The Grothia is a family as old as war itself. A family known for a strength that strikes crippling fear into anyone who looks upon their piercing blue eyes, and yet, their youngest prince is unimpressed. After being pulled from the depths of weakness by his uncle - a pillar of pure fighting spirit - Orama is convinced that his family's title is nothing but a farce. Equipped with unshakable determination, the boy endeavours to find his own definition of strength.
The King, seeing no use for archaic war titles in the progressing world, seeks to reform the Grothia name. A task that may end up dividing the family. When attempting to make a change, one must expect new enemies in places once thought to be safe.
Genus is a harsh world comprised mostly of dense forests, grassy fields, cutthroat politics, ambition, hierarchy and malice. Both father and son will have ample opportunity to reflect upon what it means to be strong.
Grothia Blue is the first book in the Grothia trilogy, following Orama through his upbringing. A coming-of-age dark fantasy, Grothia Blue is unapologetic in its attempts to break you. It is not for the light-hearted.
The Grothia is a family as old as war itself. A family known for a strength that strikes crippling fear into anyone who looks upon their piercing blue eyes, and yet, their youngest prince is unimpressed. After being pulled from the depths of weakness by his uncle - a pillar of pure fighting spirit - Orama is convinced that his family's title is nothing but a farce. Equipped with unshakable determination, the boy endeavours to find his own definition of strength.
The King, seeing no use for archaic war titles in the progressing world, seeks to reform the Grothia name. A task that may end up dividing the family. When attempting to make a change, one must expect new enemies in places once thought to be safe.
Genus is a harsh world comprised mostly of dense forests, grassy fields, cutthroat politics, ambition, hierarchy and malice. Both father and son will have ample opportunity to reflect upon what it means to be strong.
Grothia Blue is the first book in the Grothia trilogy, following Orama through his upbringing. A coming-of-age dark fantasy, Grothia Blue is unapologetic in its attempts to break you. It is not for the light-hearted.
BLACK SKIES, BEREFT of all but a handfull of twinkling specks and a ring of light resting in the northern sky, the closed eye of the celestial Mother.
A man in black garb stands at the entrance to a grand adobe castle. Thin robes, airy pants, blood-red ropes strapped around his arms. A wide conical hat obstructs his eyes. He examines the borders of the castle. This castle was once a noble and strong house. Now, moss and overgrowth have spread unchecked among the walls. The adobe is crumbling and giving way. A keep has toppled into rubble. A collection of skulls hang from the entry gate; the dusty remains of their former owners trickle to the floor. The flicking of candle light dances in their empty eyeholes. Itâs as if theyâre on display. The man looks over at the plaque embedded in the side of the mudbrick. It reads âPanoApo Estateâ in broken and stained letters. Graffiti has been painted over the plaque: I am Mad, I am High, I am Berserk.
*
B
âIT IS DONE.â Standing in front of the PanoApo throne, a muscular man delivers his report to his lord. âThe skulls drape over the entrance like pendulums swinging to the rhythm of your dominance.â
âEnough of the poetry,â a second muscular man says. âEvery day with the poetry. It makes you look weak. Youâre lucky Fleva doesnât make a pendulum out of your skull too.â
Fleva, ignoring the bickering of his cohorts and the bustle of his intoxicated company, sits on his throne and stares out of a skylight into the empty black. His mind stresses, shifting through thoughts and emotions, growing anxious.
He looks around at his companions. A hall full of drunk and drugged men and women, all built like goliaths. Hefty beasts with toned bulging muscles averaging a height of over two metres. Machines built for the wars of old. The common look of the berserker.
Even with this collection of immense brawn, Fleva still worries. With the task he has chosen for his people, he knows he has reason. Nevertheless, he has made a choice. Thereâs no turning back.
He stands stiffly. Heâs taller and more toned than anyone else here. The simple act of his standing renders the PanoApo throne room silent. He directs his voice to the bar, its depth travels.
âThe nay-sayers have been put to rest ⌠you all know what comes next.â The berserkers share a look of solidarity with their lord. âBerserkers of this town have forever been feared as brutish animals, deriving strength from a state of
constant inebriation. Drugged lunatics, forever operating on the frayed ends of a distorted mind. The people have not been wrong to think this way.â
The hall remains silent.
