An Unwanted and Unwilling Hero

By E Gourm

“AN UNWANTED AND UNWILLING HERO” started as a web novel and can be described as a reaction against the concept of selfless heroes that I have never really adhered to.
Despite the character origins and the high fantasy setting, the main character is rather grounded. I wanted to be someone the readers could see themselves becoming in a similar situation, rather than an ideal to aspire to. He isn’t a nice person.

Light spoiler ahead:
Different world, different rules.
Laev, as the main character will get to name himself, is definitely not a normal person - he has inhuman powers – but due to his amnesia and the feelings he inherited from his mysterious past, his mindset is definitely no one of a hero. In the beginning, the hero only cares about his survival, but he will come to value his wife and dependents.
He is not a grand hero, he only cares about himself and the few around him. Using a wealth of modern knowledge – scientific, historical and political - he will do whatever it takes to ensure a bright future for himself, including saving the world.

The story follows the interaction of a modern-minded character in an unfamiliar feudal setting. The truth of his origin and his reason for being in this world are only settled at the very end. Despite the open-ended finale, the main character gets a proper ending to his arc, which can also be considered a good end for the m.c and his affiliates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E Gourm
• Release date: Aug 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463748404

E Gourm

Not much is known about this author, some say it has four appendages, can perceive electromagnetic radiation in the 380 to 740 nanometers range, lives in a rich O2 environment and other such lucubrations (everyone knows Oxygen is the most toxic thing in the universe right after the internet).Recent studies discovered a strange message, it says 'Please, leave a review.'What could it mean?

Book preview

Chapter 1

Where the hell am I?

In the middle of a forest, a human male is asleep.

Despite the cold, his skin is burning hot. He tries to open his eyes, but closes them immediately, as the light burns them.

As his confusion grows at his surroundings, now coming into view, he attempts to gather his thoughts.

My head hurts and my mind is foggy; I feel sick! How much did I have to drink last night?

Time passes – he knows not how much, just that it is a lot - until he finally manages to open his eyes, and keep them open. When he has regained his sight, the man attempts to get up.

His unsteady legs do not support him; he falls forward, face down in the dirt. Defeated, he lies there for a while.

Eventually, he rolls onto his side, and is able to take a good look at his surroundings.

A forest? I don’t remember entering a bloody forest…

Damn, I’m burning! Am I sick?  This doesn’t feel like a normal hangover.

The forest appears as utterly unspoilt nature, untouched by human hands. The trees grow densely, and are covered in moss and vines; wherever light isn’t excessively filtered, shrubs and herbs grow freely.

Since getting up isn’t an option, the man does his best to crawl to a nearby tree, sitting with his back against the trunk.  He tries to recollect the events which brought him here, but no matter how much he thinks about it, his mind is a blank: prior to his awakening, he remembers nothing.

Sitting here thinking won’t get me anywhere. I’m lost in a forest, and the first priority is to find water. Then, to find shelter, make a fire and, finally, find food.

Considering the environment and the apparent seasonal climate, he guesses there will be an abundance of berries, nuts, mushrooms…

Maybe not mushrooms - I’ve never trusted them.

In reality, with no memory, the man does not know if he has this particular toxicophobia or not, but mushrooms apparently instinctively cause him undue anxiety. He knows enough to know that the fear is probably irrational, and that berries, nuts and even water, can be equally toxic.

His renewed attempt to stand gives more satisfactory results than the last – if, that is, one were to consider that all of their muscles aching from the tiniest amount of effort can be called progress.  Waiting for the pain to recede, the lost individual leans once more against the tree.  This time, it takes mere minutes to pass.

Strangely, he very shortly feels as right as rain.

One second I’m tired, sick as hell and can’t move a muscle; minutes later I’m all fine and dandy! I don’t know what the hell I took last night, but whatever it was sucked!

Again, the lost soul tries to recall how he got here. 

He remembers no yesterday - like there never was one.

As he is reflecting upon this, a sound is coming from his right.  It takes a moment, before he suddenly registers that it is the sound of running water.

