THE BATTLE OF EBULON

A Shared Anthology

Compiled by Shane Porteous

Preface

Dear Reader

I’ve always loved crossovers; the idea of characters created from two or more minds coming together in one story has always excited me. I cannot remember the first crossover story I read/watched (although an episode of Power Rangers where the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles guest starred comes to mind.) I have no doubt it has something to do with my love of manga/comic books. What you mean there is a single comic book that features both Spiderman and Batman? How could I not get excited about such a story? Crossovers enable writers to tell a unique story with familiar characters together, that a single author simply can’t do on their own.

I was suffering from a particularly bad case of writer’s vulnerability. I didn’t really have writer’s block per se, it was just I couldn’t get excited about any ideas that I came up with. Like most writers I began thinking about what I wanted to accomplish with my storytelling. Now apart from the obvious dreams of success, one of my goals was to collaborate with another author and write a crossover between our novels.

I began searching the list of independent authors whose works I admired as I began dreaming up potential ideas for a crossover. However I soon discovered the extreme difficulty in getting a crossover written. Most authors barely have time to get their own stories written let alone the time needed to write a good crossover.

At first I was disgruntled but my mind kept coming up with different crossover ideas. I soon found myself thinking about the fantasy genre as a whole. Fantasy has to be the most diverse literary genre; there are just so many sub-genres. I began thinking about the differences between the sub-genres and soon discovered the one commonality they all share, heroism. Now as you probably know heroism comes in all shapes and sizes but ultimately it comes down to heroes doing the right thing and selflessly putting themselves in dangerous situations to accomplish such a goal.

Unsurprisingly when thinking about the core of fantasy it is impossible not to think of Tolkien’s work (without a doubt the measuring stick of fantasy). While thinking about Lord of the Rings an image popped into my mind. I imagined Conan the Barbarian and David Gemmell’s Waylander fighting alongside Legolas and Gimli as they defended Helm’s Deep. Pretty cool image right?

That image sent my imagination running and it wasn’t long before I came up with the concept for this anthology. But truth be told because of my frustrating experiences with trying to get a crossover story written I wasn’t exactly hopeful about it. I posted the idea in several goodreads groups with little intention of actually creating the anthology. Sometimes it is just fun to talk about an idea even if nothing comes to fruition.

However within only a matter of days I had over a dozen excited authors eagerly asking where they could sign up for the anthology. Their enthusiasm got me excited that an anthology could actually happen. I quickly set about gathering these authors, setting up guidelines and an email address where we could all communicate and finally submit our contributions.

As I read what my fellow authors had written I was both impressed and amazed by the diversity presented to me. Almost every sub-genre of fantasy can be found within this anthology, epic, high, dark, brutal, urban, horror, paranormal and almost everything in between. If you’re expecting 15 Eragon styled entries then are you in for a surprise. We have a great array of traditional heroes, bad ass anti-heroes, urban heroines, angels, demi-gods, ancient beings, talking animals and even super heroes. Also a few authors are making their publishing debut with this anthology.

It still feels a little surreal that not only this anthology was put together but just how brilliant of an anthology it is. As strange as it sounds I feel a little like the King of Ebulon right now. While he called for aid to save his kingdom I called for aid in helping me deal with my writer’s vulnerability. Their fictional heroes just might save Ebulon (I can’t give away spoilers now can I?) but I know for sure the enthusiasm and talent of these 14 authors has cured me of my vulnerability. For that I just want to say thank you to each and every one of them.

Now the time for talk is over, the enemy is at the gate, hellbent on destroying this fascinating Kingdom. Will they succeed in conquering it? Not while our heroes have anything to say about it!

-Shane Porteous (complier of this anthology.)

Entry Point 1 - by Shane Porteous

The winter was the coldest it had ever been, causing a constant chill to consume the air. The sun did its best through the thick clouds, but even its power was not enough to warm the mountainous landscape. Two warriors dressed in thick fur over full suits of armour stood side by side in a quiet little corner of the city. Both in their early thirties, one possessed a full head of black hair, while the other was completely bald. The air was cold enough on its own to transform their breath into mist, but each sucked eagerly on pipes creating mists of their own. The weed tasted pleasant yet both stood with sour expressions.

“No one is coming you know,” The full haired man said, his words were as flat as paper. He had spoken softly yet his voice seemed loud in the otherwise tense silence. For his words he got a scowled look from his bald headed companion.

“How many times are you going to say that Ulka?”

Ulka studied the face of the other man briefly; Torin was always hard to read.

“Until you accept it as fact my friend.”

Torin took a long drag from his pipe as he glanced up at the morbid sky. “We’ve known each other since we were kids and in all that time I never knew you had such an ability.”

Ulka narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what his deep voiced friend meant. Torin knew well enough that Ulka didn’t realize what he was getting at. With his bronze eyes Torin looked to his friend. “I didn’t realize that you can see into the future, tell me are we going to see the end of today?”

Ulka made a point of taking a long drag from his pipe before he answered. “I don’t know about the future, but I have seen the present and not one word of help arriving has been uttered.”

Torin held the pipe in his teeth but spoke before inhaling. “The day is still young Ulka, besides we have no idea what is happening in other parts of Ebulon do we?”

Ulka bit his lip, sometimes Torin could be a little condescending. “That doesn’t help us now does it?” Ulka replied.

Torin shook his head and blew out more smoke. “It might, for all we know there is a whole horde of allies taking care of the enemy, we might not even have to wield our swords today.”

“You seem to have the ignorant hope of a child, Torin.”

“Better that than the cynicism of an old man,” Torin skillfully replied.

Ulka gaze ascended to the dull sky, he rarely saw the sun but had always found its glow beautiful, of all days he wished he could see it clearly today. “I just don’t see why anybody will come and help us, their worlds aren’t at stake, they have nothing to gain from coming here.”

Torin allowed the words to hang for a moment before he responded. “Let us just hope, there are enough selfless warriors in all the worlds that enough will bring aid.”

Ulka nodded, though he remained doubtful, his gaze still to the sky.

“Lieutenants!” a sharp voice called.

The two men turned to see a woman warrior, dressed similar to them.

“Yes Luvis?” Torin asked.

“The Captain wants to speak to you two immediately.”

Ulka and Torin glanced at one another briefly as the air grew tense. They both feared the attack had begun. Taking one last drag of their pipes the two of them quickly emptied them and extinguished the embers under their boots. They made sure their lungs were free of smoke before nodding to Luvis and moving out of the little corner.

They walked passed a stone corner and into a large open area. Warriors, both men and women of the realm, stood and sat in preparation for what would surely be the largest attack on their city in history. The lieutenants received the occasional nod from their fellow soldiers, each warrior tried to look brave but the air stank of fear. They could see their captain above the courtyard, standing upon the stone walkway that bordered the city. His helmet wasn’t on his head, potentially a good sign that the attack hadn’t come yet. Moving together they walked up the closest set of stone stairs and entered the walkway. Silently they moved passed the numerous soldiers who stood by various mechanisms of defense, such as stone throwers. If Ebulon were too fall today it would not fall quietly.

As they approached the captain they were drawn to his immense eyes. In the chill of winter they seemed like two flawlessly carved marbles of blue and white, unflinching and immovable. As with every soldier that would defend this entranceway Torin and Ulka were grateful that Captain Juruz would be leading them. In a sign of genuine and mandatory respect the two of them bowed slightly.

“You called for us Captain?” Torin asked.

Through his thick blond beard Juruz said, “Where were the two of you?” Though he was in his early forties, ever since he was 13 Juruz had possessed a voice of authority.

“Captain we were smoking from our pipes,” Torin answered.

Juruz stayed silent, but they each knew what it meant.

“We did it in a corner that wouldn’t be seen by any of the troops, we know how important it is to appear brave in front of them and so we both needed to calm our nerves,” Ulka said quickly, hoping to ease the immense tension.

Juruz didn’t answer right away and that made the two of them nervous. “That weed doesn’t calm the nerves, it dulls them… tell me do you want to be as sluggish as drunkards when the time comes to wield swords?”

Torin and Ulka lowered their heads, they wished they could’ve been as fearless as Juruz, but such fearlessness was beyond them. Ulka raised his head and motioned to speak but then stopped upon realizing Juruz wasn’t looking at them. Very rarely did he not give eye contact; it was one of the many reasons why he was so respected amongst the soldiers of Ebulon, because he always showed respect. Instead he was staring out into the mountainous wilderness, every inch of which appeared grasped by snow.

“Captain may I ask what it is you’re looking at?” Ulka asked while Torin listened carefully.

“I am not looking at anything Ulka, I am listening…”

Torin and Ulka raised their heads and listened well.

“I’m afraid I can’t hear what has grasped your attention Captain,” Torin said respectfully.

Juruz nodded, though his expression remained like stone. “I can’t hear it anymore either, the drums can no longer be heard.”

Ulka and Torin listened for a moment to strengthen Juruz’s words. They now stood by his side looking out into the mountain ranges. For the last several days those accursed drums had haunted the air as the Orcs were preparing themselves for battle in whatever dark ritual suited their filthy minds. Ulka and Torin had been too consumed by fear to realize that the drums couldn’t be heard as they smoked their pipes. Juruz was right, the weed had dulled their senses.

“If they were preparing to attack then the drums would have softened not silenced,” Torin pointed out.

Juruz nodded but kept his strong gaze beyond the city walls. “About 20 minutes ago the drums stopped and in their place came the sounds of clashing steel and vile Orc screams and then silence,” Juruz said.

A smile came to Ulka’s face when a comforting thought entered his mind. “Are we fortunate enough that the Orcs turned on one another, their confederation is made up of so many different tribes and Orcs are such petty things, if we are lucky they have slaughtered one another.” His cynicism was momentarily replaced with hope that was soon massacred when Juruz shook his head.

“Orcs love to bicker and fight, but if that was the reason then the drums would have started again.” Juruz took a sharp breath, his men were already terrified, of all days he didn’t need this riddle confusing his thoughts.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Torin said. Like many warriors of his realm he had been fighting Orcs since he was old enough to hold a sword. Yet he had never heard or seen such a thing.

“What do you think it means?” Ulka asked, his own experienced mind failing to find the answer.

“It is a question we must have an answer to,” Juruz said after a long troubled moment of thought. Suddenly he turned and stepped to the inner railing of the walkway. “Lieutenant Luvis!” he called. His voice echoed gently off the thick stone walls of the courtyard and while every head looked to him Luvis was the only one to respond. “Yes Captain?”

“Myself, Lieutenant Ulka and Torin are going to scout the nearby range, until we return you’re in charge.”

“Yes Sir,” Luvis replied, doing her best to hide her own concern.

Juruz turned to the lieutenants, neither looked particularly calm.

“We’re going out there?” Ulka asked, rarely did he question his captain, because rarely did he have to, but this was an important exception.

“How else will we find out what is going on?” Juruz asked, bluntly.

Torin shook his head slightly. “Captain the safest place for us to be is behind these stone walls, they have allowed us to fend off Orc attacks for thousands of years, they are more useful on this day than they ever have been.”

Juruz nodded, “All the better that only the three of us and a handful of troops go on the scout then.”

“But captain,” Ulka pleaded. “These men and women are terrified, they will need your strong voice and skilled hands to lead them when the attack arrives.”

Juruz raised his head slightly, his mind filling with thought. “I am just a man Ulka, just like you, I have no plan on dying out there, but if I do these fine troops will still rise to defend it. This act serves more than one purpose, if the troops see the three of us willing to go in so few a number it will keep their confidence up and their wills strong… better than any smoked weed.” He didn’t wait for a response and began walking to the closest stairway. Juruz had always been a man of action and his wisdom rarely failed. Ulka and Torin took long breaths before following him.

As he walked through the courtyard Juruz pointed at various soldiers. “Join us,” was all he had to say for the various men and women to follow him without question. With two dozen warriors following him Juruz left the courtyard and entered a stone stable. Built directly into the walls of Ebulon, there were many such stables designed to keep the strong mountain horses from the slicing chill of a winter night. These horses were strong and fast but in truth they weren’t compulsory for the upcoming battle. Instead they were being kept alive for their meat, in case the Orcs decided to surround the city and merely starve the humans out. Orcs were known for enjoying bringing the longest death possible to their enemies, so this was a real possibility. But for now these horses would prove their worth and help keep the scouting party safe.

Juruz walked down the center of the stable merely pointing and directing the warriors to a single horse each. He took the farthest horse from the stable entrance for himself as he led the mounted party out of the stable and towards the entranceway. The group could feel the eyes of every soldier upon them, each wondering if the party would return. The party waited nervously as the thick iron gate was raised. It was solid and capable of surviving a direct catapult attack, but every soldier knew this gate couldn’t keep the Orcs at bay forever.

As they rode out Ulka held his breath, still wishing he could see the sun fully. As the grind of the gate closing filled the air Juruz waited for silence to fall.

“Remember we are simply to investigate why silence has fallen, it is more important that we all survive than it is for any of us to be a hero, so keep close, safe and above all us speak only in a whisper.” The group heeded his words and replied solely with nods.

They moved collectively in a slow gallop, the horses had long grown use to the uneven terrain the mountain landscape provided and so rode easily. Each of them kept a sharp look out in every direction but still the source of the silence eluded them. Frustratingly the path ahead of them was considerably wide, allowing hundreds of Orcs to charge side by side and attack the city, there would be no way to force them into a lethal bottleneck. Like the others Ulka was aware of this and still held onto the hope the Orcs had slaughtered each other so badly there weren’t any of them left to bang their drums.

Only silence met their ears when they moved further down the curving path. Yet another sense quickly became enflamed. It was unmistakable; the air was cursed with the smell of death. Orc blood and rot was extremely foul, even by death’s standard and it consumed the air. Orcs had died, but for what reason?

The end of the trail was now in sight; it curved severely behind the girth of a mountain peak. Even Juruz was hesitant to see what lay on the other side of it. Fortunately every one of them had smelled Orc death before and so they were able to keep themselves from coughing or puking, even though the smell was stronger now.

When Juruz passed around the peak he didn’t have to command his horse to stop, it did so by its own accord. Juruz, the captain who had led his troops into a thousand campaigns and who was known for his calm demeanor openly gasped, as his marble eyes flinched.

“What?” Torin gasped, losing control of his own senses as his horse stood alongside Juruz’s. Every single one of them was brought to the most intense silence they had ever felt. What lay before them was a hellish image of death. The Orcs hadn’t been killed they had been butchered; there was not a single corpse that lay intact. Arms, legs, heads, torsos and entrails filled the clearing, combining to make the vilest soup upon the ground.

“Even the Wargs are cut in half?” A woman warrior gasped out. This was even more astonishing for the tough hides of Wargs were denser than steel, even Ebulon axes had difficulty cutting into them. What kind of weapon could possibly have cut them in half? “There must be a hundred dead Orcs here?” Ulka said as each of them searched the bloody landscape for the source. Juruz could see that even the drums had been cut to pieces; whoever had done this had desired obliteration. Juruz checked the sky yet he could see no birds of prey, they weren’t picky, those black birds would have feasted upon Orc flesh without a problem. Was it possible that they had seen what had happened here and even they were so afraid by it that they had fled this place?

“Captain,” a warrior whispered in a trembling voice. Juruz didn’t need any more direction he could see it for himself as they all could. There was movement from the other side of the killing field, a lone figure that couldn’t be missed. There was something about the way he walked, something subtle yet definite that was unlike anything this world had seen before. He was dressed in a black military uniform, one not even Juruz could recognize. The figure’s hair was white yet there was nothing elderly about him. His 6’4 frame was impressive in every way and there was not a single wrinkle or blemish to hinder his flawless skin. Though the figure walked with a large sword in hand and a black cape on his back, none of them could look away from his eyes. They were the most powerful shade of red anyone of them had ever seen. They carried a power within them that could make the entire world tremble in fear.

“A single soldier killed all these Orcs?” A female warrior muttered, like she was convinced she was stuck in the middle of a nightmare.

“It couldn’t have been him,” another soldier pleaded. “There isn’t a speck of blood on him.” This was true, even the figure’s sword was bloodless. Yet this rationale did nothing to put them at ease. This figure was the only thing still living in the field of death, that was enough to make him terrifying.

The figure slowly walked towards them through the blood drenched clearing, taking no notice of the slaughtered around him. He got to about 30 feet away and suddenly the horses began acting up. They screeched and uncomfortably shuffled about and each soldier struggled greatly to keep them under control. This made no sense, these horses were use to the smell of death and blood, and they were extremely well trained. Yet their training couldn’t keep them calm in the presence of such a figure.

He approached and each of them waited with held breaths, as if fearing he would strike them down if they breathed too loudly. The figure looked to each of them and his gaze sent a thousand chills through their souls.

“I am Cada Varl,” his voice was like nothing they had heard, it was powerful, ancient, distant but perfectly clear. In one way it was human and in another it was anything but. Regardless of what else happened today each of them would never forget his voice. When he received no answer Cada Varl spoke again. “I was brought to this place by a voice in my head, it told me a kingdom called Ebulon was in need of my help.” Slowly Cada Varl looked over his shoulder towards the field he had decorated with death. “May I ask what these creatures are?” Fear remained but it was joined with puzzlement for a moment. They then realized that this Cada Varl had come from another world and was not familiar with their eternal enemy.

“Don’t you have Orcs in the world you come from?” Torin forced himself to ask, his bewilderment momentarily overcoming his fear. Cada Varl briefly glanced to him before looking back at the killing field. “No,” he said. “But my world has monsters of its own.”

Through everything he felt Ulka smiled nervously, help had arrived. It didn’t matter that Cada Varl was a single figure, not when he could kill so many Orcs single handily.

“I am grateful that you have come Cada Varl, this feat deserves a fine drop of ale.” Ulka stated. Cada Varl looked towards him and Ulka got the feeling he wasn’t trying to intimidate him but he still felt unnerved by such a gaze. “I thank you for the offer, but this group is nothing compared to the numbers I saw within the mountains.”

These words brought Juruz back to his familiar self, Cada Varl was awe inspiring but there were enemies to be dealt with. “Sir,” he began. “How many did you see?”

Cada Varl looked to Juruz as he said, “I have lived for over 4,000 years. If I had all that time back just to count the Orcs, it still wouldn’t be enough to count them all.”

This revelation chilled each of them far more than the presence of Cada Varl. They had known the enemy number was large but never imagined this many Orcs had been assembled.

“We should head back to….” Torin didn’t finish his thought for a good reason. Across the other side of the clearing more Orcs had appeared, each on top of a giant Warg. It seemed just like Juruz these Orcs had come to see what had happened to the advance party. Clearly Orcs and Men didn’t think all that differently. But the main difference between them was Juruz had brought two dozen troops, while these Orcs had come 500 strong. Instinctually Juruz reached for the horn on his belt, he could blow upon it sending a call for aid. But his troops were safe behind the city walls, it would be foolish to fight these Orcs on open ground. Yet he knew how fast Wargs were, they could easily catch them even upon horseback. And what of Cada Varl? Juruz refused to abandon this man who had come to help his city. Juruz studied the green and black faces of the Orcs, he had never gotten use to their ugliness. His eyes rested upon one in particular and for good reason.

The Orc who led the 500 strong troop was infamous in the realm of men. Grock, the King Killer, he had earned such a title for how many human kings he had defeated, the stubs of slain kings’ crowns decorated both of his ears like piercings. Even by Orc standards his hatred for mankind was immense, he was one of the cruelest beings the world had ever seen. After laying waste to a human city he was known to find the king and queen, where he would nail the king to a large piece of wood and force him to watch as Grock ate the Queen alive, piece by bloody piece. He was more human like in stature than most other Orcs, yet seemed more monstrous than most.

The two sides merely stood staring at one another for the longest of moments before Grock spoke. “This fear tactic won’t work humans, it is too absurd to believe…two dozen men killed this many Orcs?” A smile came upon his wretched face, he was fully aware of just how many Orcs would be attacking Ebulon, he was confident that by nightfall every human would be wiped from this world. Quickly he looked to the borders of the clearing, making sure there was no possible way an ambush party was waiting to attack his troops. He then scanned the faces of each of the humans, they were silent but not because they stood strong, he could see the fear in their eyes and it was so potent he could even smell it through the stench of death.

Then his eyes rested upon those of Cada Varl’s and instantly he narrowed his vision, he had never seen a human with red eyes before, not counting the bloodshot eyes of the many he had strangled. Even more so, Cada Varl was the only one who didn’t show fear. He studied his uniform, at one time or another Grock had been apart of an assault of every human city in the realm and yet no kingdom bared such a uniform.