âThey provided the drugs to make you the monsters you are. Kidnapped, enslaved and forced onto their battlefields. Then, as peace reigns, you are expected to sit and be still. No, they should fear us. Weapons of war create war!â
His words are met with drunken cheers.
âWe took this castle. We consolidated our numbers. And look at us! Who knew there were still this many berserkers in the land of the Abdominals? Ours is a military force unmatched by any of the great houses of Koilia. You all know this to be true!â
A second round of applause.
âUnmatched even by the Grothia!â
In an instant, the room goes silent. An awkward moment is shared as the berserkers murmur to each other. Fleva keeps himself resolute.
âThe Grothia, oh great lords chosen by the Mother âŚâ The poet begins to ad lib, but heâs interrupted as a hand grasps his throat tightly.
âShut up. I will hear no more prissy words from your pompous mouth.â
âRelease him, Kaft,â says Fleva. âLest you fall weak to your hatred.â
Kaft unclenches his hand and the poet falls to the ground, coughing.
He turns to Fleva. âYou proved your might by taking out those who would seek to replace you. We stand with your conquest of dominance among the other Koilian kings ⌠but you said nothing about the Grothia.â
Fleva smiles. âYou accuse your friend of weakness, yet you cower at the utterance of a mere name?â
âDonât act like you didnât grow up here. You know going after the Grothia is a task for one wishing for death.â
âWhat if I told you I had proof that they can be killed?â
âProof.â Kaft spits the word out in a scoff.
âWhat if I told you that I met a woman with a necklace made of Grothia eyes?â Fleva looks around at a room of raised berserker brows and attentive ears. âI did not kill my competitors as a display of might. I did so because their skulls held weak minds. I relished in cleansing those frail bones. They are a symbol that we have thrown out the notion of peace. I donât only fight for the berserkers. I fight for the lives of every child forced to stare up at the Grothia towers glistening in the Motherâs light; forced to believe they are lucky enough to lay their eyes upon the homes of deities.â Fleva paces atop his platform. âThe Grothia are not deities. They are not special. The future will see us all as equals as we tear down these monoliths. Koilia will be oppressed no more!â
A cacophony of claps and cheers envelops the hall. A discord of clinking glasses, screaming, and whistling. Flevaâs army is primed. He sits, leaning on his stolen throne, and stares back out at the night. He thinks about his place upon this celestial Child they all inhabit. Will he make history before he merges with the dirt, or was he lied to? Is he
leading his people to slaughter? No, she wouldnât do that to him. In any case, it doesnât matter. Heâs pushed himself beyond the turning point.
A feeling of unease sweeps through the berserker lordâs blood. He begins sweating. He feels a presence within his hall; an unwelcome one. It feels like the presence is creeping inside his head, scratching at the insides of his skull, crushing his grey matter. He looks out among his people. His eyes dart through the crowd, jumping from face to face until they fall upon a man standing at the entrance. A man in black garb. The manâs face is shrouded in shadow from his hat, and yet Fleva can still catch his eyes. They stare at each other through the bustling crowd of bumbling bodies. One by one, the berserkers all pick up on the tension in their lord and direct their attention towards the trespasser.
âWhosh thish limpy cuck?â says one of the berserkers. The black-garbed wanderer is built like a fighter, toned and fit, but he is still puny in comparison to even the smallest berserker.
âYouâve found youshelf in the wrong playsh, worm.â The berserker approaches the man.
The wanderer stands nipple height to the drunk aggressor, seemingly unfazed.
âI disagree. I believe I am exactly where I mean to be.â The black-garbed wandererâs voice is low and hoarse, as if heâs speaking through thick pipes layered with loose gravel.
âZat so? Then perhapsh you mean to be mangled.â
Slowly, the wanderer lifts his head and looks up at the large man. A flaming red spreads from his pupils, turning into hazel as it reaches the edges of his iris.
The poet steps forth. âDo no let him leave alive. His ears have heard too many of our words.â
The drunk grasps the wandererâs shoulders. His hands squeeze, crumpling the fabric of his robe. Two fingers extend out of a hand of the black-garbed man.