Finding water comes first! I’ll have plenty of time to think about the rest later.

His legs have already stopped hurting – much to his surprise - and he believes that he is now steady enough to walk.

And, walk he does… and walk… and walk… He walks so far, in fact, that he begins to wonder if perhaps his ears are playing tricks on him. But, fortunately, they are not, and twenty minutes later - by his estimation - he reaches the source of the sound.

Too parched to care about the risk, the thirsty man crouches at the small stream, scoops up the water and drinks it from his hands.  He knows he has no means to purify it, so opts not to think about it.

Well, that’s number one scratched from the list. Next: find shelter and make a fire.

He realizes he hasn’t once yet searched his pockets - with luck, he might find a lighter or, better still, a cell-phone.

The clothes are not familiar to him, and their design seems particularly old-fashioned.  Still, for the time being, he puts this to the back of his mind, his current predicament more worthy of his immediate attention.

The search of his pockets produces fortuitous results, which surprise him: a small flint-stone, a tiny, flat, metal bar and some damp wick, rolled separately in a piece of fabric.  Despite his confused state and his lack of memory, the tools somehow feel familiar in his hand.

Wow! Though, I still would have preferred a bloody cell-phone.

The individual starts gathering twigs, dry moss and anything else which appears suitable for kindling. When done, he arranges the various items expertly, adding a nearby fallen tree branch, to serve as fuel for his fire.  To protect from the gusty breeze, he walks over to the stream, where he finds rocks of a decent size, to build his wall around the fire.  Now ready to start the fire, the lost soul dares not yet use the wick - a truly precious resource, which he doesn’t want to waste.

Unbeknownst to him, some of the kindling he has selected is of a variety known to burn very brightly, very quickly; in an instant, the fire burns high and out of control.  Scooping water up into his hands, he tries desperately to extinguish it.

I should have dug a damn hole!

The thought is perhaps an unfair one, for someone who is lost in the forest without any tools.  Still, the bright and powerful flame worries him, as he is momentarily convinced it will degenerate into a forest fire.

He is, of course, wrong: before long the kindling will burn itself out, and the fire will settle, but obviously the man has no way of knowing that.  In growing fear, he kicks the pile of burning branches into the stream, and throws dirt onto the flames, until they are no more.

Still, he is not dismayed: I know now that I can build a fire any time I want.  Next time I’ll be more careful and find a good clearing, somewhere easy to dig, near the water.

With his socially modern mindset, the man decides to set out walking downstream, thinking that he is bound to find people, sooner or later. After all, there is no such thing as a river which does not run past factories and villages.

Of course, while he may be right, he also acknowledges that he has no idea where he is, and that sooner or later could well mean weeks of trekking in the unknown - without any equipment.

Feeling better now, his earlier weakened status now forgotten, the man decides to look for food, before setting out on his journey.  In this respect, he considers himself quite lucky, and surmises that there is no better season than this to be lost in the woods. Without particularly exerting himself, he easily finds an abundance of nuts, berries and mushrooms.

No mushrooms! They cannot deceive me with their delicious fragrance and appearance.

Suddenly, his mushroom fears awaken a strange notion in him: Is it possible that eating mushrooms is what caused my amnesia?

Because none of the fruits he can find are familiar to him, the lost soul proceeds to harvest whatever strikes his fancy, without relying on any further particular method. Nevertheless, when the work is done, he cannot help but feel confidence in his haul. His successful foraging awakens a newfound hope in him, and his mind begins to build castles in the air.

If I am this good at finding food and water, and making fire, perhaps I could manage to craft a crude spear or a bow. With that kind of equipment, I could easily catch some of the fish I saw in the stream.

Immediately, reality catches up with him, as he realizes once again that he lacks any tools or materials; there are no straight branches in sight, and there are neither silex nor obsidian shards simply lying around, for him to find. Even if they were, until he catches an animal and harvests its sinew, a sharpened stick is the best he can hope to achieve.

He decides to eat his finds. Heading back to the fireplace, he uses a flat branch to dig a hole, before restarting the fire to cook the nuts. He looks hard at the berries for a while but, as expected, there is no sudden remembrance and the fruit itself offers no help.