“You!” Grock demanded with a pointing finger and horrid tone. Cada Varl slowly looked him dead in the eye, showing not an ounce of fear. “Who are you?” he asked. Juruz felt an urge to warn Cada Varl about Grock, certainly Cada Varl was powerful but Juruz knew the horror Grock was capable of. Cada Varl merely stared for a moment before turning to face the Orcs.

“I am Cada Varl,” he said simply. Grock snickered, humans had such stupid names and this man was no exception. “I am the one responsible for all the dead Orcs you see before you.”

Grock scowled at such words and after a moment of silence he joined his fellow living Orcs in a chorus of cackles. They sounded like a murder of crows squawking at some sick joke. Grock suddenly stopped laughing and instantly the others became silent.

“You really think I am that much of a fool? What stupid magic did you humans use to change this man’s hair and eye colour? There is an outside chance we would have believed you if you had bothered to paint yourself in the blood of the fallen. It is hard to be afraid of someone who is too squeamish to make their lie convincing.”

Juruz quickly glanced to Cada Varl before looking back at Grock. It was very rare for him to be bewildered, but in that moment he had no idea what to do. Grock smiled at Cada Varl, waiting for his façade to crack, but Cada Varl remained stony faced.

“Very well,” Grock stated as he slid off his Warg, which was the largest in the pack. As he did so every Orc smiled a wretched smile. They enjoyed the cruelty Grock was known to inflict. Grock took several steps into the field as he said, “If you’re so powerful you should have no problem killing me? Isn’t that right?”

“Cada Varl,” Juruz tried to whisper.

Cada Varl heard him but without hesitation walked into the clearing. The two of them met in the center as the Orcs continued to smile while the humans watched in silent fear. From under his black cloak Grock took in hand a foul blade, forged from the blackest of steel, it possessed jagged edges like a saw, with the head of a mace taking the place of the sword’s guard. It was brutal in every way, a weapon of utter cruelty known as ‘Nurok Bezul’ literally meaning ‘a thousand terrible deaths.’ There was hardly a single person in Ebulon who didn’t know of its disturbing power to cause agony and death. Grock was use to seeing men and women tremble in fear upon seeing the blade, so didn’t know what to think of it when this Cada Varl showed no change in his expression.

“Are you not afraid human?” Grock asked.

Cada Varl waited a moment, allowing the tense silence to fill the air. “It will take a lot more than a poorly made sword to fill me with fear monster.”

His words didn’t anger Grock as much as the look in Cada Varl’s eyes. This human hadn’t even bothered to raise his sword. To Grock this kind of arrogance was the ultimate insult. This Cada Varl would suffer like no human before him. The Ebulon soldiers had seen what Cada Varl was capable of, but Grock was one of the most skilled swordsmen in the history of both man and Orc. He could do things with his blade that men were simply incapable of.

Juruz looked beyond the two of them and could see an Orc staring directly at him. It too possessed a horn at its side; its grubby hand loosely grasped it. If Juruz called for help it would too. Juruz could now only rely on hope, that this Cada Varl was capable of defeating Grock, something no other human had ever been able to do.

Grock didn’t wait a second longer, his blade was hungry. He moved forward, proving incapable speed. In the eyes of the Ebulon soldiers he seemed a shadowy blur as he attacked Cada Varl. The smiles that had once been on the faces of the Orcs then vanished and a great clash of steel thundered in the air. Grock stood dumbfounded, his weapon had not only been blocked, it had been blocked with ease. Cada Varl stood with his sword slightly raised staring into the black eyes of his enemy. Grock shook his head, unable to accept what he was seeing.

“Unbelievable,” Torin gasped. “He blocked his strike like he was blocking the cane of a crippled 90 year old man.” He may have whispered these words but the silence was so great every single Orc and Human heard his words. No human had ever blocked Nurok Bezul before. Grock increased his speed and replayed the attack, determined it was some lucky fluke. Yet it wasn’t, Cada Varl blocked the second strike just as easy. Grock heard the gasps of his fellow Orcs all too well as they began whispering their disbelief. Grock could feel the rage rise inside and he unleashed it in a series of attacks, so fast and brutal that the humans couldn’t keep up with his movements. While Grock seemed a blur Cada Varl kept his sword in one hand, blocking each strike. He didn’t even appear to be paying attention, like this was a game he had played a thousand times before and had long grown bored with it.

After delivering another failed attack Grock leapt back as his rage showed itself in very heavy breaths. Cada Varl remained silent, as Grock demanded of his mind to explain what was happening. His state of rage quickly gave way to bewilderment. He had fought against some of the most legendary human warriors in the realm and each had died painfully and swiftly by his hand. Yet this Cada Varl had blocked all of his attacks and wasn’t even breathing heavily. His instincts then came to his rescue. He took a strong whiff of the air, his motions were that of a foul beast. “You’re not human are you?” It was a question that every single human and Orc desperately wanted answered.

“Not anymore…” was Cada Varl’s casual reply.

Every Orc and human watched in tense silence, all wondering and fearing what would happen next. Grock raised his sword and was still annoyed that Cada Varl kept his lowered. This red eyed man wasn’t taking him seriously. The answer only created more questions. Something was a miss, striking Cada Varl’s sword felt like punching a mountain, there was no budge there. He possessed strength greater than even an Orc’s.

Grock didn’t allow himself to be overwhelmed; instead his mind came up with another solution. Suddenly he opened his mouth slightly, revealing rows of crooked, sharp teeth. His green putrid tongue moved like it was suffering a seizure as his mouth opened and closed rapidly. Cada Varl still showed no emotion, yet he was confused as to what his opponent was doing.

“He’s using Orc magic!” Juruz called out desperately.

Grock smiled, the revelation had come a second too late. Cada Varl didn’t even have time to look over his shoulder at Juruz. A foul smelling black mist appeared in the air, it was without visible source but knew its purpose. The mist surrounded Cada Varl on all sides before wrapping itself around him like a demonic cobra. The mist then became solid, made from a metal that could only be forged by magic. Cada Varl glanced down at his imprisonment and when he looked back to Grock, the King Killer was smiling. Cada Varl may have been a powerful fly, but still he had been caught in Grock’s web. Even Juruz gasped at seeing this, he didn’t know the rhyme or reason of Orc magic. All he knew was it was dark, ancient and very powerful.

“You’re strong,” Grock began. “But rarely does strength alone win you victory.” He waited to see fear yet Cada Varl showed none, Grock was hoping he was about to change that. He lifted his sword noticing his grasp was now steady. “I am going to make you ask me to kill you a thousand times, before this is over.”

This magic black metal amazed Cada Varl, he had never seen anything like it. The fact that his tremendous physical strength wasn’t enough to break it proved how powerful it was. Juruz was panicking on the inside, he didn’t want to force his two dozen troops into a suicidal situation but he couldn’t just stand by and watch Cada Varl get killed. Cada Varl looked back to Grock who was approaching very slowly, savoring every moment of the torture that was about to take place.

Cada Varl didn’t want to have to use it, but he knew it was the only way to save himself. Grock was the first to notice it and stopped in mid step as the air before the red eyed man began to shimmer as if controlled by the heat of a flame. Juruz was the next to notice it for it was hard to see at first. Torin was puzzled as he wiped the sweat from his brow. This was the dead of winter and yet he was sweating. Collectively it seemed everyone noticed how hot the air had become. The shimmer in the air was now joined by a very faint metallic red light, like Cada Varl was standing in the middle of an oven.

“What are you doing?” Grock couldn’t help but ask, his smile twisting into a snarl. Cada Varl didn’t answer with words but with action. His eyes began to glow that metallic red and seeing this Grock felt afraid. The red energy now appeared to attack the black prison and before the moment was over it had destroyed it like a hammer to glass.

“This cannot be!” Grock gasped out, his fear choking his own words. The energy remained faint around Cada Varl as he stared at Grock with glowing eyes. “What lie is this?” Grock demanded, the black metal was summoned to be indestructible, what power was Cada Varl using? He looked into those red powerful eyes. Grock was rarely afraid, he hated the feeling but his fear would not be denied. This Cada Varl, whoever he was had to die and die now.

Ignoring the extreme heat, he rushed towards Cada Varl, his weapon at the ready. He barely saw Cada Varl move, before he couldn’t see anything. An Orc was the first to gasp, because no one could quite tell what had happened immediately and then it became all too clear. Not only had Cada Varl cut through Grock’s sword he had cut his head straight from his shoulders. Black Orc blood could be seen momentarily in the air before evaporating within the heat of Cada Varl’s faint red energy. Grock’s body fell lifelessly before him yet Cada Varl paid no attention, unlike everyone else he knew exactly what he had done.

“He killed him as easily as a lion killing an ant?” Torin blurted out.

The Orcs watched on terrified and dumbfounded not believing Grock was dead. Instinct took control of one specific Orc and he jammed the horn to his lips and blew it soundly. The noise it emitted echoed all throughout the ranges and brought everyone back to the moment at hand. Though still shocked by what Cada Varl had accomplished Juruz thought clearly enough to know what this sound meant. Grock was dead but 500 Orcs were alive and capable and in only a few moments thousands more would be arriving on the scene. He motioned to speak but was brought to silence as seemingly every peak began to tremble violently. The horses struggled against the now quaking earth as every soldier searched for the source.

“So many Orcs are marching the mountains tremble under their weight!” Ulka cried, as his horse desperately wanted to flee this place.

“No…” Juruz said, with an eerie calm. “It is something else,” he knew the march of Orcs well and therefore knew they were not the cause of this. “The mountains are afraid…” Juruz added, his gaze distant.

“Afraid of what?” Torin asked. Instantly when his words were spoken the red energy intensified around Cada Varl like a match head being violently lit. Juruz and Torin glanced to one another, knowing the question had just been answered.

“What’s he doing now?” a soldier said, asking a question they all feared to know the answer to. The earth continued to quake as the red energy began to rise furiously and move within itself like lightning in a storm. The mass of energy moved to his sword before ascending like a towering inferno. The ascending energy reached the sky before the moment was over burning through the clouds like flame to cobwebs. With the pillar still burning, the world was grasped by the light of the sun.

In spite of the collective fear, in that second Ulka was grateful for what Cada Varl had done, he could see the sun clearly. It was an eerie yet awe inspiring sight, one that they each silently marveled at. This wrath of energy felt like it had the power to cut the very world in half. They all wanted to run to the very edge of existence if they had to, but no one could bring himself or herself to move for terror and wonder grasped them all. However Cada Varl wasn’t struggling under its power, he had complete control of it. With a blood red glow consuming everything in sight Cada Varl’s arms moved swiftly as he hammered the energy down through his sword. It crashed like a gigantic wave upon the mountains and the Orcs were caught right in its center.

The explosion was more powerful than any storm that had struck the world, causing everything to shake violently, many were terrified the world would be rattled into pieces. The bellowing sound of it could be heard for countless miles, echoing warnings of its power a thousand times through the mountains. It was over in a second but was so shocking that Juruz and his soldiers felt like they were trapped in a hell that lasted ten years. The red light remained after the explosion had taken place for a few moments, then it was followed by a deathly silence.

The Soldiers of Ebulon’s hearts were beating fast enough that they could actually hear one anothers’ heartbeats; together it sounded like a chorus of fear as they looked to the destruction. Many peaks that had stood for a hundred thousand years were no more, completely incinerated by the wrath of destruction. What had once been a clearing was now more like a crater, the once white of the snow had been replaced by a scorched black. In the middle of it all the Orcs still sat upon their Wargs. Although now they were completely still, scorched beyond recognition like the centerpiece of a demon’s dinner.

At the least the earth was still once again and the soldiers were grateful for it. Several horses had fainted, their senses overwhelmed by what had happened, trapping their riders underneath their bulk. Ebulon had its fair share of legends and yet no hero Juruz had ever heard of was capable of anything like that. In that moment, he wasn’t afraid though his heart still raced and his entire body trembled. He was grateful that Cada Varl had come to help the city and not to destroy it. Because an attack like that could easily bring down a city wall in a shard of a moment.

Every eye was now upon Cada Varl who stood stronger than any mountain, the faint glow of energy still around him. He had seen just how quickly the beasts the Orcs rode could move, he had to be sure to kill them all before they charged or made their escape.

There was silence for what felt a very long time, as each soldier tried to come to terms with what had just happened. Before that could happen, the near-silence was replaced by the sound of drums. Everyone including Cada Varl looked into the distance where countless Orcs were on the march. It was ungodly what Cada Varl had done, but many enemies still breathed. Juruz knew he needed to take command and quickly turned his horse around.

“Nobody move,” came Cada Varl’s voice, it was deeper than usual and more animalistic. The soldiers of Ebulon waited with held breaths as Cada Varl watched the oncoming mass of Orcs. It wouldn’t take them long to reach this place.

Juruz could see that Cada Varl’s eyes were still glowing and the flesh of his right hand had become completely red. Cada Varl knew he had used too much of the energy, he had gotten lost in the heat of the moment, these 500 Orcs were but an inch to the mile of enemies that were now coming his way. When he had first seen their numbers he knew he would have to use this power eventually, he just wished it wasn’t so soon. He only hoped that he would manage to keep control of it. He glanced over his shoulder and looked into the flinching eyes of Juruz before looking back to the oncoming horde. He hadn’t come here to be an observer.

“I’ll kill as many of them as I can, but if any do get passed me it will be up to you to kill them.” Juruz couldn’t bring himself to respond, he watched silently as without fear Cada Varl walked towards the countless mass of Orcs, his eyes still glowing, his sword ready. As every pathway and trail the eye could see in the distance became filled with Orcs Cada Varl neither quickened nor slowed his pace, he just kept walking.

“And you said help would never come,” Torin said to Ulka, in an attempt to add levity to the air (which failed miserably).

Ulka looked to his companion briefly before looking back at Cada Varl. “If ones such as he arrive to help the other entrances, than Ebulon will be saved….” Ulka said, as awestruck as he had ever been. Torin nodded in response before Ulka added. “Let us just hope that when he is through with those Orcs… He’ll return to his own world.” Without knowing it every single soldier nodded in agreement.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

How Gods Bleed by Shane Porteous

Available now.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/101158

Entry Point 2 - by Walter Rhein

Malik’s head hurt.

It had hurt for the last few months, and oddly, the only thing that seemed to appease the sensation was turning his head North and marching. If he turned left or right from a specific line, the pain flared up around his temples and didn’t relent until he had oriented back on the chosen course. Likewise if he tarried too long without making reasonable progress. In that case, the pain seemed to start from the back of his skull and surged forward without mercy towards his eyeballs.

It ached.

Even when Malik complied, there was a nagging annoyance. It felt almost as if a grain of sand had become rooted in his head that could never be dislodged.

To say the situation had left him in a foul mood was something of an understatement.

With every step, the wind seemed to grow a fresh set of teeth. The ground beneath his feet had turned barren and rocky weeks ago, which had been bad enough. Today, however, Malik found himself trudging through a foot of freshly fallen snow. Not only was it cold, it was wet, and Malik had lost feeling in his toes early in the day’s march.

His fingers twitched in longing to draw his sword from its sheath and cut down something, anything, in payment for the hardships he was being forced to endure. His weapon was an oddity, even in his distant homeland. It was a slender, single-edged sword with a curved blade. There were no fancy engravings or augmentations to disguise its nature as a killing tool, but to the eyes of grunt warriors groomed for a quick death as front line fodder, the craftsmanship was nevertheless exquisite.

The handle was bone, and appeared to be that of a human femur.

The bone was wrapped with leather cord for about half its length, but at the bottom the gleaming white handle was decorated with a series of crude, almost childlike carvings.

Malik didn’t know what the carvings signified or who had put them there. He had not modified the weapon since it had been bestowed upon him for passing the final trials of the Camden Guard.

The weapon represented his first kill.

The memory was not particularly pleasant.

“Halt!” bellowed a voice from the road ahead.

Malik was startled from his reverie. Under normal circumstances he kept a diligent watch on his surroundings, and would not have been surprised. However in this case, it felt more as if he were being driven like a slave dog, so he had let his guard slip.

He looked up in the direction of the voice and found that he was standing at the base of an entrance gate. A twenty foot wide arch rose from pylons embedded into rock walls on either side. Behind the pylons was a portcullis and then a heavy wooden door.

At the top of the arch stood a soldier in crude armor covered with animal skins.

“Who goes there?” the soldier demanded.

“I’m Malik,” Malik replied.

“Malik who?”

Malik gritted his teeth. A lance of pain stabbed through his eyes reminding him that he should be moving forward.

“Malik of Camden, of Miscony, of a half-dozen god-forsaken little villages and arm-pits like this one stretching back a thousand miles to the South,” he snapped.

“You don’t know where you are?” the soldier persisted.

“I do not.”

“The city you look upon is Ebulon, many call it the jewel of the North.”

“Then they don’t get out all that much because it’s an arm-pit. Open the gate or I’ll start scaling it.”

The solider recoiled at Malik’s words, but he continued with his duty.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here because of a pain in my mind which will not let me be anywhere else has led me here. It’s been driving me onwards for days and nights and frankly I care nothing for Ebulon, its walls, its treasures or its populace. I know only that a phantom taskmaster has driven me to this gate, for all I know there is a cliff on the other side it wishes me to throw myself off of, but unless I obey I’m put into agony. I ask only that you don’t impede my progress because I have no desire to suffer the inconvenience of dulling my sword against your stubborn head.”

The solider seemed confused.

“I was not aware that the call could cause any pain.”

“The call?” Malik said.

“Our dear King Yadi has sent out a call to heroes, Ebulon is in peril. Could it be that you are one of the those he has summoned to save us?”

Malik gritted his teeth as the irritation continued behind his eyes.

“How about if we open up the door and see?”

All at once, the solider seemed beside himself with the desire to be accommodating.

“Right away,” he said with a salute, and a moment later the portcullis began to creek upwards.

Malik got as close to the wall as he could, but the delay still provoked needles of pain to persist in their insidious, creeping torment. He situated himself next to the small door that had been cut within the gate and stood with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose until the portcullis had risen enough and the door cracked open.

Not waiting for an invitation, Malik dove through, shouldering several armored bodies out of his way in the process.

His act provoked a commotion of squeals and cries, and several heavyset men lost their balance and tumbled to the mud.

After the initial rush, however, Malik stood absolutely still.

“What’s the matter with you?” a soldier cried. Malik turned to look and found it was the same man he had been conversing with on top of the wall.

“I told you, my head hurt and my passage was urgent.” Malik snapped. “You should have instructed your buffoons to get out of my way.”

The soldier looked bewildered, but he soon recovered.

“Well, if the pain is so great, why have you stopped?”

The hint of a smile passed over Malik’s face.

“It went away,” he said, “the pain I mean. It’s gone. Evaporated instantly.”

He rubbed his forehead before looking back once more at the soldier.

“What do you think that means?”

* * *

The table was made of crudely hewn oak boards, and the flagon that Malik clutched was chipped. He lifted the foul smelling drink to his lips and squinted.

“What did you say this stuff was?”

“It’s called Vaas, it’s our local brew.”

“It’s going to make me go blind,” Malik quipped before taking a long pull. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Malik had discovered that the soldier across the table from him, the same one he had met on the wall, was named Stern. Joining them was another man who wore fine robes instead of armor. Stern had called the fellow shortly after Malik’s arrival. He was one of those obnoxious folks that had a title as well as a name.

“So Regent Jenner,” Malik said, emphasizing the man’s title in a way he hoped came across as suitably disrespectful. “Let me see if I have this straight. Your town…”

“…noble city,” Jenner interrupted.

“Is about to be overrun by an enemy force…”

“…Orcs.”

“So your witch king…”

“…wizard.”

“Magicked up a cosmic headache for any swordsman wandering around…”

“He sent out a call yes.”

“And we’re expected to come and save this dump.”

Regent Jenner winced at the word ‘dump,’ but still nodded. “That’s more or less it.”

Malik grunted and took another swig of his Vaas.

“Let me assure you that the call of our noble King Yadi…”

“Yadi huh?”

“…was never supposed to cause you any pain. To a true hero, the call should have elicited a sensation of euphoria.”

Malik scowled. He didn’t say anything, but he lifted his flagon of Vaas, took a long draw, and set the flagon back on the table without ever taking his eyes off Regent Jenner. When he was done, he again found his voice.

“So what did you do to irritate your attackers?”

Regent Jenner nearly dropped the glass of wine he’d been sipping.

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you being attacked?” Malik persisted.

