I know nothing else. Now that is gone, and I do not know my purpose anymore. Since the war ended, I have remained at the Three Shields, helping to turn the fortress into a prison. The work ensnared me, both body and soul, until I received a letter.”

“What did it say?” Minion asked, leaning forward like a captivated bard.

“It spoke of a promise made to me long ago—a promise I have craved since the war ended. A warrior’s death, one that will send me home to my brothers.” Minion nodded, wisdom in his eyes. “It also spoke of other things. Of a woman being held captive by a warband near here. The letter pleaded with me to help her, speaking of promises I made to a dying brother in my grief. Since then, I have been fuelled by a desire to uncover who sent this letter. They have much to answer for—and promises to keep.”

The two talked for many hours after that, mostly about simple subjects as well as what Minion and his group were doing there. He claimed an elf named Darius Sorbus, a disgraced prince, had been tasked with clearing the town and repairing the port. Many of the southern cities had been razed during the war, causing the remaining ones to be overrun with refugees. Darius had been sent there as a punishment for offending the King, although Minion did not know the nature of his crime.

Darius had taken spare Skal from his family’s forge after struggling to gather a larger workforce, as most were still repairing the Midnight City to this day. For the past two months, they had been chipping away at the town, clearing as much as they could. Their main task was to ensure easy access to materials by both land and sea and to prepare many of the houses for the new settlers.

The work had been dangerous and costly, with seven of Minion’s kin already killed—not because they were incapable of doing the work but because Darius had provided little food for the expedition. What supplies he had brought were being used exclusively by himself and his guards, who spent their days drinking and relaxing at the south entrance to the town. This oversight had put the Skal dangerously behind their already tight schedule, as the settlers were due to arrive in two weeks. They were forced to provide their own food and water. As a hard-working hive, they all wanted to avoid others being punished, so they worked until exhaustion, leading to accidents and deaths. Max felt anger stir in him at this, though Minion showed no sign of sharing the sentiment.

“So, you must suffer because that pointy is simple-minded? Why do you serve him if he can’t even feed you?” Max asked, using the term ‘pointy,’ a derogatory term humans who hated elves used. Max knew the Skal likely had no choice, but his hatred for the elves fuelled his blood.

“What else can we do? Look at us. We are small, pathetic creatures; most of us barely have the intelligence of a dog. The only reason we have survived this long is because we are hard-working, industrious, and make ourselves useful however we can. We are not warriors. We are not intelligent. We are servants who work to fulfil the Grand Design,” Minion replied, his eyes locking with Max’s.

“That’s some submissive bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. I don’t care if you’re one foot tall instead of three. If you have a knife and stab me in the neck, my size means nothing,” Max retorted. As soon as he said it, he shook his head, fighting back years of pent-up rage, knowing it was not his place to question their race.

“And then what? They would send a warband to hunt us down and destroy us all. Without a master to serve, my race would crumble. Without a leader to guide us, we are nothing. As I said, we are neither smart nor tactical. We were designed by the Gods to be the workforce for a Kingdom—not the front-line troops.”

The two stared at each other in silence, Max mostly out of stubbornness. If the Skal wanted to submit, that was their decision; he just wished they wouldn’t submit to pointy scum. He knew his hatred for the elves was driving his emotions. He also knew rulers and servants were a necessity; he just didn’t want elves to be the ones in power. As the thoughts churned in his mind, something occurred to him.

“Do you find purpose in serving, even if they’re pointy?”

“I do find purpose in it. It makes me happy—working with my hive to complete a great project and accomplish goals as one. It fills me with pride at my accomplishments. What greater purpose is there than working with those you love to create works of art that also help others?” Minion spoke with passion, his words laced with emotions that made Max mourn. His own purpose had once inspired him like that. Now he had nothing driving him forward except anger and an unkept promise.

“So, is this the Grand Design you mentioned? Working together to build something?”

“No. The Grand Design is the purpose each race has been given by the Gods themselves—to unify us in accomplishing whatever goals they require. Instead of being fuelled by gold like your people, we are fuelled by completing our purpose. We all have a job. We must do it, for to fail would weaken the Design.”

“So, you have no freedom? From birth, your race is predestined to be servants? That hardly seems just when the elves are predestined to be at the top,” Max argued, finding the Grand Design to be more worrisome than he had thought. Born into the Legion, Max had been pushed to be a warrior, but even they had the choice to choose another path before taking the oath—though doing so would mean losing their family.

“Is it not better than your way of weakening yourselves through petty infighting and squabbles? Instead of fighting to climb the ladder, we know our place at the bottom and work to strengthen it, rather than trying to push those above us off. Instead of spending my days fighting for better, I can be happy with what I have,” Minion argued back. Max couldn’t entirely disagree.