The lost soul taste-tests everything prudently and, although none of the berries are unsavoury, they are, at best, tolerable. The nuts, on the other hand, are surprisingly delicious - so much so that if he were to rank them amongst all food he has ever had, they would be in the upper echelon.

I can remember the meals I have eaten, but not who or where I am!

His questions will have to wait: more pressingly, he knows he has to get on the move.  The sun is still low, so he decides he might as well follow the stream.

If, by four o’clock, I haven’t found anything, I’ll have no choice but to look for shelter.

Armed with his resolution, he washes a few large leaves in the stream, which he uses to wrap and pack the leftover food in his pockets.  Then, he embarks upon the first step of his journey.

<><><>

By the time the sun reaches four o’clock - at least by his estimation - he has yet to find any trace of civilization.

The flatness of the area quickly dissipates his hope of finding a grotto, so he is resigned to the do-it-yourself approach. Creepers, leaves and fallen wood become the materials he uses to build his makeshift refuge, and the work continues until late into the night. Every time he goes out to gather more material, he makes sure to harvest any fruit and nuts he spots - enough to last at least two days, if he rations himself.

The finished shelter is far from a work of art, and won’t offer much protection against the wind, but he decides that to have done so much in as short a space of time, without tools, can be considered an extraordinary achievement.

<><><>

The following morning, the man eats beside the stream.

So engrossed in his increasingly demoralizing thoughts, he fails to register the sound of horses, and the voices of people approaching in his direction, until it grows louder and more aggressive.

When the presence becomes bellicose, something inside the brooding man changes.  In an instant, he relinquishes his dark thoughts to face the threat.

He sees a child of around twelve years old. Stocky, angry and red in the face, the youth is primed to strike with his metal-laden gauntlet.  Despite the imminent attack, and the abnormality of the situation, the man yet manages to register that besides his attacker, there are four riders and two horses, led by burly men, who observe the situation from afar.

What happens next is, without a doubt, the strangest thing the man has witnessed since he awoke: the youngster moves toward him, in what can only be described as slow motion.

I’ll teach you to ignore your betters, knave! the kid informs him, as he strikes.

To the man with no name, the blow appears harmless, but his instincts scream to avoid it anyway. He easily dodges the attack and shoves the kid, hard, hurling him into the stream.  Surprised and unable to react to this apparently inhuman motion, the attacker tumbles awkwardly into the water, still moving in slow motion.

Why is he moving so slow-

The man’s cogitation is stopped short, as another of the riders charges at him. Despite the slowness that seems to be affecting all around him, the speed of the galloping horse is still far from negligible and takes him by surprise; it takes considerable skill to avoid the spear - skills the man didn’t know he had before now.

As the second attacker turns his horse to prepare for a second charge, the amnesiac man briefly looks over the other riders, to assess if they show signs of becoming involved - thankfully, there is no imminent indication of this.

If I may take a moment to describe the riders: two of them – including he attempting to skewer the amnesiac - wear the exact same equipment: chain-mail over a heavy linen shirt; a helmet; metal-laden gauntlets; a spear; and, a shield; a sword scabbard can also be seen hanging from each of their sides. The three children, riding horses, seem to be of ages ranging from eight to ten years old. All wear the same heavy shirts as the others, but only the elder is equipped with metal-plated, leather gloves, a helmet, and what appears to be either a short sword or, perhaps, a dagger. The lost man doesn’t care so much about their equipment; all that matters to him is the number of hostiles.

I’ve got bloody knights and squires trying to kill me!

One of the observers - the youngest of them all - watches with a nasty smile, as the first attacker scrambles out of the water. The drenched child has now drawn a dagger, and is once more moving to attack. 