“They’re Orcs,” Stern said noting that Jenner was too beside himself to answer.

“That’s not a reason,” Malik replied, “what’d you do, build this city on their sacred mating ground or something?”

“Orcs are evil.”

“So are people.”

“I can assure you that we did nothing to provoke this attack,” Jenner snapped. “Orcs are unthinking beasts that exist only to destroy.”

“Uh-huh,” Malik said.

“Do you know anything of Orcs?” Stern persisted.

“I know that there are two sides to any conflict. A fool who steps between a mother bear and her cub will believe he is the victim of an ‘unprovoked attack’ right up to the instant of his imminent death—but he remains incorrect, and a fool to the end.”

Regent Jenner rose from the table, his face turning red.

“I will not sit here and listen to you insult…”

Before he had a chance to finish his words, Malik struck the proud noble with a lightning fast backhand that sent the thin figure spinning into the tavern’s wall. Seeing the aggressive act, Stern moved to draw his sword, but was halted by the tip of Malik’s blade which he suddenly found pressed against his Adam’s apple.

“That sensation you’re feeling,” Malik said in a low tone. His eyes were on Stern but the words were directed at Jenner. “It’s unpleasant isn’t it? Coppery taste in your mouth. Pressure at the back of your eyes. Now imagine feeling that exact same discomfort for an entire month at varying degrees of intensity as you walked to an unknown destination in the middle of nowhere to fight a battle you have nothing to do with.”

“Our call was for heroes,” Jenner snapped, “for a hero it wouldn’t have caused any pain.”

“Well that’s something you’ll have to take up with King Yeti.”

“Yadi.”

“Whatever. I didn’t ask to be here, nevertheless here I am. That being the case, you’ll do exactly as you’re told without giving me any grief. I intend to survive this nonsense, and that requires instant obedience and no lies. Got it? Speaking of survival, what reward am I promised?”

“Reward?”

“Yeah, what does this ‘hero’ get for saving your sorry butt?”

“There is no reward, only the noble satisfaction which comes from doing the right thing.”

Malik snorted. “Typical, you claim you’re in dire straights, but there are already some of you planning for the rebuild now aren’t you? The heroes can die while you wait it out, is that it?”

Malik lowered his weapon and sheathed it.

“Like it or not, the call found me. Do you contest my right to be here?”

Stern lowered his head. Despite his misgivings about the lean swordsman, Stern had already seen enough to know he was no match for the man. He shook his head slowly in the negative. Regent Jenner maintained a defiant stare, but, like Stern, did not speak to the contrary.

“Good, now take me outside and show me the men I’m supposed to lead.” Malik smiled and looked pointedly at Jenner, “Remember, I’ve had a long couple months, so be nice.”

* * *

“Here you are,” Jenner said proudly as Stern took his place beside two rows of armored men.

“Twenty,” Malik sneered.

“Yes, this is the garrison for this wing of the city. I can assure you they’re expertly trained.”

“Twenty isn’t enough.”

“But, that’s all there is.”

“What about him?” Malik said, pointing at an old man sitting by a small cart outside the tavern. The cart was filled with glass bottles he was obviously trying to sell.

“You can’t be serious,” Jenner replied. But Malik was already heading over to address the man.

“You, what’s your name?”

“Ives sir,” the man replied.

“Your town is about to come under attack you realize?”

“Yes sir.”

“So why are you wasting time selling bottles?”

The old man shrugged.

“This is ridiculous,” Jenner snapped, but Malik silenced him with a glare.

“Are you willing to fight?”

“Yes,” the old man said.

“What’s he going to use?” Jenner asked.

“Isn’t there an armory?”

“Yes, but it’s empty.”

“There are no weapons anywhere?” Malik asked.

“No.”

Malik’s eyes narrowed. He lifted a bottle from the man’s cart and smashed it against the wall producing a jagged tip. He then handed the makeshift weapon to the old man.

“Here, I trust you’ll find it suitable enough to defend your homeland. Go for the throat where the skin is thin and the arteries are thick.”

“Yes sir,” the old man said, mustering a weak salute.

“Good, go and take your place among the garrison. You are now a guardian of Ebulon.”

“This is absurd…” Jenner complained, but Malik cut him off.

“Guardians! I want you to go into the city and bring back every able bodied man between the ages of fifteen and seventy. Have them assembled here in an hour. Go!”

Stern was the first to respond having seen Malik in action. The rest of the men followed with varying degrees of haste.

“Well done, you’ve left the gate unguarded,” Jenner snapped.

“Not at all, you’re here,” Malik replied.

Jenner turned white.

“I’m not a fighting man.”

“Really? Are we going to have to do this again?”

Jenner opened his mouth to answer, then thought better and shut it again.

“Good, now think hard and tell me where I can find some weapons.”

“There are no weapons.”

Malik leaned forward and looked hard into Jenner’s eyes. “I’m going to chain you to the portcullis,” he said in a slow and even tone. “You can either stand there and defend your city with a broken bottle like old Ives, or you can tell me where some weapons might be found.”

Jenner swallowed hard.

“There is one place…”

“I thought so.”

“…but it is sacred.”

Malik rolled his eyes.

“Just take me there.”

* * *

Malik and Jenner waited for Stern to return so as to not leave the front gate unmanned. The young soldier soon approached with two unhappy looking courtiers in fine clothing lagging along behind him.

“Good work,” Malik said, “these two look capable of slowing down an Orc or two before they are sacrificed to a miserable and pathetic death.”

The two men blanched, but Malik was pleased to note the flicker of a smile around the edges of Stern’s lips.

“There must have been some mistake,” one of the men said, “we are from the merchant’s quarter and are exempt from defense of the city. Heroes have been called to save us.”

“I’m the hero, and I die last,” Malik retorted.

The merchant was about to respond, but Malik held up his hand and turned to Stern. “When the other guardians return, have them bring back more like this. The wealthy, fat ones always fight better than the dregs from the poor quarter with no protein in their bloodstream. You stay here and instruct these maggots in basic swordplay. I’m going to go and get them some weapons. If any of them try to leave,” at this he turned his gaze back on the merchants, “cut them down as an example.”

The courtier who was still trying to talk snapped his jaw shut.

Malik started walking and Jenner was smart enough to follow his lead.

“Don’t be afraid to smack them around a bit,” Malik called out over his shoulder. “There won’t be any consequences because we’re probably all going to die anyway.”

* * *

Jenner soon took the lead and began guiding Malik through the winding streets of Ebulon. They were just out of sight of the gate when Malik stopped and turned his head in response to a distant sound.

“Is there a blacksmith nearby?”

“Yes,” Jenner replied, “just up this hill.”

“Take me there.”

In a few moments, they were standing at the entrance to a small forge. The blacksmith was shaping some metal on an anvil. He gave Malik a blank look but gave pause at the recognition of Regent Jenner.

“What are you working on?” Malik asked.

“It’s a heat shield for a fire place,” the blacksmith responded.

“Well, stop working on that right now and forge some blades.”

The blacksmith stared at Malik in disbelief.

“I’m told the city is about to be overrun by an enemy force and you’re wasting time on heat shields? How fast can you make a sword?”

“A good sword takes a week.”

“Ok,” Malik said, his face twisting up in a sneer, “how long to make a crude bar with a sharp point and some sort of grip that ensures the wielder’s hands don’t slip off?”

The blacksmith nodded, comprehension dawning.

“I could have a dozen or so in an hour.”

“Do it, and when you’re done, bring them to the gate along with all the able bodied men you can gather up.”

Malik gestured to Jenner again and the two of them resumed their errand.

A few minutes later, they passed a builder. A few men stood about a courtyard filled with wooden beams that had been cut for construction. Malik abruptly stopped again.

“You, is this your business?”

“Yes,” said a middle aged man.

“I need you to take these beams down to the gate. When you get there, have Guardsman Stern open the gate for you and carry the beams outside. There, I want you to bury the beams so they’re standing upright with about four or five feet of their length lodged in the ground.”

“Why?” the man said.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll gut you right now and leave you to die in the street like a dog.”

The man recoiled, but seemed to soften at a look he caught on the face of Regent Jenner. Instead of further protest, he simply nodded. Malik decided it was good enough and turned on his heel.

“Having you around is proving to be more useful than I ever anticipated,” Malik quipped. Jenner said nothing.

A few minutes later they arrived at the entryway to a small museum. A sign over the door was etched with the words, “The Heroes of Ebulon.”

Malik snorted and pushed his way inside.

A small man looked up from a piece of parchment on a dusty desk

“Welcome,” he said smiling, “are you here to marvel at the weapons and armor of Ebulon’s heroes of old?”

“No,” Malik snapped and stepped past the groveling man. He pushed through a curtain and entered a long hallway filled with glass cases. Inside the cases, various styles of armor and weaponry were displayed.

“No weapons cache…” Malik muttered beneath his breath.

Jenner said nothing.

“As you can see,” began the old man from the entryway who had followed them into the display hall, “we have carefully preserved the weapons and armor from…”

His words were cut off by the sound of breaking glass.

The sound was so shocking, the old man could do nothing but stand and stare.

Malik reached his hand past the glass he had just broken to grasp the handle of a sword that had fallen from its display at the force of Malik’s blow.

“It’s a little old fashioned,” Malik said, giving the weapon an experimental swing, “but it will suffice for killing Orc.”

The old man began to sputter in protest, so Malik decided it was best to give him something to do.

“You,” he said, pointing at the fellow with the newly acquired blade, “can you procure me a cart and a horse to pull it?”

At first, the old man didn’t appear to know how to react. After a few uncomfortable moments, however, he found his voice.

“Y-yes.”

“Good, go get it and have it ready outside.”

The old man stood rooted firmly in place, still trying to work up the gumption to protest. Malik robbed him of the chance.

“Go!” he cried, and the old man was off at a surprising clip for one of his age. “Get me some oil as well,” Malik cried after the man, who turned and half saluted in response.

Malik shook his head.

“The denizens of Ebulon are not making their salvation easy,” he said to himself.

Jenner opened his mouth to reply, but whatever words he intended to speak were lost as Malik attacked another display case and filled the room with the sound of breaking glass.

* * *

When Malik returned to the gate, he was pleasantly surprised. About a hundred men had been organized into small groups and were receiving some basic instruction from Stern’s Guardsmen. Beyond the gate, Malik could see the builders erecting the wooden beams at regular intervals as he had requested.

“It’s looking better,” Malik said to Jenner and then lifted his voice. “Who among you needs a sword?”

Several confused faces looked up from their drills and turned to face Malik. Malik stood beside the cart the old man from the museum had obtained. The cart was overflowing with weapons, and at the front there were two large barrels filled with highly flammable oil.

“Form an orderly line,” Malik said, and gestured to the back of the cart.

The men came trotting over. Malik reached into the cart and handed the first of them a rather elegant, slender blade. The man took it, started to move on, and then stopped in his tracks.

“This is the sword of Perocles, the first defender of Ebulon,” he said in awe.

“What’s your name?” Malik replied.

“Auryn,” the man said.

“Well, now it’s the sword of Auryn, Ebulon’s last defender.” Before the man had a chance to reply, Malik turned to Jenner.

“Make sure all these weapons are are distributed, then meet me on the wall.”

Jenner nodded.

“Make sure to grab a sword for yourself,” Malik admonished.

Glancing around, Malik’s gaze fell across Old Ives who was swinging his broken bottle in slow, obviously non-lethal arcs.

“Ives,” Malik said.

The old man looked around in confusion for a moment before his gaze came to rest on Malik. He smiled and came stumbling over.

“Where did your bottle cart go?”

The old man gestured to the cart which had been pushed into a small alley out of the way.

“Perfect,” Malik said. He took Ives by the elbow and then helped him bring the bottle cart next to the barrels of oil.

“I have a job for you Ives.”

Ives smiled a toothless grin.

“I need you to fill up these bottles like this,” Malik said as he poured oil from the barrel into the bottle. “Then I need you to soak a rag and stuff it into the bottle’s mouth.” Malik performed the task and held forth the bottle with the oil soaked rag dangling out along its side.

“Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Ives said with a smile. He then deftly set about the task and had three of the bottles done in the time it had taken Malik to do one. For the first time since he had come to Ebulon, Malik was impressed.

“Ives,” he said, a touch of affection entering his voice, “what’s your family name?”

“Molotov,” Ives replied.

“Perfect.”

* * *

By the time night fell the numbers guarding the wall had swelled to around five hundred. There were some grumblings, but Malik was satisfied at the production on such short notice.

The grumbling continued until a single voice gazed over the wall and noticed something strange in the distance.

“What’s that?”

Malik squinted his eyes, but experience revealed more to him than his vision.

“It’s a column of torches,” he said, and though he didn’t put any force behind his declaration, he knew the words carried along the wall.

Silence descended, and the men watched as the approaching column grew larger and larger.

Time passed, and Malik could feel the nerves of the protectors of Ebulon harden to a razor’s edge.

Finally, a single Orc emerged from the shadows to stand at the edge of the clearing before Ebulon’s gate. He held a torch and sniffed the air, turning its body this way and that. Malik sneered at the sight of him, for he was pig like and brutish. He stood taller than a man, and his body rippled with muscles that seemed more fitting for a beast of burden than a creature that walked upright.

All too soon, another creature appeared, then another, until the whole clearing was infested with growling, snarling beasts. They stood beyond the wooden beams that rose out of the earth and seemed to confuse the Orcs as to their purpose.

Malik waited.

More and more of the creatures arrived, and the ones from the back began pushing the front lines forward. There was no logic to the approach, just a mass of muscle and rusted steel.

Malik watched it all, and had just about given up hope that any organization would emerge from the chaos, when the attacking force suddenly went silent. The massing throng of bodies separated, and a white skinned beast stepped forth from the crowd.

“It’s their tribal leader,” Jenner whispered.

“Let’s get an idea what we’re dealing with,” Malik said to Jenner, throwing him a wink. He then lifted his voice so that it echoed across the clearing.

“Orc army, as you can see we are heavily fortified here with sufficient forces to repel your attack. However, there is no need for you to charge forward and throw away your lives needlessly. From what I understand, Ebulon has many gates, and some of them are guarded by singular heroes who feel the greatest nobility can be found by perishing alone on a battlefield in defense of the weak. Why not pass this gate by and assist your brethren in the eradication of such fools? I’m fairly sure you’ll find less resistance there than here.”

Jenner snapped his head around to regard Malik with an incredulous look at his semi-treasonous remarks. Malik chuckled as he noticed the reaction was shared by nearly every figure all the way along the line.

“Relax,” Malik said with a smirk, “it was worth a shot, but it’s not going to work.”

In answer, the white Orc lifted his arm and roared a beastly cry which incited all the creatures beneath his command to charge forward in a frenzied rush.

Malik felt the small contingent of archers he had put together tense, but he lifted his arm to calm them.

“Wait until the ladders come, then send your arrows far out into the throng. We need a barrier of bodies to inhibit their retreat when it starts raining fire.”

The archers nodded.

All too soon the ladders came rising out of the darkness. Malik dropped his hand, unleashing the barrage of arrows that provoked squeals of anguish and death as they connected in the distance. The arrows continued to fly, volley after volley, as the snarling faces came charging up their ladders from below.

Malik leaped onto the wall, swinging his sword downward in a terrible arc that separated the lead Orc’s forearms from his body. Unbalanced, the heavy beast tumbled backward, knocking several of its brethren from their perch upon the ladder. The disruption caused the whole structure to fail, and the ladder went skidding across the wall to dislodge the adjacent scaling mechanism as well.

Grabbing a torch, Malik grabbed one of Ive’s oil bottles, set it alight, and threw it with tremendous force down into the surging masses. As the bottle broke and sprayed oil everywhere, the flames spread with hungry abandon eliciting more cries of pain along with the sound of sizzling flesh.

“Ummm, bacon,” Malik said with a sadistic grin.

Jenner, who somehow had gotten his fine clothing sprayed by dark, brackish blood, stared up at Malik in disbelief.

Malik threw him another wink as he tossed down two more flaming bottles. This time the resultant liquid fire spread to one of the upright poles, which Malik had also ordered soaked in oil. Flames erupted high into the sky, and Orcs were pushed against the burning brand both by the forces from behind eager for the taste of battle, and those at the front who were trying to retreat and tend their terrible wounds.

More ladders thumped against the wall, and Malik danced about, assisting the Guardsmen in dislodging them. After less than an hour, all of the erected beams were alight, and the smell of death and the sound of dying filled the air.

In a slight pause in the fighting, Malik found himself alongside Regent Jenner. The proud man was trembling from head to foot, and black goo had stained half of his face.

“Not a fighting man eh Jenner?” Malik said, slapping the Regent on the back in encouragement. “It appears you’re making yourself useful.”

“It’s horrible…” Jenner could only stutter. “Horrible…”

“Nonsense,” Malik replied, “this isn’t nearly as bad as I though it would be.”

The words seemed to cut through Jenner’s near catatonic state, and he gazed at Malik in utter disbelief.

“I’m not saying we’re done,” Malik continued, “not by a long way. We’re almost out of oil and arrows, and I’m fairly sure there are enough Orcs left to bash down the portcullis and get into the courtyard, but we’ve got a sizable enough force to meet them there.”

Malik paused to make a downward swing at the face of an Orc that suddenly appeared on the wall. The beast’s face separated into two equal parts before the whole body slipped, dead, back down into the dark masses from which it had crawled.

“By the time the night’s over, I expect we’ll have lost about eighty percent of our forces, but we’ll emerge victorious. More importantly, I’m confident I’ll be able to survive this.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Jenner replied. “Doesn’t it bother you that so many are going to die?”

Malik shrugged. “I didn’t pick the fight.”

“And what will you do when it’s over?” Jenner continued, an acid tone entering his voice. “What will you do when Ebulon still stands but all its brave defenders lie dead in the courtyard to the gate?”

At this, Malik smiled.

“I’ll stick around for a while and help repopulate the city. I’m assuming there will be plenty of widows who seek comfort. I intend to put on a display of heroic swordsmanship the likes of which Ebulon has never seen. My headache is gone after all.”

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

The Bone Sword by Walter Rhein

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Entry Point 3 - by Vanna Smythe

Kae and fifty other Protectors waited by the doors of the Priests’ Palace. The tops of the three triangular towers of the palace disappeared in the thick storm clouds. Kae had the hood of his black Protector cloak pulled low over his eyes against the rain. This was no day to ride, but the five corps of Protectors gathered were assembled and ready for battle. If the pleas echoing in Kae’s mind were anything to go by, they were to assist the Kingdom of Ebulon.

Fasten the scarf over your mouth, Kae! First Captain Entan ordered on the air. Kae obeyed immediately. He hadn’t spoken to Entan since the First Captain told him to obey the priests in all things. Kae had refused. The way he had argued with the captain shamed Kae now. Yet what was done was done. Entan should not have asked him to be a coward.

The Kingdom of Ebulon needs your help, heroes of the lands! Please come swiftly!

The strange voice drifted through Kae’s mind again, as it had countless times that morning, the desperation in the plea hard to ignore. Yet this was fifty Protectors answering the call, assembled to offer aid. Ebulon only needed to wait a little longer and all would be well.

Kae’d only been made a Protector three days ago, and this was already the second mission they sent him on. If the First Captain led them, it had to be important.

Ryon, another recently pledged Protector, nudged Kae and whispered. “If we are to leave for Ebulon, why must we enter the palace first?”

Kae shared his friend’s reluctance to enter the palace He had begun to doubt Ebulon was a real place, feared it was just another test performed by the priests.

“Who understands all the dealings of priests?” Kae said, loudly enough for all the gathered Protectors to hear. Some grumbled their agreement, spitting on the ground to better make their point. Entan looked at him sharply.

A grizzled Protector with a scar running down his left cheek laughed. “What does a pledge know of the dealings of priests?”

“I know enough!” Kae replied, keeping his voice steady and firm, mimicking a commanding tone Entan might have used. He was a Protector now, and would not stand for anyone’s mockery. “I know they like their secrets and demand absolute obedience.”

The priests wanted to take away Kae’s ability to use the Life Force, because they deemed him too powerful. Wanted him to obey and never question, desired to control him completely. Even the First Captain urged Kae to submit to the priests’ control. But Kae could use his Life Force in ways others could not. He had more to lose if he obeyed that command.

Enough of this talk, Kae! Entan ordered on the air. Kae cast the captain a glance, but Entan was looking straight ahead and not meeting his gaze.

The doors of the palace creaked as they slid open. A jittery priest beckoned them all inside.