The two entered a long silence, both pondering the other’s words while dismissing them out of arrogance or denial, before finally deciding they both needed to rest. Minion led Max into a small chamber filled with furs and clothing scavenged from the houses above. They had been turned into a large bedding area, already filled with many Skal resting before their shifts began. Uncaring, Max lay down among the creatures. Though they looked hideous, he couldn’t help but feel he owed them for their generosity.

He stared at the ceiling, realising Minion was the first creature to show him kindness since the end of the war. Back on the Shields, Max was seen as a walking corpse. Men avoided him, most warned off by his infamous title before even setting eyes on him. Minion had accepted him, fed him, and given him water, even though helping a human was a crime in Scarvo. As Max reflected on their conversation, he realised these creatures—despite starving—had offered him food when they could barely feed themselves.

He would repay them. He was strong; he could move large rocks or complete manual tasks the Skal could not manage. He decided to speak to Minion about it in the morning. He would ask for no more than the food and water they could provide and help them complete their task on time. Perhaps this would give him purpose—a reason to live and to resist the darker urges that lurked within him. Perhaps it could even help him complete the task he’d been given, the one he was unsure he should accept.

He thought back to the letter. The orders it contained. The part he hadn’t shared with Minion. Since reading it, he’d pondered its contents, wondering if he should fulfil them. The letter spoke of a woman held captive by a warband nearby, pleading with him to save her. It invoked promises he’d made to a dying brother amidst grief. The woman was key—she would lead him to his destination, though she was not to know it. Max wondered if he even wanted this. To be dragged into another plot, manipulated by promises made and unkept.

The letter had been sealed by the Emperor himself. Did that mean it came from the Iron City? Even if the words were the Emperor’s, Max questioned whether he should care. The man meant nothing to him. He hadn’t even known the new Emperor’s name before reading the letter. What right did this Emperor have to give him orders? He was not Liam. Just because he was Liam’s son didn’t mean he held a candle to the man. And even if he were worthy of Liam’s throne, Max still wasn’t sure how he felt about Liam—the man who had cursed him.

Eventually, sleep claimed him, but as always, the memories returned. The fort cloaked in black stone, standing amidst a storming sea. Him atop it, with the dead at his back. They chanted his name—soulless husks, their past lives snuffed out, living only to serve him.

Convincing Minion to let him help had proved difficult. The creature was uneasy about giving orders to Max but eventually set him to work removing several large trees blocking the main road. Max quickly realised the Skal had already tried to remove the trees but lacked the strength and proper equipment. The axe they provided was blunt, with its handle shortened to fit their smaller hands. Before beginning, Max used the small sharpening stone he’d brought with him to give the tool a proper edge.

With his newly sharpened axe—more of a hatchet in his hands—Max began cutting away at the trees. Within minutes, he’d accomplished more than his companions had. As the day went on, he improved, dropping trees one after another. The Skal swarmed the fallen trunks, quickly stripping the branches before tying the logs to their donkeys to be dragged away as construction material.

Max’s training took over, and he found himself competing with his own pace, challenging himself to fell a tree faster each time. Eventually, he aimed to finish one tree before the Skal could strip the last. It was more difficult than expected—the creatures, inspired by his work, attacked the fallen trees with a frenzy.

When the sun began to set, Max continued, finding satisfaction in the mundane task. It gave him space to ponder simple thoughts, like how the trees had taken root where stone paths once covered the soil. It was almost warming to see that even in a city of death, life had taken root. His musings were interrupted by the Skal calling to him in their strange, birdlike songs, waving him towards a small clearing where they had gathered. There, they consumed small scraps of dried meat they’d brought with them.

Max wanted to speak to his companions, but he quickly realised none of them spoke fluent Imperial. Most knew only a few phrases—barely enough for a simple conversation. Instead of enduring a painful exchange, he listened as they squawked and chirped to one another while eating the strange meat and drinking murky water.

When they returned to work, Max began studying the Skal more closely. Though industrious, they were not intelligent. Several times, they did things that puzzled him, like attempting to fell a tree by cutting the wrong side, sending it crashing towards a building. Max stopped them in time and showed them their error. Despite their lack of intelligence, they took orders well, and every time Max corrected them, they learned and didn’t repeat the mistake.

Finally, as the sun set, Max removed the last tree and made his way back to the sewer, still energised after a full day of manual labour. As he neared the entrance, raised voices caught his attention. His blood boiled as he recognised the Old Tongue. Keeping to the shadows, he peered around the corner and saw a familiar face.