But, the difference the water makes to his already lagging speed is too much: all he manages to achieve is getting punched violently on the chin and in the nose. The man without memory even considers momentarily stabbing the squire with his own dagger, but decides against it: the kid is out cold; any further defensive manoeuvre is a waste of precious time. From behind him, a scream of rage resounds, from the attacker on horseback.  Not only has the knight missed his charge for the second time, but his ally now lies half-submerged in the water. The rage he provokes in his foes brings a smile to the amnesiac man’s face, as he realizes that pissing off and trampling the pride of one’s enemies ranks very highly on the enjoyment scale.  And, now that he has identified his adversaries as noblemen, accusations and insults of inbreeding, decadence and bellicose idiots wallowing in unwarranted pride come to his tongue.

Admittedly, he ignores the parts about the nobles’ ancestral pride, courage and hard training from an early age.

Enraged by the invective, the knight charges for the third time, shouting: You’re dead, scoundrel!

Setting the dagger at his belt, the amnesiac answers slowly, to ensure his every word is understood: Unlikely, inbred! I’ll have you join that other piece of trash for a bath.

Sadly for the charging knight, the amnesiac already has the timing down pat, and he is able to catch the spear, as it draws toward him. A sidestep and a hard yank rip the weapon from the rider’s hand, although the combination of his training and stirrups allow him to stay upon his mount.

The amnesiac tumbles a little, off-balance, but quickly regains his footing, before proceeding to mock his opponent once again. This time, though, he forgets to adjust the speed of his voice, which actually seems to make his words even more insulting to the overly proud knight: You’ve lost something, dumbass! Care to come around, so I can give it back?

By my honour, you are dead, miscreant.

Honour? Are you deluding yourself into believing that you’re actually worth shit? Come here, you bloody lunatic; I’ll have you swallow this! He shows the knight his own spear. I hear that iron is excellent against dementia!

This sword is the pride of my family; it is wasted on the likes of you. You should die proudly, knowing that you made me draw it, says the knight, as he charges, his sword now in hand.

Displaying his nastiest smile, the lost man remarks: Steel, seasoned with unwarranted pride and a touch of broken teeth - you’re going to love it!

What does the fool expect? the man wonders. His sword is too short to be used from horseback.  Why does he not ditch the horse and fight me on the ground... not that it would change the outcome. I should also be careful not to hurt my new mount by accident.  The man realizes at this that he has already taken the decision to steal his attacker’s horse.

The knight is left-handed.  When the horse draws near, the amnesiac quickly moves to his other side, jumping as high as possible, as he thrusts the spear forward. A loud, clanging noise resounds, and the shock of the impact rips the spear from the man’s hand, throwing him backward. But, despite being temporarily disorientated, the amnesiac still has time to see the knight loudly crash to the ground, still in slow motion.

This guy is falling even slower than the kid fell. Yet, whenever we come into contact, our speeds suddenly seem to match.

Though jarred, this isn’t the time to analyze. The man quickly scans his surroundings and is satisfied that all is well: the squire is still partially submerged in the water, and the knight’s companion riders have yet to move. Reassured, the amnesiac retrieves the spear, now a broken shaft, its tip currently embedded in the fallen knight’s chain-mail.

Coward! complains the lunatic knight, short of breath.  If it wasn’t for your strange magic, I would have won.

"I, the unarmed man, attacked by surprise by two armed assholes, am the coward? You went straight from delusional to downright psychotic, you degenerate."

Despite being called out on it, the fool still sees no wrong in his actions: It is my right and my duty as a knight to punish miscreants.

And, as a miscreant, is it not my duty to be underhanded?

Two quotes immediately come to the amnesiac, which suit the current situation to a tee - though, as usual, they are without any memorable source: To the victor goes the spoils, and woe to the vanquished! Guess which you are, asshole!

The sound his kicking foot makes, as it connects with the knight’s chin, draws a smile to the man’s face. But, it is short-lived, as the others now advance toward him.

So, armed with his new sword and dagger, the disgruntled man prepares for another fight.

Chapter 2

Escort

The second of the uniformed knights suddenly signals for his companions to stop.  He ostentatiously plants his spear in the ground and dismounts his horse; he removes his sword belt and puts it into his saddlebag.

The knight’s face is fair, and he has brown hair - features similar to the two youngest of the boys, who share a single horse. Calmly and resolutely, he