4.2 Shrine Of The Grinders

“Reset the universe?” Silven repeated dumbly. “How?”

“At a Shrine of Newplus. They’re portal generators which send a soul through time rather than space.”

Silven’s whole body tensed. There was still a chance. Then, he frowned. “Why haven’t you told me of this before?”

Grennel shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “I can hardly be sure the things actually work. I’m only going from ancient legends, and besides, they’ve only just been built in the far future.”

Somehow, Silven’s deep frown deepened some more. “If you’re going to be meddling with time, you’re going to have to get used to such silliness,” lectured the professor.

Silven shook a weary head and leant forward. “And how do you propose we ensure we go back to just before this goblin mess and don’t, you know, undo all my exquisite masterworks of these past years? Does it have a handy little knob with dates on?”

Grennel slumped back. His face went blank. “It’s.... it’s a reset,” he urged haltingly.

Silven’s head sank slowly down his chest. “I see. So it’s defeat after all.” He looked up wonderingly at his academy. “Ahhhh. Great.” It was a cruel trick indeed. To save what scraps he could or risk them never existing at all. For once, he wished he was under direct control. He twisted his head at a sudden movement, but it was only a couple of mice surveying the sadness from the skirting board. He waved a languid arm in their general direction. They didn’t bother him any more.

Grennel broke the silence. “There’s a few other complications too. Only one may enter the portal. You leave the others behind.”

He felt a stab of pain at that, in a part of him he was only vaguely aware of. “But... everyone will be there at the start...” he mused, not wanting to hear the response.

It came anyway. “Yes. With no memories, no experiences, and no affiliations beyond their default. Only you would retain those, as your self from this time. If you do things differently, good friends could be enemies, enemies become friends....”

“Enough of that,” Silven snapped bitterly. “I get the picture.” Two paths clashed and whirled in his head.

“And there’s something else,” Grennel continued. He looked even more hesitant than before. With a shrewd glance at the gathering rodents, he framed his words. “It is said that these shrines were built by the gods for the ultimate champion. Should a great warrior desire even greater challenge, they can sacrifice all they hold dear to seek that challenge out. The shrines are not simple time machines, but alterers of nature, too. Through them, the gods give strength to the foes of the valiant hero, set more traps and challenges to make him fall, and unlock new and unexpected trials. Improved weapon mastery, abominations of twisted imaginations, secret doors leading down to caves filled with death and evil... all in exchange for newfound glory.”

“Yep?” said Silven. “Your point being?”

“Well.... it’s meant for a certain calibre of warrior....”

Silven’s long frown disappeared. Instead, one eyebrow scaled his forehead. “Your point being?” he repeated.

Grennel’s chair legs creaked unsubtly as he glided backwards. “No offence, but you’re hardly hardcore.”

“Oh, right, so one minute I’m too good for the End and then not good enough for the beginning?” Silven blustered.

Grennel reached for a discarded scroll, scribbled out the mathematics that was never going to help anyone in the future of mankind, and drew a bell-curve. He pointed to the right edge where it began to sink. “I believe you to be somewhere around here in terms of skill,” he began, and added hurriedly, “right on the edge of mastery. Well above most fighters. A legend of the kingdom. Expert swordsman. Warrior King Supreme.”

“Go on.”

The professor’s quill slipped away to the right, extending a huge whale’s tail to the edge of the parchment. “But there are some sad characters, it is true, that hone their art beyond even that. Some would say too much. Every waking moment is dedicated to the slaughter. They have no other purpose in their lives, no mastery of the finer arts, of speech, of practicality, of social interaction. The grinders. It was them to which the Shrines of Newplus were dedicated.”

Silven stroked his chin and considered the graph. You may not know this, but Silven was quite a stubborn man. He had just been told he was not fit for purpose. That settled his mind on the matter. “How do these shrines work? I wouldn’t go back... naked, would I?”

“Fortunately not. Research on their inscriptions determines all equipped armour and weapons shall pass backwards in time with the owner.”

Silven looked down at his lordly robes. “I’m not sure these would be suitable for the new world.”

“You’re not suitable for the new world.”

“Is there a shrine near Limetop?”

“A couple of leagues to the east. The Cave of Noturningbackexperiencedquestersonly.”

“Good. I’ll collect something a bit more fearsome there. Though I am afraid I was in a bit of a strop last time I raked through my wardrobe. Could prove difficult.”

“As could Newplus.”

Silven stood. Grennel stood with him. The king regarded the door. “There’s still time. If I’m going back, I have all the time in the world. We’ll walk all the way to HQ. I’ll fight every brigand, monster and scallywag on the way. Get my stuff and speed up. I even have an old friend in Found Gnomeania that, it pains me to say, might be of use. Let me become one of these so-called grinders. If I’m giving up on this company, then I might as well prepare for the next in style.” He took a step towards the door. “Scratch that. We’ll ride.”

Grennel coughed. “And get stuck on every rock, take fifty gallops to connect with any given head, get thrown off at the howl of a wolf, fight through panicking horseflesh to reach every foe, and risk Frozen Mounting Syndrome while your enemies hack at your rigid, helpless buttocks?”

Silven pointed to the door. “Scratch that. We’ll walk.”

Bells erupted violently from the troubled silence. There were a few screams from without the sanctum and a few grumbles about bloody ruffians from within. “It’s here,” Silven noted. “I liked this place too. Well, off we go.”

They hurried to the nearest threshold. As Grennel threw open the door, Silven glanced around the room one last time. He saw something on a bookcase that made his whole body tense with dread and delight at the same time. “Why, it’s The Complete Guide to Stopping Unstoppable Creatures by Wise Ancient Man,” he cried. He plucked it triumphantly from the shelf, curled his fingers around the cover, and paused. It was surely too good to be true, but there again, could this really be mere coincidence? He remembered to breathe. Grennel stood stiff as a board, one hand on the door. “It surely couldn’t....” murmured the professor. “The gods can be generous.”

The book wobbled in Silven’s hands. Hope came flashing back. “Goblins, goblins, goblins,” he chanted to himself. Or perhaps it was a prayer.

Hanging around wasn’t going to change his fate. He flipped open the cover and read the heading at the top of the page. “Chapter twenty-three - Puddings.” He gulped back disappointment. “Dangnabbit. That’s just cruel.” He decided he would rather like to meet Wise Ancient Man and demonstrate the meaning of complete using the case study of oxygen deprivation and his bare hands. Maybe next lifetime. For now, it was the door after all.