âShorry, friend, but it sheemsh itâsh your unluckyââ But before the berserker can finish his sentence, the black-garbed fighter jabs his fingers into the underside of the berserkerâs forearm. Itâs faster than Flevaâs eyes can see. The berserkerâs hand goes limp as two bones come jutting out of the top of his arm. The berserkerâs cry of pain resounds off of the high ceiling and fills the room; the rest of the berserkers stand to attention.
âMe arm! You cunt. Iâll kill you!â
The aggravated beast of a man spins on the ball of his foot, putting enough rotation into his body to deliver a devastating straight punch with his remaining fist. Standing tall, without an inch of hesitation, the wanderer brings up his hand to catch the punch in a lazy palm. The punch depresses the rope taut across the wandererâs hand then comes to a complete halt. The impact contains enough force for the berserkerâs hand to crush inside the weight of his own strike, and sends the bones of his wrists penetrating out of the skin.
The berserker cries out again. He twirls around, spraying blood where he swings his exposed bones. The
black-garbed man pushes his palm into the berserkerâs back. The cries cease.
Fleva looks upon the dead eyes of his patron as the burly man falls into a motionless heap. The berserkerâs back shows a mangled mess of flesh where the wandererâs hand connected, as if every bone in the corpse has been demolished.
The wanderer walks into the middle of the hall. He looks around. Flevaâs army are hesitant.
âBerserkers,â says the wanderer. âSculpted by science to embody the highest form of brute strength one can attain ⌠and look at you all. A hall full of drunk, mindless followers. What a waste of war effort.â He directs his attention towards Fleva, staring deep into his eyes. âItâs no wonder why Mother has lost all need for you.â
The berserkers enter a fit of crazed aggression. The black-garbed fighter stands relaxed as the berserkers all advance upon him. An attempted tackle from behind fails as the wanderer flips backwards, leaping high up in the air, as if heâs being pulled by the strings of some ethereal puppeteer. He plants his feet upon the attackerâs shoulders, grips their head between his ankles, then performs another backflip. The berserkers all watch as their fellowâs head is torn from his body and tossed out of the entrance to the hall.
âThe red-hazel fighter,â Fleva whispers to himself.
Attackers come at the wanderer from all angles, picking up whatever they can grab as weapons. The wanderer disarms and dispatches them all with ease, using nothing but his fists. His punches break through the berserkersâ
defences, as if someone replaced all their hardened muscle mass with hot clay. Any attack directed at the black-garbed fighter either is reflected back upon the attacker or hits nothing but a translucent phantom left in the wake of his impeccable speed.
âHis strength is in his speed,â the poet calls out.
The berserkers all look to Fleva for direction, but he barely acknowledges them. He canât even summon the strength to think right now.
The poet looks at Kaft. âWe must stop him from moving.â
âFuck it.â Kaft takes charge. âEveryone keep the pressure on him!â
He turns to the poet. âYou get his right arm, I got the left.â
âAgreed.â
The wanderer keeps still long enough to let them test their theory. Kaft and the poet rush in from both sides and grab his arms, holding him still with all their strength.
âFleva! Now!â
Fleva snaps out of his daze and looks around at the numbers of dead berserker bodies littered around his great hall. He looks into the eyes of his remaining forces. Their eyes both seek his help and accuse him of apathy. His eyes drift to the captured foe. Even if they stand no chance, he cannot let this opportunity pass.
He bellows out a battle cry and dashes towards the red-hazel fighter, rearing up a devastating punch. Dust whirls in the wind as he moves through the room. He gets in close, stomps down hard enough on the treated wooden floor to
snap a beam, and thrusts his fist at the wandererâs face with all the force he can muster. The punch crumbles the manâs hat and meets his face with an echoing crack.
The hall goes silent and still. Fleva, his hand bruised and numb, stays in his position. The wanderer remains standing, his stature unshaken. Kaft and the poet both slowly retreat. Fleva pulls his hand back from the wandererâs face. The broken hat falls from his head, revealing scraggly shoulder-length hair.