Only a handful of the torches lining the cavernous entrance hall of the palace were lit, giving off more smoke than light. An ancient priest stood by the hanging staircase leading to the underground room, where Kae was finally made a Protector a few days ago.

From the corner of his eye, Kae noticed a hooded and masked Protector join them from behind the vast marble staircase leading to the upper floors of the palace.

Why would a Protector wait for us inside the palace?

The old priest clapped his hands to get their attention. “I will open the passage into the kingdom of Ebulon for you. Follow me down these stairs.”

The descent took a good while. The priest led the way, limping down the stairs and stopping often to catch his breath. Kae spent the wait counting and recounting all the Protectors. Ten men to a corps, five corps sent, fifty men. The cloaked figure made fifty-one. He was not a member of any of the corps sent.

In the underground hall, the priest laid his hands against a wooden plaque hanging on the eastern wall. He muttered words Kae could not hear, and then started humming. The wall vanished. The underground hall of the Priest’s palace opened onto a vast courtyard, filled with ranks upon ranks of mail-clad warrior. A clanking of steel echoed across the courtyard as many of the soldiers drew their swords, startled from the sudden appearance of Protectors.

The priest stood aside and pointed. “Ebulon. Your skills are needed there. May you all return safely.”

“But how?” Ryon asked in a high-pitched voice. The other Protectors laughed. Yet fear filled the air around them. Ryon was not the only one afraid.

“Worry not, the First Captain will see you safely returned,” the priest replied.

The Protectors filed past him and into Ebulon. Black smoke rose into the sky in the east, shading the bright morning sun.

Filling the air was a stench of excrement, old blood, rotting meat, garbage left in the heat too long, all mixed together into something so vile Kae had no word for it.

Ryon nudged him. ”What died here and wasn’t buried?”

“Separate and be vigilant!” Entan ordered and walked towards the ranks of soldiers.

Kae willed his Life Force, his essence, to take shape inside his chest and called his separated self to his side. A translucent, but wholly recognizable copy of his proper body stood beside him. All around, the separated selves of the other Protectors sprung up at Entan’s order, doubling their number.

As always, the separated self gave Kae a heightened awareness of all around him. Kae’s heart and mind filled with fear, excitement, expectation of death, lethargy, and terror of the men and women inside the walls. He could hardly distinguish his own emotions from those of the people around him.

An older warrior, a band of gold encircling his head, approached. Entan stepped forward to clasp hands with him. “Thank you for coming, my friends! I am King Yadi. We had begun to fear none of out ancient allies would answer the call.”

Entan released the king’s hand and swept it to show all the Protectors. “I’ve brought fifty men, more than enough. What is the nature of the threat you face?”

“Orcs. Vile creatures you have no knowledge of in your lands. They have no mercy and less love for men. And this time, I fear they mean to destroy us!”

Orcs?

Resolution and purpose emanated from the Protectors, yet fear mingled there as well.

“The less time we lose on talk, the better then. We will form up there.” Entan pointed to the wall over the gate. Sunlight reflected blindingly off the armor of the soldiers lining it. “I take it you will not insist of a central command?”

Yadi shook his head. “No. I am grateful beyond words that you have come. My only plea is that you help me save my people from annihilation.”

Entan ordered the Protectors to climb the wide stone stairs to the top of the wall. Men and women in heavy steel armor watched them pass.

“How do they hope to survive? They wear no armor, and those staffs and thin swords will simply break against the tough hide of the Orcs.” The woman who spoke laughed a bitter laugh.

How wrong she is!

The sword of every Protector could cut through armor, and the two staffs each carried on their backs were known to split rock if wielded correctly, let alone skulls.

Yet Kae could not blame this woman for her ignorance. They still wore armor here and used heavy, broad swords. No wonder they needed help.

The fifty-first Protector didn’t join any of the corps, but walked a few steps behind them now. Kae crouched on the ground, pretending to fasten the leather ribbons that held his boot tight against his calf.

As the man passed him, Kae looked up and saw his eyes beneath the black hood.

His heart stopped in his chest. It cannot be. He can’t be this dumb!

Kae leapt up and grabbed the man’s arm to halt him and pull him closer. “Baynard, you fool! What are you doing here? You are a priest, not a Protector!”

The fear rising in Kae’s chest was all his own this time.

Baynard yanked his arm from Kae’s grasp and removed his scarf. “The people of Ebulon need help. I heard their call too, but when I asked the Head Priest to send a party of priests to aid in the fighting, he refused. He told me he doesn’t even expect any of you to return and would not risk priests to the same losing cause.”

“And still you came? Why?” Kae had known Baynard since they were boys. Baynard became a priest, Kae a Protector. Different roles, different training. Kae gave Baynard secret lessons from time to time, but it was one thing to practice sword fighting on fine afternoons, another to fight Orcs. “You can’t hope to win any real battles, Baynard?”

Color rose in Baynard’s cheeks. “I came because the Head Priest is wrong. Priests are needed here, if for nothing else than to assist you all.”

Kae, come! Entan called on the air.

“Nothing for it, what’s done is done. Stay near me. I’ll keep you from harm. Let’s hope we survive this and return home!” Kae ran up the stone steps to join the Protectors.

His separated self was no longer just a replica of his proper body. It shone from inside with red light now, yet did not burn. Still, Kae feared it would start to, just as it did when last he used it for too long.

“Can you use your separated self, Baynard?” Kae asked as they reached the top of the wall.

Baynard’s separated self appeared beside him, a near solid copy of the young priest. Kae’s waved to it, but it didn’t see. The priest could not see another’s separated self either. None but Kae could do such a thing.

“I can do things with my separated self you have never even heard of,” Baynard replied. “Do not fear for me. I can well take care of myself.”

Boastful, but likely Baynard had simply spoken the simple truth. Kae only found out about the separated self a few days ago, and so far no one explained much beyond that. Still, his separated self could travel farther than anyone else’s, could see others’ where none could see his. Now it burned with red shimmering flames. Nothing Kae did would douse the flames, not imagining the river that always brought calm, not the visions of rain shielding it, not concentrating on Entan’s orders as he revealed the battle plan.

The vile stench in the air grew worse up on the wall. Like rotting fish and rotting meat mixed together in a pot of old blood, with a heavy helping of a decaying animal corpse, seasoned with rotten flowers. Then boiled.

Kae let the river flowing though his mind wash away the stench.

“Perhaps these Orcs fight by smell alone,” Baynard whispered, but straightened as Entan’s gaze locked on him.

Pay attention! Entan’s voice came on the wind.

The Captain turned to Kae. “Send your separated self out to scan the area surrounding the castle. Tell me how many Orcs there are, how far from the walls their camp lies, what they look like.”

Kae nodded. His separated self already stood on the ridge near the horizon line. Baynard’s separated self appeared beside his. The valley below was filled with creatures of all shapes and sizes, some looked like giant rocks, bits of sheer wall broken off.

Is that where we are, near the Mountains of Giants?

Kae was born in a village at the foot of those grand mountains, lived in their shadow until the bandits burned down his home and killed his parents. Kae only survived because Entan and the Protectors came just in time to drive the bandits away.

No, it cannot be!

Giants no longer existed. Besides, the creatures swarming in the valley below him were no giants! Some were taller than men, others much shorter.

The nauseating stench in the air came from them, and mixed here with dung they burned to stay warm. Yet filtered through his separated self, the smell was easier to bear.

The Orcs were preparing to attack. The steady, monotonous beating of drums grew louder and louder. Torturous, like listening to water drip from a pipe at the castle, while watching Issa eat and not able to join her.

Issa would just be waking now. Would she wait for me this morning, as she waited yesterday?

Such thoughts were useless, pointless and painful. Kae was no longer Issa’s Guardian. The priests had never allowed Protectors to love. Issa and Kae had no future. Kae’s future was with the Protectors.

Kae had no future if all these vile creatures attacked the walls of Ebulon. Thousands upon thousands mingled and jostled in the valley.

The skin of his separated self glowed a shimmering red now, began to burn. But not as it had after Kae had used it for too long. This was a slow, quiet, seething burning, like a predator ready to pounce.

As the Orcs began to form up for battle, ten catapults were revealed. They meant to take down the walls of Ebulon and make short work of it, judging by the size of the boulders stacked on leather sheets ready to be carried.

Kae had seen enough.

His separated self was back by his side on the wall. Kae reported all he saw to Entan.

Do you think we could attack them in their camp before they advance?

Kae shook his head. There are thousands of them, all readying to attack the walls.

Entan turned to the rest of the Protectors and ordered on the air. Separate and prepare your bows.

The drums in the distance stopped.

With the sound of thunder, the horizon line darkened with Orcs.

They move as wind.

Calls to arms echoed all around them. Archers drew their arrows. Fires beneath cauldrons of boiling oil and water sprung to life.

Fear, anxiety, exhilaration, remorse, caution, cowardice, apprehension, hatred and sadness filled Kae’s chest through his separated self. He could not differentiate his own emotions from those of the soldiers around him. To seal it all off, he imagined damp fog surrounding his separated self. It lessened the burning glow of its skin, kept the torrent of emotions at bay.

Everyone except Baynard readied their bows and arrows.

Entan looked at the priest. “Prepare for battle!”

Baynard pulled back his hood. “As a priest, I can use the Life Force to confuse and drive away the Orcs. But I cannot shoot arrows.”

Entan’s mouth dropped open. “I was not told any of the priests were to accompany us. Are you the only one?”

Baynard blushed. “Yes, and I have come of my own free will. Long ago, when greater need still existed, priests and Protectors fought side by side. A battle such as this calls for a collaboration once again, do you not agree?”

Baynard’s voice, the utter truth of his words, seeped deep into Kae’s awareness. The calm tone Baynard used convinced him of the wisdom.

The effect was gone as soon as Baynard finished speaking.

Entan cleared his throat. “Yes, Father, I agree. Far be it for me to question the decisions of priests.”

Kae rounded on Baynard as soon as Entan turned away. “How did you do that? Convince him so easily?”

Kae was sure Baynard had used the Life Force to do so, yet how, he did not know.

“I told you I can use the Life Force in ways you never heard of. Now pay attention, Kae, the enemy is almost upon us.”

The rumbling thunder grew closer, drowning out all other noise. On the horizon the terrible catapults were growing larger.

Only the steel purpose of bringing death emanated from the Protectors around Kae.

Each man’s separated self stood beside them. Kae knew that every arrow loosed would fly true because of the clarity with which their separated selves saw. His own separated self, a being of pure red flame now, stood among the advancing Orcs, choosing a target for Kae’s first arrow.

If only I could unleash its fire, burn them all before they reach the walls.

Baynard’s separated self suddenly appeared in the sky above the advancing Orcs. It was no longer a copy of the priest, but more like a sheet of his essence. Kae knew it was Baynard, yet not by looking at it.

Can I do such a thing?

Tendrils broke off Baynard’s separated self, shooting down at the Orcs, as sunlight shoots down through new spring storm clouds.

Kae’s own separated self felt Baynard’s attack. The tendrils of Baynard’s Life Force were fear and confusion, madness and hatred for their fellows. Some Orcs were worse affected by it than others. These took axe and sword to their neighbors. One of the catapults was cut down, followed by another.

Baynard leaned forward and grasped Kae’s arm. “Your separated self has no bounds, spread thin enough it could cover the world, yet still remain whole.”

Baynard’s separated self was prying into Kae’s thoughts, but the shield of fog Kae raised to hide his inner mind prevented the priest from gaining entrance. “Cover the world? How?”

Baynard furrowed his forehead then grinned. “Like… like melted butter covers bread, to use words you might better understand. Help me rise now. I am recovered enough to fight again.”

Kae wasn’t sure Baynard was right, but helped him up regardless.

“And the fear and hatred you made them feel, how do you do that?”

Baynard released his arm, apology in his eyes. “You block me too hard and I don’t have the strength to put knowledge directly into your mind. Once Orcs breach the walls, you will be able to use your skills with weapons. Likely that will do more good against these creatures.”

The catapults had ground to a halt. The whistling of a large object rent the air, followed by a terrible crash as the first of the stones hit the walls.

More creaking followed as the Orcs adjusted the catapults now that range was ascertained.

Arrows flew from the ground up. Some reached the top of the wall.

To Kae’s right, a large boulder crashed into a group of the wall’s defenders, Protectors among them.

Kae’s heart raced in his chest. Protector arrows were no match for the stones.

Baynard’s separated self was again a sheet over the Orcs. But the fear and hatred it rained down this time was weak, as high summer showers are weak.

An arrow whistled by Kae, lodged itself in Baynard’s side.

The sheet of his friend’s Life Force vanished from the sky. Baynard’s blood bubbled from behind his fingers as he clutched the wound. His eyes were wide as he looked up at Kae.

Take him from the wall. Find a healer. A priest must not die here. Entan ordered on the air.

Kae needed no urging.

“I’m fine, really, I don’t think I’m grievously wounded. I can yet fight,” Baynard protested.

They left a trail of blood as Kae carried Baynard down to the courtyard. Three Protectors lay dead at the foot of the stairs, mowed down by the Orcs’ rocks. Ryon lay dead among them, half of his head gone.

Kae’s separated self burned, flames rising higher, fed by rage over these useless deaths. Protectors were trained to fight with sword and staffs, not die from stones flung by vile creatures in strange lands.

Kae clutched Baynard’s arm. “Tell me how to use my Life Force against the Orcs. I can end this!”

His separated self already stood among the Orcs. Only a thin linen sheet enclosed its raging flames. Flames hot enough to melt flesh. Kae could release the fire, let flame cover the Orcs. Torch them all until only ashes remained. If only Baynard taught him how.

Baynard’s blood fell to the ground in fat drops, pooled there. If he was not healed soon, he might never be. His eyes were already rolling into the back of his head.

Tell me! Kae yelled directly into the priest’s mind, demanding he agree.

“Just let it cover the skies, then unleash it. You dictate its shape. It must always do your bidding. If you tell it to plant all the fear in the world into the hearts of those it can reach, that is what it will do. Because it must do what you want it to do…”

I can make it cover the world with flames!

Kae looked at Ryon again to fuel his own anger, make the flames rise higher, burn hotter.

He gave all of his attention to his separated self.

Like melted butter over bread…

But his separated self would not expand, would not leave its human shape.

Kae tried harder, pushed and pulled.

Imagined his separated self turning into a river, a sea.

Nothing.

It wouldn’t even fly.

But he had to end this battle. Had to find a healer for Baynard. Had to bring him home.

Had to return home and be near Issa.

All the sadness at the thought of Issa, his forbidden love, turned to red-hot ire.

If it won’t stretch, it might explode!

Kae fed the flames burning inside his separated self with all the rage he could muster. He let the memories come. Bandits killing his mother and father. Dead Ann with blue flowers in her hair, beaten to death by her husband for laying with a Protector. Issa laughing on the cliffs holding Kae’s hand, as they leaned into the strong gusts of wind. Entan telling him he must never see Issa again. The priests don’t allow love; Protectors must do as priests command.

Kae’s separated self exploded in a red sunset. A sunset of fire and death.

Orcs shrieked and screamed as flames engulfed them. Those nearest turned to ash in seconds. Flames danced on the ones farther out. The catapults broke as their arms were swallowed by the fire.

Kae’s separated self was the fire, burning all in its path as it covered the land to the south, east, west and north. It had no beginning, no end. Yet still remained a part of him. His essence made fire.

The Protectors and steel-clad warriors atop the wall beat their arms against invisible flames.

Yet Kae could not control the burning.

“Leave the wall!” His proper body yelled to the men and women atop the battlements. “Leave or be burned alive!”

They obeyed, scrambled into the courtyard.

All the Orcs, all the thousands upon thousands of them were shrieking, dying or dead.

Kae’s separated self was unyielding flame consuming the world.

He did not know how to call it back.

He imagined it taking the shape of his copy.

It wouldn’t.

He called it back into his chest.

It didn’t come.

The river, cold, deep and green flowed through his mind when he called it. Flowed over the flames of his raging separated self. Evaporated in clouds of steam as it doused its flames.

The sandy bottom showed before Kae’s separated self was contained again. A man again. His copy.

All the Orcs lay smoldering beneath the walls. Their bodies covered the ground all the way back to the ridge, and as far as sight could reach on all sides.

Shouts of joy at a battle won broke the silence. First one or two, then enough to fill the courtyard.

Kae’s separated self wavered and waned, turned translucent, its strength spent. Kae no longer saw through its eyes, no longer saw the thousand dead Orcs.

Baynard was sitting up next to Kae, a bandage covering his wound. Beside him, a man in brown robes was repacking bandages and ointments into a leather bag.

Baynard looked into Kae’s eyes. “I saw what you did! Truly, you have more skill than me.”

Ryon lay in a puddle of congealing blood to Kae’s left.

The healer followed Kae’s gaze and whispered. “Him, I can do nothing about.”

The scarred Protector grasped Kae’s arms. “It was you who caused the burning? You killed all those creatures? Amazing!”

Other Protectors slapped Kae on the back, congratulated him on the victory.

Captain Entan pulled Kae away from them. “Was it you? Did you cause the burning?”

Kae nodded, didn’t have the strength left to speak.

“The Head Priest must never know of this, Kae. You must deny it. He will never let you live, if he knows you possess such strength!”

Entan’s separated self was cowering beside the man. Kae looked away from it, didn’t want to see the Captain’s weakness. Entan was holding the shirt of his uniform, his hands shaking. “Promise me, Kae! You must deny this.”

Kae pried Entan’s arms away. “I am as I am, Captain. A Protector.”

Return now! All Protectors are needed back at the Palace. The Head Priest’s voice filled Kae’s mind.

The walls of Ebulon opened into the underground hall of the Priest’s Palace.

Entan cleared his throat, turned away from Kae and ordered them to leave.

Kae tried to lift Ryon’s lifeless body to carry him home for burial. He didn’t have the strength. The fire took it all. Another Protector pushed him aside and picked Ryon up.

“You will need rest to recover after what you did with your Life Force,” Baynard explained as they walked through the opening.

A row of priests waited inside the underground hall of the palace. One of them grasped Kae’s arm, and suddenly the man was in his mind. Seeing the battle, the Orcs and the flames, plucking it all from Kae’s mind as though weeding a garden. Kae tried to fight the man’s touch, prevent him from taking his memories. Yet he barely had the strength to stand.

Ebulon, the Orcs, Ryon’s head a bloody mess, rotting cooked meat, his separated self exploding in burning death… all disappeared from Kae’s mind, as smoke escapes through an open window.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

Anniversary of the Veil Series by Vanna Smythe

Protector (Anniversary of the Veil, Book 1)

Decision Maker (Anniversary of the Veil, Book 2)

The upcoming Book 3 will be released in Summer, 2013.

Website: www.vannasmythe.com

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/list/5771610.Vanna_Smythe

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/Vanna_Smythe

Facebook: www.facebook.com/VannaSmytheAuthor

Entry Point 4 - by Neil Shooter

1.

As he stepped through the shimmering vortex, the elation, the purpose, the emotion that had called him suddenly faded away, leaving him confused, and disoriented. And cold.

“Ebulon! Ebulon!” the voice inside his head had seemed to say, but what was Ebulon? Was it this place? This wintry city?

The crowded square was bustling with angry men and women, and he recognized nationalities from all over the Kinnon, and some from beyond. Snow swirled intermittently around them all.

It didn’t make any sense. A few minutes ago, he had seemed so sure about everything. There had been a fire burning inside him, his heart throbbing with desire to save, to protect, and he had gone out into the night, until he found the thing that was pulling him, the vortex, shining and dancing with magical light in the dark alley. It was as though he had been drunk on the finest Aristian white one moment, and then suffering the blasted hangover from it the next. Someone stumbled into him, and his arms went up reflexively.

It was a young woman with clear blue eyes, and she held her hands up in a poor attempt at defence.

“Apologies,” he mumbled, and took a step back. She didn’t respond, as though she didn’t understand his words, but she staggered away from him, afraid of what he might do to her.

The vortex swirled in the air just a few feet from him, and as he looked, a middle aged woman appeared, in little more than a bathing robe. The disoriented woman launched herself towards him, and he barely had time to react to the attack. He grabbed her wrists, and managed to hold her back, despite his wiry frame, and her enthusiasm. She was furious.

“What wouldst thou from me?” she demanded. “Sorrow mightest thou know for this!”

He understood her, but it took him a moment to realize that she had spoken to him in Maynari, the lay dialect of the capital city of the Kinnon. In the same language, he replied, “Not I, lady-fair. Look about: come are we are all, alike, and ’gainst path. Becalm thyself, and together shine light we shall.”