The elf stood tall and lean, his skin pure white but lacking the glow of the elves still living on Eden. His slanted eyes glinted sharp and blue—a hallmark of Amalur elves. One ear was missing, clearly severed during the Immortal War. Max smiled grimly, noting how pathetic the elf’s muscles looked compared to his own.

“I said, get it done! I don’t need excuses. Do you really expect my brother—a possible future king—to sleep in these slums? He shall have a manor of his own, and it will be done on schedule! I shall not besmirch my kins name further!” Darius barked in the Old Tongue. Though rusty, Max understood enough to piece together the meaning.

“We are trying our hardest, master,” Minion replied, his voice trembling. “But it is not that simple. We would have to clear a path to the manor as well as clean the entire building. It will take time, and we still have much work to do for the settlers.”

“If you cannot get it done, then what use are you vermin?” Darius stepped closer, towering over Minion as his eyes narrowed. “You are too simple to understand—you would be nothing without our minds. All we ask is that you complete the simple tasks we set you, and even that you fail. Stop thinking, as that is not what you were made for. Just do the work.”

Seeing Darius’s arrogance made Max clutch his axe so tightly the handle began to crack. He imagined removing the elf’s other ear and shoving it down his throat until he choked. His heart raced as his mind flashed back to the battlefield, where he had made elves scream and bleed, tearing away their elegance with his hammer.

Just as he was about to step forward, a clawed hand gripped his wrist. Max lifted the axe high, ready to sever whatever dared restrain him, but stopped as he saw a young Skal staring up at him with small, black eyes that almost seemed purple. The creature said nothing, simply holding his gaze. It was enough to give Max pause. He lowered the axe, taking a deep breath.

The next morning, Max awoke to find Minion sitting across from him, staring. The two shared a long look before Minion offered him a small bone with charred meat still clinging to it. Giving a nod, Max reached out and took it, devouring the flesh in silence. Neither of them spoke until Max had finished.

“I know it’s hard for you to understand, but this is—” Minion began, only for Max to interrupt him, levelling him with a cold stare.

“Please, don’t tell me this is how things are. I am not some child who thinks the world is full of roses or that the power of love will save us all. I’m not saying you must rise up and stand atop the world on your own island of independence. I’m merely suggesting that bowing down to these pointy-eared bastards and living in the same pipes their shit runs through is no life at all,” Max replied, swallowing his anger, not wishing to fight.

“You know, my predecessor—known as Slug in your tongue—spoke very similar words to you,” Minion said after a long silence. He ran a claw across the floor, drawing symbols like a child with paint. “I was second in command until a year ago, when my predecessor convinced a large portion of our hive that there was a better life out there. Since the elves lost to the humans, many of the Old Races have begun rising up, looking for a stronger leader, no longer seeing the Midnight City as powerful enough to rule. ‘This is our chance to grasp freedom for ourselves’—that’s what he said. We began stealing weapons from the forges we helped operate, training with them as best we could. The plan was to fight our way out of the city and head to the Northern Waste, seeking a leader who could give us pride in serving again. The day came, and finally, the uprising began.”

“What happened?” Max asked, though he already guessed the answer.

“It lasted nine hours before the elves sent a small force down to crush us like ants. Too few of us, myself included, were willing to fight when the time came. We froze—our talk of bravery vanished. Those who did fight didn’t last long. To teach us obedience, they ordered Slug to pick one hundred members of the hive to be spared punishment. He, of course, chose children and the young who could continue the hive. But they lied. Darius had the group Slug picked assemble before us and incinerated them with slow-burning fire from elven Singers. Many of their mothers killed themselves trying to save their children from the flames. The fathers died attacking the elves. Our hive still hasn’t recovered from losing so many that day. Their screams still echo in my mind whenever I think of wanting better. I learned that day to be happy with what you have, because the elves won’t just punish you—they’ll punish everyone around you to keep their place at the top of the ladder.”

Minion blinked away tears, and Max felt shame flood him.

Sometimes Max thought himself alone in his suffering, but he knew now that his story and Minion’s were the stories of thousands. The Immortal War may have been over, but its wounds had not healed, and its horrors had not been forgotten.

“It’s your choice. I can’t force you to join me in looking for a new purpose unless you want it. I swear I won’t kill Darius unless you give me permission—no matter what they do to you or your kin. I hate him, but I respect you more than my hatred,” Max said.

“Thank you. I appreciate your understanding,” Minion replied, emotions rushing behind his eyes.

“One last thing,” Max added, his voice firm. “Don’t let them manipulate you. You hearing those screams when you think of rebelling—that’s exactly why they did it.”

Minion froze for a moment, then silently made his way back to his people.