Fleva relaxes and massages the wrist of his punching arm.
âSo it is you. I had chosen not to believe the stories of the unbeatable red-hazel fighter. They sounded like the tales one writes for children.â Fleva speaks with a calm composure, consciously keeping still his heart.
âI donât give much care to the written word. Words are meant to be heard, not read,â says the red-hazel fighter.
Though the wanderer appears placid, Fleva canât help but feel a pressure exude from him. As if his presence is constantly applying force to the air around him.
The poet moves in next to Fleva. âThis face ⌠Iâve seen it before. Though it is much older now, this was once a face that anyone south of the Heart would recognise. This is Fasma, brother to the King, a Grothia.â
Fleva watches as all hope leaves the faces of his remaining berserkers.
âYour man has a keen eye,â says Fasma.
âIf youâre a Grothia,â Fleva says, âthen where are the eyes that have instilled this sleeping country with your familyâs supremacy?â
âI grew tired of the blue.â
âDo you not represent your family?â Fleva says.
âWho I represent is none of your concern.â
Fleva keeps himself calm and diplomatic. âI believe we started this interaction unfairly. My men attempted to seize you upon entry, and, considering the number of fallen comrades in this room, I believe we have paid enough for that mistake.â
Fasma frowns. âI will be the one to determine your debt.â
âThen name your price so we may be done with this. Then you will promptly leave my hall.â Fleva fears he may be stepping too far towards stern.
âI have no use for gold or trinkets. What I demand of you is information.â
âWhat information would a lowly berserker lord possibly have that would interest the brother of the Grothia King?â
âIt is not so much information you have, but rather, information a fellow of yours holds. Tell me the whereabouts of the woman with the necklace of Grothia eyes.â
Fleva turns away from the wanderer for fear of the man reading his mind. He walks up the steps to his throne. His brain reels. What does he know about her? Does he know of the cause? If he knows, does his family know? If they knew, there wouldnât be one man here; there would be an army. They would make an example of this, displaying the fall of the berserkers to the Grothia boot for all of Koilia to see. Theyâre not ones to send assassins in the middle of the
night; not for something so egregious as plotting against their rule.
Has this man, this Fasma, turned against his family? Does he sympathise with the cause? One looking to join an army would not so wantonly kill its members. Fleva knows heâs reaching for any way out of this, but he has to accept it. He is going to die here.
If the red-hazel fighter finds the woman, he will kill her. Thereâs no way Fleva would ever let that happen. He would sacrifice every person in this room to keep her safe.
âI have no idea who youâre talking about.â
The berserkers all look at their lord, confused. Fleva sees Kaft gazing at him with a scowl upon his face.
âDenial?â says Fasma. âYou know where that path will lead.â
âI do not know the woman of which you speak. Your journey was for naught. Now leave my hall.â
Fleva goes to walk to his throne but he is stopped by Kaft. âWhat are you doing?â
âYou are one of my men. You will keep your mouth shut.â
âSo you can risk all of our lives for the sake of some outsider? Fuck that.â
Kaft approaches Fasma, getting in-between the red-hazel fighter and Fleva. âHeâs lying. Will you let us live if we make him talk?â
Fleva takes his signature weapon from behind the throne: a giant claymore with a blade fanning out into two sharp tips at the end. It is one of the heaviest swords in all of Genus, and he holds it up in one hand. He swings it at
them, hoping to cleave off both of their heads in one sweep. Fasma raises a hand and extends one finger. One of the two spiked tips of the claymore meets his fingertip, and the massive sword begins to bend. Weakness spreads through the weapon like roots through dirt. The sword shatters; Flevaâs hands go numb from the reverberation. Kaft falls to his knees, and Fleva falls back against the throne.
âDeath is here,â the poet screams, as he scampers out of the hall.