She freed herself from his loosening grip, and looked about, taking in the scene. “Name thyself.” She seemed a woman accustomed to making commands, despite her state of relative undress.

“Kalummenon, lady-fair. And thine…?”

She was startled by the impertinence of his tone, but answered, “Mayadawanna. Off let us, then, and find light promised.”

Together they took a few steps into the crowd, and it became clear that many languages were being spoken, from all over the Kinnon. Kalummenon knew several of them, but by no means all. He searched out words he knew, but all the while, Mayadawanna was calling out, in her own Maynari, and courtly Abrilian, attempted greetings.

An armoured man rushed towards her, and they spoke hurriedly, on the edge of Kalummenon’s awareness. He sensed no ill intent from the man, and listened instead to the cacophony of strange words.

Mayadawanna called to him, “Found am I. Fare thee well to kindred thine!” She smiled briefly, acknowledging his assistance, and set off through the crowd with her new friend.

A roar from the vortex drew his attention. A bear of a man stood, framed by the magical light, raging uselessly. Few in the crowd paid him any attention, until he drew his long sword, and called down a splendid curse on those who had afflicted him thus. The man looked around, desperately trying to decide who was deserving of his wrath.

One man pushed through the crowd towards the bear, and Kalummenon turned to watch the exchange.

The bear-man seemed surprised that someone had dared approach, but it was obvious that the richly dressed man was not coming to fight him. The nobleman spread out empty hands, and said in the courtly language, “Friend, we have not done this to you, but are fellow victims. Please, Friend, put back your sword, and join us in council. Help us discern the true cause of this.”

The bear-like man returned his sword to its scabbard, and began speaking quietly to the nobleman. This noble looking gentleman seemed to be a Lord or general, and in times of uncertainty people flocked to perceived power. Kalummenon decided that for now he should be a bird of that flock, and pushed through the crowd towards them.

The crowd had seemed completely disorganized at first, but now he noticed that small groups of a certain nationality or region seemed to have already gathered. Several other people were pushing through the crowd as Kalummenon was, seemingly drawn to the apparent centre of power, or else to the courtly words.

The noble began to speak to the tightening knot of men and women around him, just as Kalummenon reached them. “Friends, I am Vardan of Tarakal.” Kalummenon knew that Tarakal was a close ally of the politically dominant Abrilians, and he thought this Vardan seemed to have a charming way about him.

Vardan continued, “I do not know who has brought us here, but it seems that each of us has followed the call of our heart, heard a whispered name, and each of us has been brought here from our own lands to this place. We are all men and women of the Kinnon, and though we may be far from home, I believe that keeping to the principles we hold dear will only help us through this ordeal. So please, try to calm your fellows, try to find shared languages for those who are not able to understand the courtly tongue, and help calm those newly arrived like Chirath here,” gesturing to the newly arrived bear of a man. “Meanwhile, I would suggest that we send out scouts to determine the nature of the city we find ourselves in, this Ebulon.”

Murmurs of assent passed through the crowd. It all sounded so reasonable.

Vardan spoke up again, “I see that many of you represent different nations, so please return to your groups, spread my words, and send some of your kind to be close to the portal. Meanwhile, if any would like to help explore and help us get our bearings, then please—”

Kalummenon interrupted. “I would.”

Vardan looked down his nose at Kalummenon’s simple and drab clothing, but seemed perplexed by his impeccable Abrilian accent. “And you are?”

“I am Kalummenon, of Peledar.”

Someone snorted nearby, and Kalummenon turned to look at him. The young blonde haired man waved his hands, as if in apology. “Forgive me,” he said, “it’s just that your name doesn’t sound at all Peledarri

“It isn’t. My father was a sailor, and he named me as such.”

“A pirate! Of course, that makes—”

“I am not a pirate, and I don’t—”

“In fact, your name sounds like—”

“I know what it sounds like in the old language, and I am not a dog, but,” turning his attention back to Vardan, “I do have a good nose for sniffing things out, and I am used to keeping a low profile…”

“Excellent,” said Vardan. “And you, lad?” Vardan turned a piercing gaze towards the young man.

Blushing quickly and fully, the young man spoke up proudly, “I am Pereg of Peledar, and a cadet in the King’s Academy.”

“And are you volunteering as well, lad?” asked Vardan. When Pereg hesitated, Vardan went on, “It will give you a chance to make peace with your fellow countryman here.”

Pereg nodded. “I would be happy to volunteer.”

“Good man. Anyone else?” There were a few. Wegri of Kire styled himself a poet, but looked more like a thief, with tight lips and furtive eyes that seemed to note the whereabouts of anything valuable. Rysil of Eilinnar was an older man, slim, white haired, but bright eyed and enthusiastic. Khendam of Brenave was strong and serious, and seemed to carry a heavy burden of pain or regret despite his relative youth. Tulacha of Chel could not be called beautiful, but her smile took you by surprise, transforming her earnest features with a sultriness and playfulness that would be irresistible to the right person, and managed to be appealing to the rest.

The knot of men and women dispersed, and Vardan was left with the six scouts, and Chirath. He split them into pairs, with the intention that if one of the pair fell into trouble, the other could bring back warning to the rest of them gathered in the square.

“Behind me,” Vardan said, “the square stretches into a wide street, and you can see a gate at the end of it. Chirath and I will scout the gate and try to climb the wall for a wider view of the city. Wegri and Tulacha, please scout the area to the right of us, and Khendam and Rysil, the left side. The Peledarri pair will scout into what we assume to be the heart of the city, away from the gate. Do not engage those you meet. Be gone no more than a few hours. Stay out of trouble, and report back. If you do manage to find trouble, bring warning.”

2.

Snow drifted out of alleyways between the stone buildings. There were fading tracks here and there in the snow, softened by the working of the wind, but there had been no substantial snowfall since they arrived some hours ago.

“It’s so desolate,” Tulacha said. She disapproved of emptiness, or loneliness. She thrived in the company of others, and seeing a place so devoid of life or warmth was unnerving. “Where did all the people go?”

Wegri snorted. He gazed up and down the massive stone buildings as they walked. “Thousands of people could live here. I wonder what they left behind…”

Tulacha thought for a moment, taking his question seriously. “There’s no sign of death or destruction, just decay. They might have been able to take everything with them, if it was an orderly evacuation.”

Wegri sighed. “I’m going to find out.”

“What?”

“Let me know if you see anyone coming,” he added, and disappeared into the shadows of the building.

A gust of wind howled around Tulacha’s head, and she shivered in the creeping cold, feeling the lack of warmth all the more for standing still. She jumped up and down, and wiggled her toes in her boots, doing her best to keep warm. She scanned the street, first one direction, then the other, but she saw no one. The stonework was simple, and unadorned. The lower levels were made up of larger blocks, especially at the corners and over doorways and windows. Smaller blocks formed the main parts of the walls. The buildings were packed tightly together, and some reached 3 or 4 storeys high. All were capped by sloping tiled roofs, parts of which were piled with blown snow, and other parts blown clear.

There was no sign of life. No birds. No creatures. It was the dead of winter here.

She heard a bang in the distance, and looked nervously from side to side. There was no one. But now she looked from window to window, suddenly certain that one of them would reveal a face.

“They left everything,” Wegri said from right behind her.

“Argh!” Tulacha couldn’t help herself. “You startled me…”

“Apparently. There’s no sign of looting, no breakage, no bodies. It was an orderly departure, but a speedy one. They weren’t allowed to take very much with them.”

“Did you find anything interesting?” she asked.

“No, not really,” replied Wegri, innocently. “Let’s get moving, you must be freezing standing here.”

She nodded, distracted from her momentary suspicion.

3.

“No sign of damage here.” Khendam looked about the great storefront. “And no bodies.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Rysil said. “Why would everyone just leave, and then not come back for their things?”

“I don’t know.” Khendam led them out of the immense building, and back into the windswept street. “I don’t like it at all. There’s no sign of anyone, or anything living.”

“Beautiful architecture,” said Rysil. “Simple and well-proportioned. They must have been a very sensible people. Dependable.”

“You can tell that from stonework?” Khendam was not convinced.

“You can tell a lot of things, from a lot of things. Their window panes are often large, which speaks of a certain skill or technology level. There are sconces in the walls, as if for candles, but they have glass balls fixed into them. They must have used magic to light their way. Just imagine magical light filling all these buildings! We haven’t seen fireplaces, so perhaps they heated themselves by magic as well.”

“Why do you think they have all this magic?”

“Magic brought us here, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Khendam admitted, “but we don’t know if the same people who lived here brought us here.” He sighed. “I don’t like winter.”

“Oh, I do,” said Rysil. The freshness, the stark beauty. The purity of it.”

“You must never have wanted for anything then. My family is not poor, but the winter is a tough time for every family in Brenave. Taxes bite like the frigid winter wind.” Khendam wondered what his family were thinking. Had they noticed he was missing yet? Were they worried? How would they manage if he never returned? He shuddered to think.

“When you reach my age, when you’ve been what I’ve been through, you’re either weighed down by all that has happened to you, or you have learned to face life as it comes.”

“You’re enjoying yourself trudging through the snow in a deserted city? You’re happy to have been abducted from your home? And you don’t care about whether or not you’ll ever return to it?”

“Now, now. We came willingly, didn’t we?”

“It was a lie! A charm! An illusion that evaporated the moment we arrived!”

“All magic relies on belief to some degree. If we’d wanted to, we could’ve fought off the charm, whatever it was. No magic can compel you to do something you truly abhor.”

“I didn’t ask to come here and abandon all those I love.”

“You were a willing accessory to the magic. Didn’t it make you feel like you were going to serve some grand purpose, make a difference, be a hero?”

Khendam blushed, and lost some of his bluster. “I suppose it was something like that. But we aren’t serving any great purpose. We’re just trudging through the snow in a deserted city because some rich foreigner asked us to.”

4.

The gate reared up before them, hewn from gigantic planks of strange wood. Beside it, on either side, dark doorways suggested ways to reach the top of the wall.

They were closest to the left hand door, and as Vardan began to lead them towards it, Chirath tugged at his shoulder.

“Please, let us choose the other gatehouse,” Chirath muttered urgently.

Vardan stopped, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

Chirath looked embarrassed to have to explain himself. “Among my people, the left hand side is a bad omen. Let us choose the right side, Friend Vardan.”

Vardan smiled. “If we were beyond the gate, wouldn’t the left one be the right, and the right be the left?”

Chirath nodded, uncertainly.

“So surely, if right can so easily become left, similarly a bad omen can become good?” Chirath nodded. Vardan continued, “So if bad omens are so fleeting, let us chase it away with our ascent.” Vardan strode confidently towards the nearest doorway, on the left side of the gateway, and Chirath trudged sullenly after him.

The gatehouse was dark on the lower levels, and the immense chain mechanism stretched through floors and ceilings as they climbed. Everywhere the snow had drifted, and nowhere did they see any bodies, or any clue as to why the city was deserted.

The higher levels had small windows, but these were as narrow as slits on the outer face of the wall and wide hollows in the inner face. They would have allowed defenders to launch a ranged attack while staying mostly hidden.

“These windows face only into the city,” Chirath said. “Why would they defend against their own people?”

“Perhaps it is rather that they are prepared for the taking of the gate?”

“Aye, and such windows in the outer wall would be a weakness against bombardment.”

They continued upwards, the stone staircase folding back on itself with each successive level. The snow began to drift more heavily as they climbed, and a light came from above showing them their climb was almost concluded.

The sky gaped as they climbed the final set of stairs, and they had to fight their way through the drifting snow and take care not to lose their footing.

They came out into the open, and the cold wind blasted them. The city was spread out before them, immense, stretching into the distance, the far edge hidden by fog, or by falling snow. The great stone walls reached out in either direction, holding the city in their embrace. The central part of the city rose up with taller, grander buildings, but much closer than the distant core was a small square bustling with little figures and a shimmering light-filled maelstrom, the thing which had delivered them here.

Vardan thought of the warm fires of home, and the warm women, bundled in furs, that were his to call upon as he pleased. His stomach grumbled. He was more interested in food than women right now.

Chirath called out to him, and he turned. Another storey of stonework covered the gate, and would offer an even greater vantage point than the level of the walls where they now stood. But Chirath was at the outer face of the wall, where the castellation offered periodic protection from the bitter gusts of wind.

It was what lay beyond Chirath that took Vardan’s breath away.

“By all the gods of Manar and Alfar…” Vardan murmured as he approached Chirath, as if in a trance.

“The Alfar have no gods,” Chirath pointed out.

“Yet they will offer the same protection as those of men.”

A great range of snow-capped mountains encircled the horizon, enclosing a nest of hills and a rough plain. The sight was majestic, and would have been more beautiful in fairer weather. But it wasn’t the natural beauty of the scene that awed him. It was the shuffling horde of dark shapes that covered the ground like a world-filling nest of ants, a teeming mass of living beings, as numerous as the leaves in a summer forest.

“This is the reason,” said Chirath.

Vardan could only nod. This was an invasion force, and it would prove overwhelming to a few hundred of the Kinnon’s best warriors and mages. This was the afterlife, a punishment for all their sins. The gods were real, after all, after all his mockery and derision, and his punishment would be a grisly end, very close to this spot.

“It loo-” began Chirath, pointing out across the vista. If he’d not turned his head, the great black arrow would have skewered it like an apple, but he had, and the arrow had instead cut a gash from brow to neck, slicing off the top of his right ear in the process. Blood rushed down Chirath’s face, as they both ducked behind the protective stonework.

A few other arrows sailed past them, but it must only have been an opportunistic attack. They had been fools to stand so long atop a wall before an army.

Vardan crawled through the snow to Chirath, and scooped up fresh snow from the drift, to wash the wounds of blood.

“Don’t coddle me, Friend Vardan,” said Chirath.

“It’s quite a gash you have.”

“Aye, and that is my ear on the ground, but we must return and tell the others.”

Vardan nodded, and they crawled and stumbled to the safety of the stairwell, retrieving an arrow from the snow.

“I told you it was a bad omen,” Chirath chuckled.

“On the contrary, you lost only a little blood, and a superfluous ear part. I’d call that a good omen, just as I told you.”

They laughed together.

5.

They said very little to each other. It was clear that neither of them appreciated being stuck with the other.

Kalummenon had decided that Pereg was incompetent as well as a young fool. Pereg seemed to have no sense of stealth. Kalummenon kept to the shadows, while Pereg walked straight down the middle of the snowy street. Eventually, Kalummenon couldn’t take it anymore. “Come here!” he hissed.

Pereg turned a startled face towards him, and after a moment’s hesitation, approached. “What do you want?”

“What do you think I want? We are meant to be keeping out of sight, and you keep prancing down the middle of the street like you’re on parade!”

“I do not prance!”

Kalummenon sighed. “Look. We need to cooperate. We need to do what we’ve been asked to do. All I’m saying is that you need keep to the edges of the street, so that if we see someone, we can watch them without them spotting us. That’s not so hard is it, lad?”

“Don’t call me lad! Why does everyone call me—”

“How old are you?” Kalummenon demanded.

“Seventeen. Almost eighteen though, but—”

“That’s why. You’ll grow up soon enough. If you survive long enough, that is.”

“I’m a cadet—”

“In the King’s Academy, yes, I know, you told me. But the Academy teaches you how to act like a soldier, and obey commands, does it not?”

“Yes,” Pereg agreed, feeling like a trap was being laid for him.

“So listen to me when I tell you what to do. I’m considerably older than seventeen, which makes me your commanding officer. Understood?”

The trap had been sprung, and the tone of command was unmistakeable. “Yes, sir!”

“There’s no need for that. Don’t call me ‘sir’. Call me Kal. I just want you to listen to what I’m saying. ”

“Agreed.”

Pereg followed meekly along behind Kalummenon, keeping to the shadows, searching here and there in open doorways and windows as they went. The tension between them dissipated, as Pereg behaved in a way more acceptable to Kalummenon, who took to command like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Pereg was comforted by the easy confidence of the more experienced man.

“I’m sorry I laughed, but it really is an odd name,” Pereg said eventually.

“Not to me it’s not.”

“Where are you really from? Originally, I mean?”

“I told you my father was a sailor. I don’t know if he was a pirate or not, to be honest. There is a lot that adults don’t tell young children. My father died when I was little, and I was brought to Peledar, and that is where I grew up. I barely remember any other place.”

“You learned Abrilian on the streets of Peledar?” Pereg sounded incredulous.

“Yes, and you learned it at a military academy. I… was acquainted with a courtier from Maynar for a while. She taught me a thing or two…”

“I’ll bet.”

After a while, Kalummenon took the bait. “And you?”

“Peledarri, born and bred. My father died in the War, and Mother died a few years ago. I have a sister, Aralda. She’s in service to a noble family somewhere up north. She keeps saying she’ll come for a visit when she can. She hasn’t been able to.”

“And that’s why you’re a cadet.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. There’ll be a place for me in the Royal House if I graduate with good enough honours, and then I’ll be set.”

“Provided the Royal House stays the Royal House.”

“Well, the king is young. I’ll bet he’s got a few years left in him yet.”

“Provided the rest of the Lords agree with the current state of affairs.”

“He’s a good King. Why wouldn’t they?”

“Politics.” Kalummenon shouldn’t have been surprised that Pereg was a loyal subject of the King, but it always got under his skin when people blindly accepted the things they were told, without questioning them in the slightest. Being an orphan made Pereg susceptible to being taken advantage of, of course. “I’m an orphan too. My mother died before my father did.” It felt strange for Kalummenon to talk about his past, even if he was still leaving out some key details. It was a relief in some ways, but it also made him feel vulnerable.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pereg said quietly. “Being alone is the worst thing in the world.”

Kalummenon could immediately think of several things that were much, much worse, but he didn’t name any of them, instead letting himself appreciate the sentiment for what it was. “Thank you. And the same to you.”

Pereg nodded solemnly as Kalummenon held his gaze for a moment. But then something tore their attention away, ahead. There was a sound.

The street stretched away into the distance, and curved away to the left. From that distant hidden stretch of street emerged a procession. They watched it, spellbound, as it came closer. At the head of the procession floated a pale voluminous figure in flowing robes, and shimmering with a magical light. Behind the floating figure marched a battalion of armoured men, clad in furry hats and cloaks against the cold. Between the soldiers trundled several covered wagons, some of which were smoking ominously. The wagons moved without being pulled by any beast. Perhaps the floating figure was towing them with magic.

Kalummenon and Pereg looked at each other, and understood without needing to speak that it was time for them to return to the square.

6.

Making no further pretence at stealth, the two Peledarri men sprinted down the last part of the snow covered street into the square. The square was so full now that it was difficult to maintain any speed through the huddle of warm bodies.

The magical vortex that had brought them here, and brought hundreds of others since they’d left the square, had vanished. They were trapped, and the strange procession was close behind.

Kalummenon and Pereg pushed anxiously through the throng. “Vardan! Where is Vardan?” Finally someone with the knowledge heard them, and pointed him out.

Vardan was speaking with the other scouts, and Chirath was sporting a thick red scar across the right side of his head, which must have been healed by a mage among those gathered.

“Apologies!” Kalummenon said, and all conversation in this circle ceased at once at the interruption.

“Ah, the Peledarri pair,” smiled Vardan, in a way that made Kalummenon’s skin crawl. This was not a man to get on the wrong side of.

Kalummenon forged on with his report, and any of the nobleman’s annoyance ebbed away at the news being delivered.

Vardan began barking orders, and it became clear that the square was no longer a chaotic rabble from all over the lands of the Kinnon, but had been tied by time and proximity into something approaching a unity of purpose. Vardan was in command, and in his element.

The scouts were ignored for the time being, allowing them the opportunity to confer.

“Chirath found an arrow,” announced Rysil cheerfully.

“There’s a huge army camped outside the gate,” said Khendam solemnly.

“And they took one look at Chirath…” laughed Wegri.

“We saw a scout from another part of the city, but we don’t think he was a native. He was bundled up in several cloaks, and looked miserable. I think he was like us, but from somewhere warmer, perhaps. Someone like us…” Tulacha was lost in thought for a moment, but her face suddenly brightened. “There are other gates along the city wall, on each side. We were brought to this gate—”

“Kidnapped,” said Khendam.

“And there are others at a distance, near to the other gates.”

Kalummenon looked at Khendam and Rysil. “You saw people too?”

Rysil nodded. “Oh yes, a troop of foreign soldiers passed down a street that crossed ours. I thought they were patrolling a boundary. When we got closer, we could see well worn tracks in the snow. They seemed uninterested in straying from their chosen path.”

“Lucky for us,” said Khendam. “We must have been about half way to the next gate.”

“So we are all here—” began Pereg, but a commotion stopped him in mid-sentence.

The procession had reached the square, and Vardan had already managed to organize their motley crew into something approaching an army. A company of warriors guarded the entrance to the square, in an unevenly outfitted defensive ring of swords and spears. On the edges of the square, and leaning from some of the lower windows of the stone buildings, archers drew bows.

It was an impressive achievement on such short notice, but still it was clear they would be no match for the battalion of properly supplied troops which had halted at the edge of the square. The majority of the men and women of the Kinnon had not been carrying their weapons when they had been summoned here, and the number of weaponless and defenceless people was staggering. If this went badly, there would be a slaughter.

The floating figure was perhaps a corpulent man, but Kalummenon was too far back to be certain. The figure floated in place at head height, and seemed to be taking in the men and women gathered against him. With a flick of his wrist, the figure conjured a shimmering wall of energy.

Near the front of his army, Vardan called out for the archers to hold, but a few stray arrows launched nonetheless, breaking against the shimmering wall and falling harmlessly to the ground.

The figure ignored the affront, and began a new working in earnest. He was speaking some words and moving his hands, and after a few moments he cast his hands suddenly outwards towards the square. Twinkling light spread out from him, and the people of the Kinnon gasped as the light passed over their heads, and then descended amongst them.

Kalummenon fixed his gaze on the figure. There didn’t appear to be any menace to his actions, or demeanour, but not knowing what was going on had them all on edge.

The floating figure smiled. It seemed forced, or at least not a smile born of pleasure, but rather of satisfaction.

“There,” said the figure, and his voice was now audible across the whole square. “Friends! Welcome to the city of Ebulon, and our deepest gratitude for all of you who have answered our call!”

Impossibly, the figure spoke in the courtly language of the Kinnon, or seemed to. All around the square could be heard similar murmurs of surprise, and people spoke quickly and furtively to each other.

The figure let the words sink in for a moment before continuing.

“Do not be alarmed! The shimmering light which fell upon you is nothing more than the lifting of the linguistic barriers between us! Now we can speak and understand each other! Ordinary weapons will be turned away by the shield I hold around me, but do not fear an attack: I come to speak to you, and to help you.

“I am Munda, a spokesperson for King Yadi of Ebulon. King Yadi issued the Call, and you have heard it, and have come to our aid. We in turn come to your aid. I bring wagons of food, of hot meats, of roasted tubers, and other simple but hearty sustenance. I bring also a thousand of King Yadi’s finest soldiers to aid you in the coming battle.”

Munda was forced to stop speaking by a rise of angry protest from the crowd. He raised his hands, and after a while a begrudging quiet descended.

“Who speaks for you? Have you a leader?” asked Munda.

“I seem to be the highest ranking here,” said Vardan, stepping closer to the front of the crowd. “I am Vardan of Tarakal, a Lord of that fair land.” He had the crowd’s full attention, and he paused, gratified that none had spoken out to deprive him of this open acknowledgement of his own importance. “We have come at your calling, that may be true, but we have not come to fight your battle for we have battles of our own to fight and families of our own to protect. We demand that we be returned whence we came!”

The crowd roared its approval.

Munda was shocked by their enthusiasm. “Did you not hear the Call? Did you not willingly follow the Call?”

Now Vardan held his hands up to calm a rising wave of indignation. “We don’t know what you thought you were doing, but for us the “Call” was not a choice or a question, and it most certainly was not an informed decision. It was a compulsion, a charm, a magic spell, that dragged us, captured us, and forced us to step into the light and come here. At no time were we asked about our willingness to fight, and the fact of our being here is not the same as consent. I have seen your enemy, and my people want no part of your battle. We will all die if we face that vast army at your gates, and if we are to die we would die for our own people, not yours!”

“Most troubling…” muttered Munda. “When our King sent out the Call, it was to call to the spirit of the hero, the spirit of any who would willingly step forward to protect the weak and the innocent, and any who believed they were able to rise to the occasion. You were all Called by the light because you yourselves believe you are heroes, because you think you are heroes, and because you would choose to help someone in dire need! We are in dire need, and we need your help! It is true, there is a vast army facing the walls of Ebulon, but that is not the end of what I must tell you, only the beginning. This army has marched across our world, swallowing proud and free nations one after the other. This army, camped at our gates, has not merely conquered the peoples of our world. This army has not merely enslaved the conquered peoples of our world. No, they have slaughtered all they have conquered, from newborn babes to honoured elders! They are a pestilence upon the land, and they have overrun the whole world. Except for Ebulon! Some few survivors reached us, warned us of what was coming. And we have already fought battles in this bitter war, which is why you find wide parts of our city empty and broken. We are bled almost dry. We are not the only free people left in the world: we are the only living people! Those monsters want to kill everything that is good, and destroy everything of worth! They will cut off our heads, and then they will knock down our city, leaving not even a memory of it. They wish to rule an empty world of rot and decay, and we say to them, NO! You shall not have us!

“And you, you all, you came to us, you followed the Call, because you are good and strong and brave and clever! You came because you are heroes, because only heroes can hear the Call!

“But please, forgive us our shortcomings! We failed you if you felt compelled or fooled into coming. We failed you if you came here against your will. We failed you if we brought you here to help us without asking plainly. We failed you if the Call did not explain our need. Forgive us! But we fight for our survival!

“Now you know more of us, and more of our story, will you aid us? Will you stand with us against the worst enemy we have ever known?”

Vardan spoke up clearly, “In this, I cannot speak for my people. They must choose for themselves.”

From the otherwise silent crowd a voice called out, “Are we hostages? Will you send us home? Can you?”

The crowd took a collective breath, waiting for the answer.

Munda sighed. “We can send you home now, if that is what you wish. You are not hostages. You are free people. It is as free people that we Called you. You are free, and you will remain free. But logistics must be mentioned. We can send you home now, if you are unwilling to aid us, while we are able, but once the battle is joined, we might lose those with the power. The future is difficult to predict. I cannot say who will fall and who will stand. But if, after the battle, there are still those among us with that power, they will return you to your homes. But the battle will soon be joined, perhaps on the morrow, and who can say how all this will end?”

“How rousing,” Kalummenon thought to himself.

Khendam, standing beside Kalummenon, sighed. “I’ll stand with you!” he called. Meeting Kalummenon’s gaze, he shrugged. “What can we do but help these poor saps?” But he didn’t seem happy about his decision.

Here and there, others spoke up, “I’m with you!”, “I’ll take a few of those fiends with me!”, “Count me in!”, and similar affirmations.

Vardan held his hands up for quiet, and said, “Munda, many of my people have chosen to stand with you, given the choice plainly stated. Any who wish to return to their homes, go to Munda now, and he will make good his promise!”

Munda cleared his throat. “Well, actually, I am not one of those with the power to send you home, but I can escort any so minded to an audience with our King Yadi. Those of you choosing to stay, my deepest thanks. May we all live to see victory!”

7.

“I would speak.”

Her voice was not loud, but it felled every sound in the crowded square. There was something about it, some quality in it, demanding to be heard: authority.

She made no effort to move to the front of the crowd in order to address everyone. Instead, those around her took some steps back, making a space for her in the crowd, shuffling away from the power inherent to one like her. She was an Alfar.

“Vardan of Tarakal does not speak for me.” She turned to Munda. “I am Moriambra, ambassador to the Kinnon, from a distant and powerful kingdom. My heart followed your Call, as did all present. My spirit calls out to me to aid you in your time of need. But for me it is not that simple. Many among us will be missed greatly by those we have left behind. I have family. I have obligations. I have people depending on me. I would put those concerns aside for this grand ideal if I could.

“I cannot. My absence will already have been noticed. If I return now, or soon, my absence might still be explained away as an embarrassing omission, or an unfortunate but temporary illness. But if I do not return, there shall be repercussions. My King is known to be untrusting of the Kinnon. He will undoubtedly see my disappearance as a provocation. Perhaps as an act of war.

“A war between my people and the Kinnon would be difficult, not least because of the great distance between our lands, but similar difficulties have not prevented wars in the past, and I do not see how they will prevent war now. I beg you, Munda of Ebulon: return me to my post, and save the families of these honourable men and women before you by averting this unnecessary war!”

Munda let his gaze sweep across the gathered people of the Kinnon, and nodded. “It is regrettable, indeed, that such events might occur because of your presence here. Can I not convince you to join our forces?”

“Not even if you were to fight right beside me,” she replied.

Munda’s pale, full cheeks blushed slightly, just for a moment.

“If you are to fight at all, that is…?” Moriambra added, carefully.

All eyes fell squarely on Munda, and he was forced to reply.

“Alas,” he said, “my King has other matters he needs me to attend to, and I would therefore be unable to fight by your side.”

“But your skills are undeniably impressive,” she said. “Would you not be able to block incoming enemy arrows? Would you not be able to confuse the tongues of the enemy so they could not communicate their plans to each other? Would you not be able to put a hundred thousand of the enemy to sleep so we could more easily slaughter them?”

This time Munda had a ready response, as he was on firmer footing. “You will notice that the soldiers I bring to add to your number are all warriors in some fashion. Some are infantrymen, some are archers. You might notice further that there are no mages among them. The magic of Ebulon is no longer effective against this enemy. My own magic would fail - would be blocked, rather - by the dark magicks beyond the gate. The enemy has studied our magical attacks and rendered them irrelevant in battle. Well, almost irrelevant.”

He paused for a breath, and Moriambra seemed ready with the obvious question, so Munda continued, “The mages among you are all… exotic, at least to the enemy mages. Your abilities and methods may well be novel, offering you unforeseen advantages. And I’m given to understand that some of the lesser mages will be assisting in the defence directly, when the assault comes, for we are still able to defend against some of the magical attacks that will come.

“You are not alone,” he said, raising his voice and addressing them all, “and we stand with you. Even though I am not to stand at your side in the battle, I still work with you and for you, in ways I cannot explain to you. My fight will be just as dangerous as yours.”

Moriambra cut to the chase. “Will you return me to my proper place, along with anyone else who wishes to return home?”

Munda nodded solemnly. “I will do all I can.”

Moriambra didn’t think that sounded very reassuring.

This Entry Point features characters from:

The Kinnon Gate by Neil Shooter

Now available.

These characters are also from the upcoming series The Circles of Old beginning with The Lay of Old Follies.

Goodreads profile: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6879087.Neil_Shooter

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/neilshooter

Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Neil-Shooter/404715356282918?ref=hl

Entry Point 5 - by R.M. McDaniel

Zelphan sat outside in the tall green grass. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was meditating. Xazaz, Zelphan’s phoenix friend knew better. “Have you heard anything?” He asked and Zelphan opened an eye, and then closed it. “Nothing yet, I don’t know what’s going on. It’s been days since the wind has spoken to me.”

“The wind will speak when it’s ready.”

Zelphan didn’t say anything. He knew from experience not to question the bird that has lived longer than he can fathom. He sat there in the grass waiting, and finally a subtle breeze caressed his face. There is trouble and your help is needed. In a land far away there is the Kingdom of Ebulon. It is the last free stronghold and terrible Orcs seek to destroy and kill all who inhabit it. You must go there and help save the kingdom or all will be lost. Take your sword and Xazaz and make haste.

Zelphan’s eyes flew open at the end of the wind’s message. He hadn’t heard of the Kingdom of Ebulon or Orcs before. He was going to need help with this one. He turned to Xazaz, “What is the Kingdom of Ebulon?”

Xazaz cocked his head to the side, “Kingdom of Ebulon? I don’t know, why?”

“I’ve just been instructed to go there, all will be lost if we don’t stand and fight against something the wind called Orcs.”

“Orcs?” Xazaz squawked with surprise.

“You know what they are?”

“A long, long time ago, before Xazvin forged the sword, Orcs used to run rampant in Ellandra. They were terrible creatures, ones that nightmares are made of. The Creator banished them with the help of the dragons. I haven’t heard of them since.”

“We must go there; Xazaz or we may face these creatures in our own land. The wind said to make haste.”

“Then make haste we will do.”

With that Zelphan and Xazaz wasted no time preparing a knapsack of food and setting off towards what Zelphan hoped was Ebulon. He didn’t know how he was going to get there or where he was going, but he knew that somehow his feet would lead him where he needed to go. This wasn’t the first quest he had gone on, and he learned a lot during that quest. His biggest lesson was learning to trust. He had to trust the wind and his friends or he would for sure fall into peril.

****

The pair traveled many miles through forests, hills and valleys. From far off they heard a hum in the air. Zelphan put his hand on the hilt of his sword and Xazaz flew ahead. Zelphan nearly drew his sword when he heard a surprised squawk from the bird. He herd an, “Oomph,” then, “I’m happy to see you too, Xazaz.” Zelphan recognized the voice and ran to the weird man with the thick bottle bottom glasses.

“Petre!” Zelphan greeted with a hug. “It feels like a life time since I last saw you!”

“Hello there, chap it has been a while hasn’t it.”

“It has, we shouldn’t wait so long to see each other.”

“No, I don’t think we should.”

“What brings you to this area?” Xazaz asked.

“Well, it appears I am here to help you.” Petre said with a smile.

“Help us? How? Are you coming with us?” Zelphan asked.

“I’ll be coming with you for part of your journey, in fact I’ll be leading you, but you must follow my instructions carefully.” Petre instructed.

Zelphan nodded his head in response. He’s done this before with Petre, and he knew how important it is to listen to him. The old man with the thick glasses had a unique gift. He could follow the line of time and bring you to new places. His home exists in a line of time that is in the past, and it’s filled with unusual items that Zelphan didn’t know how to describe or use. He was there once, when Petre rescued him from a horrible place, those were dark times and he didn’t want to think about that. Instead he put his focus into following directly behind Petre so he would not lose the way. He didn’t know what would happen if he mis-stepped, but he didn’t want to find out.

They started in a circle, and then they zigzagged and hopped. They walked 500 paces to their left, and then they walked backwards for 600 paces. This was the weirdest pattern Zelphan ever walked with Petre, but he did it even though he felt silly. They continued the nonsense until Zelphan felt like he was going to drop. “Close your eyes.” Petre instructed. Zelphan squeezed his eyes shut, and Petre placed his hand on his shoulder. Zelphan held on and stumbled forward. “You can open your eyes now,” Petre said.

Zelphan gaped at the scene around him. He had been here before. He was standing in the middle of dense forest with trees so tall you couldn’t even see the sky above. All you could see was a green glowing mist above. “Zelphan, are we?” Xazaz started.

“Yes we are.” Zelphan confirmed. This forest was deadly and he and the phoenix were the only two known to enter and come out alive. Petre whispered into the air, and then sat down. “You might as well sit down with me, it may be a while.” He said, and they both sat down.

Zelphan must have fallen asleep because he woke up to a bright lime green light shining in his face. “Turn out the light.” He mumbled, rubbed his eyes, and saw the lime green butterfly fluttering in front of his face. “Rise and shine sleepy head.” It said in a high pitch voice.

“Smalls!” Zelphan grinned.

“You remember me well.” He replied.

“How could I ever forget you?”

“Stranger things have happed, for all I know you could have fallen off the mountain and hit your head so hard that you forgot who you were.”

“It’s nice to see you’re still the same optimistic butterfly that I knew before.”

“Smalls, Zelphan, this is not the time for this. We must go, our presence is known by creatures that wish us harm.” Petre said.

Smalls landed on Zelphan’s shoulder, and once again he followed Petre through a maze of moves. He was delighted that smalls was coming with him. The butterfly was tiny, but he could shine a light that was so bright it canceled out all darkness. Smalls saved his life one day using that skill.

After a while Zelphan was instructed to close his eyes and when he opened them he stood on the side of a road. The stone that was used in the road was the size of a house. The buildings that stood on either side made Zelphan feel like an ant. He was in the land of the giants, and he knew this time who they were about to see. A giant by the name of Oren lived here, and Zelphan was excited to see him.

The first time Zelphan came upon the city of giants he was terrified. So scared, in fact, he avoided it all together, and it was the exact place he needed to go. Oren possessed the sword before Zelphan did, and he was taken aback at how friendly the Giant was. He couldn’t imagine such a gentle creature going to battle with him, but if that’s what the wind had instructed Oren to do, then that’s what would happen.

When they reached the Giant’s home, Zelpahn ran up and gave the giant a hug, wrapping his arms around his leg as best as he could. The giant laughed a deep hearty laugh, nodded at Petre and they were off again, traveling through the lines of time.

The time came for Zelphan to close his eyes and when he opened them he was in an unfamiliar place. Before him he could see big ominous mountains, the sky around them was dark. In fact the town itself had a darkness that seemed to loom over it.

Townsfolk bustled in the street, carrying piles of wooden boxes with food and other supplies inside. The word siege hit Zelphan’s ears, and a phrase, “Ebulon is doomed.” Came from somewhere in the crowd. He looked at Oren next to him, nodded at Smalls, and shared a worried look with Xazaz. They seemed like a misfit group, but they were summoned to fight for Ebulon. He knew the wind made no mistakes, and he hoped that they all possessed the skills to help the kingdom. He didn’t want to think about what it would mean if they fail.

“This is where I leave you.” Petre said and gave them all a hug before he began walking in one of his weird patterns. Soon he disappeared and Zelphan hoped he would see him again. The foursome nodded at each other and set off into town looking for a place to eat and sleep for the night.

Xazaz, Smalls, Oren and Zelphan went from tavern to tavern looking for accommodations. Mixed in with the fear and darkness that loomed over Ebulon, there seemed to be an unusual amount of outsiders. The foursome were not the only ones called to Ebulon, there were many many more who answered the kingdom’s desperate call. Zelphan, Xazaz and Smalls were able to stay in a room together but there wasn’t a place for a giant to stay. Oren was offered the back garden from a friendly Ebulonite by the name of Tinzy. She apologized for not having anything more comfortable for him, and explained that her husband has been busy in the armory preparing for battle. She advised the crew to check in there so that they could be properly suited, although she didn’t know what they would do for the bird and butterfly. They thanked her and worked their way to the gaurds keep.

“Please state your business” The armed guard said.

“We were called to defend Ebulon, I was told an army of ocrs are on their way.” Zelphan answered.

“Yes, they are follow me and I will take you to be fitted for protection, although it won’t help you much if we face hand to hand combat.”

“Thank you… I’m sorry I don’t know your name.”

“My name is Robert; these men in here will help you find something that fits.”

The soldiers found suitable pieces of metal and fur to help protect Zelphan, for Xazaz they found a metal breast plate, and the giant there were scads of metal clumsily tied to various parts of his body. Smalls was the only one who remained unprotected, but he was okay with that. He was so tiny he was sure that he would be able to flutter through battle virtually unharmed. After all who would expect an insect to be the enemy?

The four left the armory and prepared for the night. Zelphan was exhausted from the day’s events. They said goodnight to Oren and left him in Tinzy’s backyard, then they retired to their room in the tavern. Zelphan was looking forward to a full night’s sleep full of what he hoped would be good dreams. Xazaz sat next to him on the bed and sang to him a beautiful melody until the boy was asleep. The three slept peacefully and dreamed of good things. Xazaz about his long lost tropical island, Smalls of the forest and Zelphan of home with his mother and father who were lost to the dragons of Ellandra.

All four jolted awake, people were screaming, horns were blowing and it appeared chaos was ensuing. Zelphan looked out the window, grey blobs that were men ran about in the street. “We’re under attack!” He heard someone yell. “Where are they at?” Another one asked. “They’re attacking all sides, they have us completely surrounded!” Someone answered. Zelphan felt his heart drop into his stomach. He was hoping he would have more time to explore Ebulon but that wasn’t the case now. He scrambled to put on his armor and helped Xazaz with his and they were out the door. Zelphan wanted to find Oren before they got overwhelmed by battle. He looked at the sky, it was grey with a glimmer of dawn. He looked towards the mountains and stopped in his tracks in surprised. It was as if the mountains were alight with fire flies, but they weren’t fire flies, he knew those dancing lights were torches held by the Orcs. He knew there was an army coming, but he didn’t think there would be this many. Judging by the size of the town Zelphan felt almost certain that the Orcs outnumbered them and for a second he began to doubt the success of Ebulon. Then he remembered that the wind called him to the task and the wind hasn’t failed him yet. He’s been in dark places before when he felt there was no hope only for something to come through for him at the very last second. He knew not to doubt his call and to trust the people of Ebulon. The three found Oren, he wasn’t hard to spot since he was so tall. The poor giant looked confused. “What do we do?” he asked.