Fasma looks at his finger. A single drop of blood bubbles out of the spot where the blade hit. The red-hazel fighter approaches Fleva, holding his finger out for the room to see. The drop of blood dances on his fingertip, as if mimicking the physics of a flame. Fasma kneels down to Flevaâs level, grabs Fleva by the head and presses his thumb to his forehead. He holds his bloody finger to the berserker lordâs face. Fleva stares into the dancing drop of blood and feels his mind become congested with unintelligible speech. His body goes numb and he slumps against the stairs, mesmerised. An incredible unease forces him into a state of cerebral agony. His brain bloats. He hears screeching sounds rebounding within his skull. His vision strains and shakes. A word shifts through his mind, a prominent and important word. He feels the word being pulled to his mouth. He cannot say it; he will not say it. This pain is not enough for Fleva to relinquish his strength.
Fasma smirks.
Everything disappears. Flevaâs mind goes blank. His entire brain is bereft of everything. No more ambition, no more principles, no more pain, no more emotion. Not even
an identity. His mind is completely empty of all but one word.
âEleferia âŚâ The word drifts from Flevaâs mouth. Itâs spoken as if by a vacant homunculus.
âEleferia forest? So the woman lodges in Stenos territory,â Fasma says to himself. Flevaâs eyes stare off at nothing; there is no mind behind them to offer direction.
âSo ⌠youâll let us live?â Kaft asks hesitantly.
Fasma looks around the room. They cower in his presence, looking like ants lost from their line, scared and unable to find their purpose. Destined to die.
Fasma extends his arms out in a wide arc. The ropes begin to shimmer. Light bends around them as if they are being affected by a great heat.
âOnly the strong live, while the weak die.â
THE POET REACHES the castle gates. He scurries up to the bar holding it shut. He fumbles to get it open, but it doesnât budge. He sees that a piece of thick metal has been bent around the bar and its bracket, locking it in place. The poet grabs the piece of metal and pulls on it, trying to bend it free. It still doesnât budge. He changes his position to give himself more leverage and heaves once again, this time engaging every muscle in his body. He tenses so hard it feels like his muscles are going to split and explode. Right before he falls into debilitating fatigue, the metal gives. The poet falls to the floor as it bends and loosens. Tired, the poet chuckles in the dirt.
âAnd, lo, even metal bequeaths its sturdiness under the fire of persistence.â
The poet pushes himself to his feet and pulls the bar from its mounts. He pulls the gate open and looks out into the dark path leading to town. Before he can leave, he feels the ground begin to shake under his feet. He looks back at the castle and sees it glowing with a faint hazel aura. A strange heat emanates from it and permeates the vicinity. Curious, the poet moves to get a better view.
With a great eruption of crumbled adobe, the castle bursts into a blaze of red-hazel flames. The poet is engulfed and rendered into ash within an instant. The great PanoApo estate levels into a pile of rubble and red-hazel cinders.
Orama is a young Prince in the Grothia Royal Family. He's just started his training to become a warrior, and after an incredibly short time, bests his father in a sparring match. He's hailed as a genius, a prodigy fighter, and is hated and maligned by his oldest sister. He strives to be more like his uncle - a talented fighter who can disarm and subdue an enemy with nothing more than his bare hands - and less like the other members of his family (both immediate and extended) who think that anyone not bestowed with the Grothia name and blue eyes are weaklings.
I struggled with this book, not because of its content, but more because of how it was written. I'm not the kind of person to shy away from strong swear words, but did find myself wincing when the c-bomb was dropped casually from a child's mouth. The sentence structure was one that reminded me of a child's book; repetitive names within one paragraph, short sentences and simple syntax, which was then juxtaposed with strong profanities. It made for a jarring, uncomfortable read - trying to work out the target audience for the content (obviously adult), when compared to the style of writing.
As a story, I found the world that Grothia Blue was set in somewhat confusing. References to 'Mother' were frequent, as were 'The Child', and it wasn't until I was a fair way through that I realised that 'Mother' was a god(dess?) and 'The Child' the ground upon which they inhabitants lived. I was also somewhat confused by the somewhat garbled explanation of the Grothia's eyes. There was a passing reference to someone (I think Orama's mother) wearing a blindfold; followed by an inference that children had their eyes transplanted at a very young age (or were murdered if their eyes were not blue), but no further mention of it (unless, of course, I missed that and if so, I do apologise).
I just didn't get on with Grothia Blue, finding it clunky and only returned to it begrudgingly for the purposes of this review.
S. A.