“We join the battle of course.” Zelphan answered.

“I’ve never fought a battle in my life,” Oren said. Zelphan thought he detected just a slight quiver in the giant’s voice.

“Oren, I’m sure we’ll be okay. We came here to fight for Ebulon and we will do just that.”

“Maybe we should come up with a plan.” Smalls suggested.

“That’s a good idea.” Zelphan agreed and Xazaz nooded.

“Oren, you can take out the Orcs by kicking and hitting them with something. Throw rocks at them, anything to make them lose numbers. Xazaz, what can you do?”

“I can let out a sound so shrill I can deafen or even make their heads explode.” Xazaz answered.

“That sounds great but one thing, what about our ears and the ears of those around us that fight with us?”

“It will only hurt the Orcs.” Xazaz answered.

“That’s perfect. I can blind them, but you’ll have to look away. Unlike your noise, Xazaz my light is not subjective. I can let off a small series of flickers and you will have to warn the others to look away, then Oren can lay into them again, along with everyone else. Zelphan, what do you have?”

“I have the sword.” He answered.

“You mean the one that can summon dragons?”

“Yeah.”

“Well it’s obvious then. You’ll summon the dragons and we’ll fight until they come.”

“Alright, so now that we have the plan worked out where do we need to go?” Oren asked.

“We’re surrounded, does it really matter where we go?” Zelphan asked.

“I don’t think so as long as we’re helpful,” Xazaz answered.

“Then let’s go.” Smalls said fluttering into the air.

They followed him forward, weaving around buildings and people until they reached the wall. They heard shouts, and the whiz of arrows, some of the tips were lit on fire and they had to doge them. The four worked their way to the wall and found an entrance. Zelphan found a guard and explained to him what their plan was. The guard was more than happy to have the help and wasted no time telling the others. Once they were set up on the wall Smalls gave the signal flashes before releasing his bright green light. Xazaz’s mouth was open, but no one could hear anything except for the Orcs who put their hands to their ears and screamed. Zelphan held his sword up in the air and began reciting the words that would bring the dragons. It was a long complicated stream of words that were in a different language. He was trying to concentrate on what he was saying but was distracted by the Orcs. He had never seen creatures such as these. They had grey flesh, sharp jagged teeth, pointy ears, clawed fingers and no hair. Their limbs were long and bony and while they looked spindly and weak they were stronger than Zelphan first thought. He kept slipping on the words as he watched the Orcs try to climb the wall. A lump in his throat formed and he began to feel afraid. When Xazaz said they were creatures that nightmares were made of he wasn’t joking. These were the most vile things he had ever seen. With a shaky hand he held the sword up into the air. Closed his eyes and began to yell the words at the top of his lungs. He wanted to shut everything else out so he could bring the dragons. He was certain that once he was able to get them to come the battle would be won. He was betting on the fact that no one in Ebulon would have a weapons made of unicorn horn, for it was the only thing that could kill the dragons he was trying to summon.

Oren stomped around on the ground killing as many Orcs as he could. The Orcs shot at him and slashed their swords against his legs, but his skin was tough and the metal held. He only received a few scratches and nicks from their attempts.

Between Oren, Xazaz, and Smalls they had managed to put a dent in the in the massive crowd of Orcs, but more were still coming and Zelphan was still summoning the dragons. Smalls was beginning to tire, the use of his light was draining his energy and he would need to rest soon otherwise he would faint. Xazaz was feeling his voice become raspy, and Oren was starting to slow down. His feet felt heavy and he was going to need a break. The men that stood in line with them have been fighting bravely, but they seemed tired as well. The seemingly endless assault was beginning to take its toll and they began to wonder if the fighting was ever going to end and if they were going to see an end in sight.

The soldiers around them noticed the tired threesome, and called out asking them to take a break. “There’s no use in tiring out so bad that you perish,” Said one soldier. “You’ve fought bravely and you deserve a break for now so you can regain your strength.” Xazaz, Oren and Smalls grouped behind the wall and were given a warm drink, a bit of bread and some mutton on the bone. Everyone but smalls tucked in, the butterfly on a diet of only nectar. He found a single un-touched flower close by and drank his fill while the other two ate and drank. Oren spoke of home between bites, of his warm bed and peaceful town. The three swapped stories comparing their homes and favourite places, until they realized that if the Orcs gained entry and won the battle their own home would be lost as well.

Oren and Xazaz finished off their drinks, feeling refreshed and filled with new energy and urgency to win the battle, not only for Ebulon but for their own home. They rejoined on the other side of the wall and began fighting again. The three didn’t have to fight long before they felt a mighty wind and heard the flap of invisible wings. Fire came from the sky and they knew; the dragons were here.

The soldiers of Ebulon seemed confused until Zelphan explained that the dragons were invisible thanks to a man in Ellandra. Zelphan was able to see them because he was given the special spell to see them, having gained the trust of the beautiful, yet terrifying guardians.

The dragons swarmed the Orcs and made quick work of the them. They tried all they could to bring the dragons down, but they could not. These dragons were special and only a unicorn’s horn could kill a them. Dust of a unicorn’s horn was in the sword that Zelphan possessed and it was the only surviving weapon from Zelphan’s homeland that could kill a dragon if the need ever came.

Once the dragons came the Orcs fell or ran away once they found out they couldn’t harm the creatures. By the time morning came, the air seemed just a little cleaner and Ebulon seemed just a little brighter. They were making some headway and it was comforting to know that Ebulon had a fighting chance. What seemed like a sea of dead Orcs lie before them and they knew they’d be off to the next battle. But before they could make their way they were relieved of their duty and sent back to their room for a little bit of rest.

The four were tired but they knew they would not only return home eventually, but they knew they would return to a home that was safe and free of Orcs. They went back to their room, Oren his back yard. They were dirty from their battle but they did not care. Before they slept they knew more Orcs would fall but they also knew more good men would fall as well. War wasn’t ideal for them, but they were happy to help and glad they had skills that were of some use. When they fell to sleep; they slept so deeply that their dreams of home seemed real, and despite the grim circumstances they all had a peaceful smile on their faces.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

Ellandra by R.M. McDaniel

Upcoming.

Entry Point 6 - by Kaine Andrews

Land of Sour Milk and Bitter Honey

Andrew was in chains. Again.

And it had all been going so well, he thought. He inched one of his eyes open a quarter inch, the darkness of the cell doing little to impede his unnatural vision. What he saw was more encouraging than he had first expected, but still not as promising as he might have hoped.

The chamber was small and cramped, eight feet to a wall, with a sodden floor that — from the smell — was equal parts shit and mud. The walls themselves were weeping stone with trickles of foul water seeping through the cracks; it appeared to have been hewn with crude tools from a natural cave formation. Even with his enhanced abilities, Andrew was unable to detect a ceiling; he suspected it was likely some form of natural oubliette, too far down for even light to reach, assuming there was any to be found.

He was shackled to the back wall, allowing him to stare down the hallway that the room was attached to. Even if he had not been chained, however, such a view did him little good. Thick bars, pitted and flecked with reddish stains that might have been rust but that his nostrils claimed were more likely to be blood, blocked the path. Such would have meant little to him except for one crucial detail: he could smell the iron in their cores. His abilities would have no effect on such things, and to even touch them would bring immense pain and potential destruction.

He counted himself lucky that the shackles weren’t made of such material; from the feel of them against his wrists, and the moonglow shade of them, he guessed them to be silver or something akin to it. Those would pose no threat.

Allowing his eye to slip closed again, Andrew leaned forward, then jerked back, slamming his head against the wall. He paid no heed to the blood that trickled from the scrape he earned on his skull; instead he listened, straining his ears in an attempt to tell how thick the wall might be. No reverberation at all came back. Great. Solid.

Determining that there was little to do but wait — obviously his captors didn’t intend to leave him here forever, or they wouldn’t have bothered chaining him, leaving a door, and dressing the wounds he could still feel on his arms and chest — Andrew slouched against the wall again, thinking of how he’d come to be in such sorry circumstances.

*****

When the woman had brained him, she had started a chain reaction of events that had led to his eventual incarceration in the closest thing to hell someone like Andrew could contemplate: Homeview Institution. A mental hospital, kept floating on a constant diet of dream suppressing pills and emotion dampening cocktails. Everything kept just so, perfectly sterile and placid.

It very nearly killed him. Each day that he had sat in his cell, awaiting his trail, Andrew had felt his dreamself — his real self — grow weaker, being starved and poisoned by the air of banality and conformity that surrounded the place and ran so counter to his own nature. He woke, he ate, he took his meds, he slept again.

The routine had nearly ground down the last of the being he truly was, the ancient spirit that some called Ulato; remembering that life rather than the lie he’d crafted for the friendless boy grew steadily more difficult. Finally, he had resigned himself to the little death, to life as an outcast from what he had been made to do; when he retired that night, he’d expected either to wake with no memories except those of his fleshself… or to not wake at all.

But then the voice had come. Echoing through every fiber of his dual natures, it was impossible to deny, pleading for aid and succor, claimed any price would be paid if only salvation and vengeance were delivered.

Andrew, being what he was, couldn’t resist. In his dreams he had seen wide mountain vistas that reminded him of his long-ago home, craggy aeries that called to mind his mother’s retreats and shrines. Best of all, he could hear them, the people who lived in that kingdom below. Could hear their cries, smell their pain and fear. A veritable feast for his true nature awaited.

How could he resist?

Andrew’s dreamself had tugged away from the flesh, abandoning it to whatever fate might be ahead and had plunged through that image.

He had found himself standing in the middle of a town square, gray cobbles arranged in a spiral design radiating out from a fountain made of marble. The fountain had apparently been made to commemorate some sort of battle, with a regal-looking man driving a sword through the chest of something that looked intimately familiar to Andrew.

The dying thing had a manlike shape — two arms, two legs, head and torso arranged symmetrically — but the facial structure was closer to that of a pig. Two jutting tusks thrust out from the lower lip, the left one cracked off halfway down. The jowls were thick and dangling, and the nose was a rounded snout with two slits instead of nostrils. The eyes — all three of them — were small and beady, but the artist had done well applying very human pain into the carving.

He glanced around himself, noting the people who were now backing away from him — he suspected it wasn’t every day that strangers suddenly just appeared in their square, let alone strangers wearing clothing that probably appeared freakish and strange to them — and their manner and bearing; all seemed to have dusky flesh, be taller than he — though at only five and a half feet tall, that wasn’t saying much — and have thick dark hair and green or brown eyes. Most were wearing expensive clothing cut in formal — though old, from his standpoint — style, heavy velvet and silk with fur trim and silver accessories. Reds and browns seemed to be the colors of the day, and he found himself laughing inside. Don’t imagine black jeans and purple t-shirts are too common around here, he thought. Not that he particularly cared.

Ignoring them — though the wave of curiosity, fear and hope that came from the crowd was tantalizing to his dreamself, the emotions dribbling out like honey beading on a bit of beeswax — Andrew stepped towards the stature, locking eyes with the porcine figure.

“Fomori,” he whispered. “Did me mother not see fit to wipe you out, eh?”

He extended a hand, running it along the side of the agonized face, then glanced up to the human figure and the blade he wielded. Giving a derisive snort, Andrew stepped back. As if humans could actually kill fomori. Give me a break.

He glanced over his shoulder, hearing the sound of booted feet stomping on the cobbles and saw that most of the crowd who had been present to witness his arrival were now gone. Coming through one of the side streets, between a tall and garish building that claimed to offer “Fine Clothes and Notions Abound” and a more humble building of brick that was chuffing bread-scented smoke from the chimney, were six men. Larger still than those who had fled, all six had skin the color of onyx and eyes to match. The shortest was a full foot taller than Andrew and the largest had to be approaching seven feet; all were garbed in blood red steel chest plates lined with thick fur and leather sleeves, with matching greaves and boots. They carried an array of weaponry — thankfully none of it iron, so far as Andrew could tell — ranging from short swords to long spears, all with silver adornments and looking deadly enough for a town guard patrol. Five were wearing similar helms, the shape pointed at the top and above the eyes, with stylized birds etched into the sides. The one in front — the largest and likely to be their leader, Andrew assumed — wore a plumed headdress, decorated with what appeared to be raven feathers.

Ah, he bears the sign of my mother. Likely without even realizing it. Andrew smiled. “Hile, sirs. Adhradh an Morrigan?” He doubted such would get a response, assuming they even understood either English or Gaelic, but he didn’t see the harm in trying.

His violet eyes widened in faint surprise when the one in front grunted out a response, his tone terse and commanding despite the playful voice with which he had been addressed. “Hile. Dean mar a dheanaimse. From whence do you come?”

Andrew cocked his head. They had heard of his mother here? Wherever here is, he amended. He shrugged, taking a step towards the guardsmen as he raised his palms. “From somewhere far away, I think. A place far less pleasant than this. Someone called, I came. I’d like to talk to your leader.” A flippant tone had crept into his voice; it was clear to him that they were unlikely to skewer him on the spot, and whoever was in charge was likely to have better answers, from Andrew’s past experiences.

The guardsman shook his head. “The bones were cast; Lady Falloth knew you would come. She instructed us to see you to lodgings and keep you there until King Yadi calls for you.”

One of Andrew’s eyebrows popped up. Kings? Ladies? Such might have been common in the days of his youth, or in the place he had been born. But he was far more accustomed to the idea of presidents and business moguls… and police who wore cloth uniforms and kevlar. Still… it was better than where he had been. He shrugged again. “As you will.”

The lead guard grunted and nodded. “Then follow. The Overhollow will serve as your home, and your needs will be met there.” He cast a disapproving eye over Andrew. “And a tailor will see to your clothing. Yours is unfit for our climate.”

Andrew glanced around, wondering what the man was talking about; it was a bit chilly in the square, but certainly no worse than where he’d come from. Then he noticed the snowpack to either side of the street the guards had come from, and similar drifts along the other walkways, and understood. Something in the square — likely the statue — was enchanted in some way, keeping the area clear of snow and ice. He nodded, centering his gaze once more on the guard.

“I… see. Alright, then. Lead the way, I guess.”

They had turned and formed an honor guard around him as they led him to the place where he’d thought his dreams would once again be made real.

*****

The Overhollow had turned out to be a practical castle carved into one of the mountains. The guards claimed it had been done ages ago by one of the great Lords of Ebulon; supposedly, after doing so, the Lord had then begun to tunnel below the earth, venturing into the kingdoms of Those Who Lie Beneath, leaving his estate uncared for. The Lady Falloth had allegedly taken up residence some five years prior, at the insistence of the King, who claimed that what was beneath the Overhollow needed guarding. The whispers of invasion had only reinforced that belief; now that the invasion had come — things the guards called Orcs, which Andrew interpreted as the fomori of his own youth — there was concern that the Underhollow might likewise be infested, leaving Lady Falloth with the unenviable position of having to watch both the gates into her sector — the Rose Quarter — and whatever might bubble up from below.

All of this Andrew digested with elation; freed from his cell in the miserable pit of Homeview, summoned to a place that promised both the fear and vengeance that his dreamself craved and his ancient enemies lying in wait? The only trouble would be how poor his living conditions were to be — at first, anyway — and how many restrictions on his “games” this lady and king might place.

Those thoughts were dispelled when he was led into his quarters and abandoned there. Finely furnished — with great leather couches, three fireplaces to battle the constant cold, a plush monstrosity that made the queen-size waterbed in his previous den seem like a toy, velvet drapes and silver runners everywhere — the lounge, bedroom and small toilet that made up his quarters seemed more lavish than anything he had known save for the deepest pits of memory, from the time when he and others like him were worshipped as gods. Even with no running water or toilet paper it was more than pleasing to him.

When a knock had come half an hour later and he had opened the door to see two women — one wearing a functional fur-lined jerkin, the other with a shimmering see-through gown, both with pale skin, ice-blue eyes and thick blonde hair, he couldn’t help smiling.

The one in the jerkin had set about taking his measurements, holding up several small slates of different hues to his skin and disdainfully tugging at the crow’s nest of black hair that he hadn’t bothered to try to style.

The other had apologized for her sister’s behavior. “I am Irana. This is my sister Jolia. She will leave us, soon. Won’t you, sister?”

The seamstress had grunted, and continued poking and prodding at Andrew with pins and a long runner of leather that had been notched in several places.

Irana smiled, settling herself onto one of the couches and curling her legs under her. “And once she is done, then your… other… needs will be met, hmm?”

Andrew’s lips quirked into a smirk even as something below his waist twitched and spasmed with anticipation. He could feel his fingers lengthening, his teeth shifting in his mouth as liquid steel crept out from his gums to coat them, and willed the change back. Later he would let his real self out to play, but it wouldn’t do much good to frighten off the seamstress… at least not when she was working on his leg and held scissors and pins, anyway.

“I don’t think you know what kinds of need I may have, sweetness.”

She arched her brow, then shook her head, laughing. “And I don’t believe you know where you are. We can smell your kind, Tuatha. You of the dark courts are not unknown to us. Did you not see the marks of the Morrigan? Lady Falloth is knowledgeable in whatever she wishes to be. Including the needs of such as you.”

Andrew’s smirk faded when she used the old term for his kind; perhaps these people knew what they were talking about after all.

“Ah, now there is the proper expression. Respect and caution. They will get you far, especially with the dangers that lie in wait here.” She rose, flapping a hand at her sister. “Go, Jolia. You linger too much there, and we both know he isn’t for you. Get to his clothes and be on your way. He and I have much to discuss.”

Jolia, still silent, rose. She bobbed her head once — an aggressive maneuver, lacking any sign of respect that might have been implied, making her look like an angry chicken — and practically bolted out the door.

Once she was gone, Irana stepped closer to Andrew, moving sinuously, adding more sway to her hips than was necessary; he found himself thinking of the woman who had brained him, and how much this one resembled her. Again, the change started to come over him, and he clenched his fists in an attempt to resist it.

“Why do you fight it?” Irana drawled. “You are what you are… that is why you are here.”

She came closer still, draping one arm around him and tangling her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. “Show me. Show me the killer of fomori, show me the son of the Morrigan. Show me our savior… and I am yours. The price of your service, if you will.”

Her eyes were half-lidded, her tone full of promises of ecstasy. Andrew marveled at the idea that someone would offer such to him, knowing what he was. Knowing what he did. He stopped fighting the change, allowing his hands to lengthen and grow lean, the nails stretching out into steel claws. His teeth shifted, becoming more akin to a bear trap as they melted into jagged fangs. Irana lost her grip on the back of his neck as he grew nearly two feet, and the mop of black hair became a smattering of raven feathers. His face grew even more pale, turning pallid and corpse-like as his eyes became glittering amethysts.

“Oh…” she gasped. Despite her apparent foreknowledge, seeing him in his true form had still rendered Irana speechless.

His voice had become the buzzing of insects, varying in pitch and tone to approximate human speech. “Yes, oh. Now you see. And soon you will feel…”

He snapped his fingers, and a bit of carved wood appeared in the palm of his left hand; with a flick of a wrist, a dully gleaming silver blade had popped out. He placed the straight razor to Irana’s cheek, drawing it down slowly and lightly, letting the flesh bring beads of blood to the fore like poppies at bloom. He shot out his tongue — a freakish thing, far too long and covered with tiny barbs — and lapped at the red water flowing from her cheek. She gasped again, but made no attempt to pull away.

“Mmmmm. Delicious.”

*****

Andrew came away from the memory, not wanting to think about what had happened afterward; he remembered a scream from the hall, the stomping of boots, a frenzy of additional shouts. Then… something, he hadn’t had time to tell what, had burst into the room, forcing him to drop his treat. Irana had hit the floor, crying out in pain and surprise. As Andrew had begun to turn, he’d felt something hit him in the chest, felt the iron within the crossbow bolt working on him, forcing him back into the shape of his fleshself and negating any defense or assault he might have otherwise prepared. Then something had crashed into his skull, leaving only darkness until he’d woken up here.

Andrew froze, his unnaturally sharp hearing having detected a scuffling sound. Movement, down the hallway. Smiling broadly, he willed his dreamself to the front, the thinning of his hand and fluid nature of his flesh allowing him to slip one arm from the shackles. Snapping his fingers, the straight razor appeared in his free hand as he allowed himself to return to his more normal seeming.

He waited, straining to hear. The shuffling was growing louder, definitely coming this way; likely a guardsman coming to check on his prisoner. He could smell the thing’s thoughts, and found them to his liking: All hate and violence, this one. Something definitely inhuman. Ah, taken prisoner and prevented from playing with Irana… only to be handed a fomori playmate. Perfect.

The shuffling stopped just beside the door to his cell, and Andrew forced his smile back. He slumped his head and tried to appear sleeping — not certain how well the creature could see in the absolute darkness down here but not wanting to make any assumptions — as he heard the jingle of keys. The barred door swung open. A moment later he heard a grotesque, ratcheting cough and saw a wad of phlegm shoot through the opening. Then one of his captors stepped into the room, carrying a tray laden with rancid meat and a cup that stank of vinegar.

Superficially, it resembled the figure in the statue of the Rose Quarter Square; porcine features, human shape. This one possessed only a single eye, however, set in the middle of the forehead like some blasphemous tumor that could somehow see. The hands were strangely twisted, with a hoof-like extrusion emerging from the palm where the last three fingers should have been and spiny pincers in place of the thumb and first finger. Underneath the simple loincloth it wore, the legs were thick and heavily muscled, tapering into hairy cloven hoofs that it drug across the floor.

Andrew rattled one of the chains that held him to the wall, tuning his voice to the pitch of helplessness and fear that so many of his previous playmates had used on him. “Let me out! I promise, whatever you want, I’ll do it!”

The guard appeared unmoved by Andrew’s pleas as it shuffled forward and tossed the tray on the ground at Andrew’s feet. It stood before him for a long moment, staring at him with that single bulbous eye; then the grotesque mouth twitched upwards in a horrid parody of a smile.

“It shakes the chains all it wants, but can’t get out. Galluk’ur decides, Galluk’ur makes it food. Galluk’ur wants it. Not dead. Tender.”

Before Andrew could begin to put voice to the questions the thing’s statement provoked, it reared back with one of those misshapen hands and slapped him across the jaw. Andrew felt something crack — despite the emaciated appearance, it was strong and the hoof-like material of its lower hand was nearly as dense as steel — and his head whipped to the side. Blood dribbled over his lower lip, and Andrew’s probing tongue could tell that at least two of his teeth had been cracked off.

When he refocused his eyes on his attacker, however… Andrew was smiling widely. “Mistake, my friend.” In order to slap him, the creature had gotten close enough for Andrew to reach; now he lashed out with his free hand, the straight razor gleaming even in the darkness as it sheared through the creature’s stomach.

As Andrew had expected, the beast doubled up over the wound, clasping one of those strange hands against it as black and red sludge seeped through the wound. He used that moment to rise and pull his already-changing flesh free of the other shackle. Assuming his true form, the shattered teeth replaced with their steel counterparts and his handsome human face replaced with a hellish harlequin mask, Andrew leaned forward, panting his rancid blood-and-oysters stench into the guard’s face.

“And people who make mistakes around me don’t live to repent them, pal.”

He jerked the straight razor up and drove it forward, popping the creature’s eye with a wet sound that was nearly buried beneath the creature’s shrieks. Yellow fluid began to dribble from the edges, but Andrew dug deeper, using the height advantage and increased strength from his dreamself to bury the blade into the skull and the soft meat that lay behind it. After another moment, the thing began to twitch and shudder uncontrollably and its voice dwindled to nothing but gasps. A moment after that, it slid from his blade and hit the floor still twitching as it sank into the fecal mire.

Andrew leaned his head back and took a deep breath, relishing the scent of terror and death that had been released by the creature in its final moments; the miasma of the dying rejuvenated him slightly — not as much as dealing with it in his preferred manner might have, but enough to tend to the wounds on his body and grant him the psychic strength to lay hands on the fomori’s spirit as it sought to flee.

Returning to his human shape, Andrew focused his will into manacles of his own; chained by that will, the dead Orc’s escaping spirit was trapped, bound to him as one of his bean sidhe. The air rustled, dust motes and ground bones rising up to take form similar to the dead beast’s, albeit with the wounds that had killed it clearly visible. It thrashed against the air, obviously attempting to fight the invisible restraints that bound it to its killer, but discovered that such resistance was futile. Andrew’s grin spread wider in response.

“Awww. Poor baby. Shouldn’t have meddled with my playtime, you know. It might have been Irana standing in your place, otherwise…” He sighed, casting his eyes skyward. “And she would have been much better company, I’m sure. But you’ll do.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes, making a beckoning gesture to the thing. Thankfully the ghost saw at least as well as the creature it had come from, missing eye or no, and didn’t seem any more impeded by the darkness than Andrew himself was. It shuffled a step closer, hanging its head as though expecting another blow.

“Now, my little pet. You’re going to take me to this Galluk’ur. And then we’ll have a little chat about the menu. Here’s a hint: I’m not on it.” He gestured at the cell door with the razor. “Now march. On, you huskies!”

The ghost, head still hung low but unable to refuse the command of its master, turned and began to shuffle out of the cell, Andrew trailing behind it.

*****

The bean sidhe had led Andrew through the warrens, actual light creeping in as they wound slowly upwards through roughly hewn stairwells and spiraled passages that appeared to be natural at first glance; with further inspection, he could see hundreds of pinprick-sized notches in the stone with occasional larger gashes. Looking at these kept bringing an image of something akin to a giant centipede burrowing its way steadily upward.

At one point he tried further conversation with the spirit of his former captor, inquiring as to their whereabouts. “Underhollow,” was the only word it said that made sense, and was merely repeated when Andrew had asked for more clarification; he could only assume they were somewhere below the palatial estate that he had first been taken to.

After a time they came to a more open place, a wide grotto perhaps twenty feet to a side, and apparently designed for more comfort than the rest of the place. Here there were brilliant torches flaring with blue and green flame that registered to his unnatural sight as well as his human eyes. Thick carpeting had been laid out to cover the dense soil, and crests in the style of the old people Andrew’s dreamself had once known — large triangular affairs, forged from steel, silver and gold, colored in blues, purples, blacks and toxic greens with mutant animals and skulls upon them — were mounted along the walls. Ah, the fomori’s lair. Where they can kick up their feet… erm… hooves and do what comes natural. He snorted as he took stock of the room, but did so quietly; the scent of blood, flesh and rancid anger and aggression was coming from somewhere up ahead, likely beyond the small green door that sat at the end of this hall, and he had no desire for the things manufacturing those scents to be aware of him.

Yet, he amended.

Snapping the fingers of his right hand, a dull purple spark sprung from the tips of his fingers and hovered for a moment. Brushing his hand at it caused the foo-light to blossom into a small violet flame the size of his fist and sent it floating serenely towards the closest of the torches. His lips quirked in an unpleasant and predatorial grin, Andrew directed the purple flame to each of the torches in turn, until all of them were glowing and flickering with his own purple fire rather than the balefire the Orcs seemed to prefer.

“There, that’s better,” he whispered. “And now that the stage is set…”

With another snap, the straight razor appeared in his left hand, gleaming and reflecting back the purple glow throughout the room. Pursing his lips and blowing at the back of his unwilling tour guide, the bean sidhe was scattered back into dust motes and moonbeams once again, leaving Andrew alone in the chamber.

Andrew slid along the wall towards the door at the far end, his natural attunement to negative thoughts and feelings proving almost as good as any radar scope, providing a general idea of what waited on the other side. Two beasts, one to other side of the door if his senses were correct. Several more scattered within, with something that radiated more violence, rage and jealousy than the rest combined, resting in the center of the others. That’s the one I want. With his power… Andrew didn’t let the thought finish itself, as planning too far ahead wasn’t in his nature. Still, with that amount of juice, he could return with a veritable army of bean sidhe and other dream remnants. The people above, those who claimed his mother’s blessing and looked so soft and weak, so fearful of war and what it would bring, would grovel before him… and if the Orcs — or whatever other beasts they feared — dared cause trouble elsewhere in the city, all the gods of old wouldn’t be able to help them.

Licking his lips in anticipation, Andrew shot one booted foot out and kicked in the door. Even as he did so, he slid to the left and into a pocket of shadow cast between two of the wall torches, his body evaporating into the darkness and sliding smoothly through the small cracks in the wall.

Two guards — similar in their physical respects to the one he had dispatched below, but both armed with gleaming golden pikes and daggers of cold iron at their hips, wearing breastplates of green gossamer and thick leather boots over their hooves — stumbled out of the shattered doorway as the remnants drifted down around them.

Slipping out of the shadows on the opposite side of the wall, Andrew flickered back to physicality directly behind them. With a savage slash, he tore a long flap of flesh from the back of one guard’s unprotected neck; as it flailed at the wound and its companion turned to face the intruder, Andrew executed a quick curtsey. “Shouldn’t have interrupted my playtime, dearies. Now you have to be my playmates.”

Whipping the razor back in the opposite direction, ignoring the heavy clanking of weapons being readied behind him, Andrew nearly decapitated the turning guard. His free hand dipped to the first guard’s belt, snatching at the hilt of the dagger — wincing and feeling a bit of himself dying, his fingers blackening at the contact as the iron’s sterile sanity rubbed against his chaotic nature — he jerked it free and shoved upward with it, burying it in the wound he’d already created and forcing it through to emerge from the creature’s eye.

Spinning, holding the razor out in front of his eyes as his dreamself drank deep of the dying Orc’s lifeforce, Andrew immediately put it to work and tethered their spirits to him as his features shifted into his true visage. Now wearing the hellish harlequin’s face, he sketched a salute as he surveyed his opposition.

There were fewer than he’d thought — apparently that central malevolent force, or perhaps remnants of previous inhabitants, had clouded his assessment — but the half-dozen fomori forming a rough line before him still appeared dangerous enough. Four were armed as the two he’d already killed, but the two in the center were much larger, had two eyes and full hands rather than the mutations evident in the others, and were hefting heavy mauls. From the stench and quiver of fear that they sent through him, Andrew could tell the heads were made of pure iron.

“An maith la do duine digeanta.” A good day to die, indeed. At least he’d be taking several of these pricks with him, he thought. Keeping the razor before him and willing that the bean sidhe forming behind him should prepare their own weapons, he made a beckoning gesture with his free hand. The two with mauls began to advance on him, their mates closing in behind them.

Andrew tensed back on the balls of his feet, preparing to launch himself in a bundle of manic energy, but stopped — as did the Orcs — as a harsh and guttural sound, more cough than word, came from behind the soldiers.

The two with mauls shuffled to either side, providing Andrew with a line of sight to what lay behind them. An altar of some sort, draped with gold and green silk, atop which sat a hideous-looking statue made of onyx. It’s shape reminded him of what he’d thought while in the stone throat of the stairwell; carved in the semblance of a monstrous centipede with dozens of mouths, the blasphemous icon was two feet tall and three wide, seeming to radiate malicious energy. Standing behind it was a creature that was the spitting image of the fomori immortalized in stone in the square above; three eyed and nearly an equal mix of pig and man, this one wore thick robes that matched the altar’s draperies. It grunted out the phlegmy sound once more, and started to advance.

When it stood merely three feet from Andrew, it curled one side of its mouth, revealing rows of fangs behind the protruding tusks, and hissed.

“Tuatha. You dare?”

Andrew lowered the razor, his grin blooming once more, revealing his jagged bear-trap teeth. “I dare much, fomori. Surrender yourself, and maybe I don’t kill all your friends.” He paused, then dropped a wink. “Maybe.”

The priest — if that’s what it was — raised its hands, green liquid fire dripping from the fingertips and wreathing the thing’s lower arms. Andrew could feel something like a funnel forming in the air, a shaft of negative emotion coming from the blasphemous idol on the altar and moving towards the priest. The other Orcs were dropping to one knee in apparent reverence, their heads bowing.

Andrew saw his opportunity; he leapt towards the priest as it thrust one hand towards him, the fire jetting forward from the palm and toward the place Andrew had been a moment before. Andrew felt the burst of flame singe him as he jumped; in response he flicked out with the razor, severing the priest’s still upraised other hand and snatching it from the air.

Twisting as he fell, having executed a tidy somersault over the priest’s head and now standing before the idol, Andrew dropped another wink and executed a mock bow. As the priest’s scream of pain and indignation began to rise to the rafters, Andrew hooked a finger into the exposed tendons of the severed hand, placed it around the centipede statue and pulled the tendon, forcing the dying fingers to grasp it. Andrew wanted it, wanted it desperately, but didn’t want to touch it himself.

The response was immediate; even with the intermediary of the priest’s flesh, burning pain burrowed into Andrew’s mind, creating hissing sibilants that were almost words, almost demands. Hefting the thing into the air, he was gratified to see them all backing away from him even as the priest fell to its knees, arms upraised and stump dripping ichor to the floor, wailing.

“No! Galluk’ur will not serve such as you!”

Andrew’s heavy brows arched upwards. “You think not? Your false god whispers to me. Tells me that you’re washed up, a failure.” His grin widened further, looking as though it sought to wrap around the back of his head by this point. “It knows that we are the gods here. Too bad you forgot that, fomori.” Diverting part of his mind to converse with the spirit inhabiting the idol, Andrew gave his commands… and was instantly gratified as all six of the guardian Orcs burst into flame, screeching of their burning demise not in pain or fear, but ecstatic exaltation.

Andrew knelt before the priest, setting the idol in front of him with the hand still attached to it — fused to it, Andrew saw, the fingers having run like wax and sealed themselves to the curves of the centipede — before placing the straight razor against the priest’s thick, jowly cheek.

“Now, false priest and fallen god. It’s playtime. I want you to scream for me.”

The priest made a gargling sound in its throat, pursed its putrid lips and hawked a hard knot of slime at Andrew’s face. Andrew, with the priest’s ill-minded gift dripping down his pallid features, appeared unperturbed as he drug the blade down the Orc’s cheek, leaving it hanging in a bloody flap.

He was rewarded with precisely what he’d hoped for, feeling his strength return and his connection to the thing within the idol grow stronger still as he savored the hatred and terror in the priest’s scream.

“Yes. You’ll scream for me. And every scream, every sob, every single drip or drab of fear that you express… only adds to my strength. You and yours are finished.”

Andrew raised the straight razor again… and went to work.

*****

Hours later, the Rose Guard of Morrigan stood watch over the stone slab that marked passage from the Overhollow to the depths of the Underhollow. They had remained since the Orc’s incursion, having followed the beasts as they fled with their captives — the supposed hero, one of Lady Falloth’s handmaidens, several members of the guard and other staff — but none having been willing to pursue into the haunted halls below. It had remained quiet since then, though all of them worried that another assault could come — must come — and some were even advocating bringing the fight to the beasts.

When they heard the sounds — as though a large number of men were marching in full battle gear — they lowered their shields and crouched behind them, sweaty hands tightening on sword hilts and spear shafts. Those grips loosened only slightly as they saw the supposed hero, now clothed in little more than rags but otherwise apparently none the worse for wear, practically skipping through the gate. He was carrying a large stone figure of some kind. As the guard captain titled his head and started to cry the other man to a halt, he saw what lay behind Andrew and could do nothing but gape.

Coming up the stairwell and filing out into rows behind the Tuatha, spectral Orcs were taking up military formations… and kneeling. Andrew, his flesh now barely able to contain the bloated power of his dreamself, was flickering in appearance between the two as he smiled.

“I bring an army, and the god of your enemy. Now I wish to speak to Lady Falloth regarding my… rew—”

He stopped, eyes fixing on something behind the guardsmen. After a moment, he shook his head, titling it to one side. “Mother?”

The guard captain looked over his shoulder to see what Andrew was looking at and saw nothing but the cellar hallway, plain, dusty and damaged from the Orc’s incursion and subsequent retreat. Andrew certainly appeared to see something else, as he began to shriek.

“No! No, I won’t go back! I could be a king! A god! No, mother! No!”

The man was shrinking, almost appearing to melt into the floor. His screams were likewise diminishing, as though someone was adjusting his internal volume. After a moment, the guard captain was staring at a spot of empty floor where Andrew had stood.

The idol remained, however; as did the legion of ghostly Orcs, still bowing their head in submission.

The guard captain took a tentative step forward, holding one hand up to signal to his men to stay put. When no violence erupted, he took another step and then another. Going to one knee, he hefted the statue by the apparent handle, a bony protrusion that looked almost like a hand. As he did, a hissing voice echoed in his mind, and the eyes of the dead Orcish legion fell squarely on him.

“We die to serve. Command us, master.”

The guard captain smiled. The Rose Quarter had been delivered its salvation.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

WOKEN by Kaine Andrews

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Entry Point 7 - by Brandon Ellis

A snow leopard sits atop a large boulder surveying a rushing river below. She takes a deep breath. The day has been long for her tribe. A skirmish with the Dims has prevented them from getting any training done, injuring and killing a few individuals. And keeping everyone alive isn’t the worst of her thoughts. Crepus Dim, a past friend and ally, has been wreaking havoc across her once peaceful land.

Knowing that such thoughts will twirl in her mind all night long, she pushes them aside and moves to leave the boulder. But, while standing up, she suddenly pauses. A soft whisper interrupts her concentration. She can’t quite discern what it says, nor can she sense its meaning, but she knows it comes from afar.

She hops to the ground below, feeling the soft meadow grasses under her paws. Up ahead is the large mouth of Marble Burrow, a place where tunnels go deep underground. It houses a giant crystal, in addition to a dorm full of students who come from all over the land to study and train the Sacred Art of Defense under her tutelage.

Padding over to the cavern, she stops abruptly. The whisper switches to images of snow falling on a mountain city with people in fur clothing busying themselves in its marketplace. Then a voice clearly states, “Nova, the fall of Ebulon is near. Please help. Humanity is near its end.”

Violet crystals that had grown from her chest and forehead long ago glow brightly as her heart pulses with fear, a sensation almost foreign to her. It isn’t fear for herself; it’s for the many inhabitants of the city. It’s a place she’s yet to place a paw, but she feels connected to it in some mystical way and knows that she must help in order for the inhabitants to survive.

Realizing that she has been holding her breath, she forces an exhale and then eyes her destination. There stands Honani, caretaker of the Marble Burrow, and a badger she trusts above most others. When he sees her approach, his indigo colored crystals on his chest and forehead begin to shine.

It won’t be long until your crystals evolve into violet, thinks Nova.

Honani dips his head toward her. “Greetings, Nova.” His voice is calm but firm, holding the utmost respect for his leader and wise counselor.

Nova blinks. “I have a mission. I must leave here and enter another world, one in more turmoil than our own.”

Honani’s eyes widen slightly, but he holds his composure. “I understand. How long will you be gone?”

“Many moons, I fear.”

“Shall I gather a troop for you?” offers Honani.

“They’re needed here. I can’t thin our tribe any more than it is already. There are enough soldiers where I’m going to stop the onslaught, but they’ll need others like me.”

Honani’s posture straightens and he lifts his chest high. “Then I’ll come.”

Nova slowly shakes her head. “No. You’re needed here. Keep the tribe prepared for the next Dim attack.”

The badger nods as his crystals emit a slight glow. He smiles. “We’ll be more than prepared.”

Nova presses her cheek against his, a sign of respect and love, and then pads off to the north to a place where a way point will transport her to the beckoning city.

* * *

Heavy snow crunches beneath her feet as she runs at full speed. Her destination is ahead, a city in the mountains in much need of assistance. Reaching a precipice, she starts to quickly climb, digging her claws into rocks and crevasses, each step strategically placed with ease and grace. There were roads, several in fact, leading to the city, but Nova’s way was much faster—straight up.

As she climbs, she notices the grayness of the morning. The sky, rocks, and the tall buildings she could see looming above the city walls are all the same pallid color. Turning her eyes away, she digs her claws deeper into the rocky terrain as a harsh wind buffets against her fur. She closes her eyes, willing the wind to slow itself, which it respectfully does.

She comes to a halt at a large outcrop. She sees that her elevation is hundreds of leopard lengths high, but she is accustomed to that. It makes her feel safe and comfortable. Inhaling the clean mountain air, she absorbs the richness of this foreign land.

Then she glimpses something out of the corner of her eye. A torch bearing army, the largest she’s ever seen, is far off in the distance and marching toward her. Her keen eyes narrow as she observes the one who leads them. He is large, muscular, has green skin and wears a coat of silver armor. He carries a large spear with a sword sheathed at his side. He wears a silver helmet that stops at his forehead, going no further to shield his face. A pig like nose protrudes from human like features and a thick rug of black hair hangs in disarray from under the back of his helmet to his shoulders. The energy around him seemed to squelch any light in his vicinity as he marches, sending out only darkness with each step.

This was the reason she had come, to stop this arriving catastrophe. She needs to get to the city and get to it now; to light the way through the coming darkness.

Speeding up the process, she takes giant leaps from one large rock outcropping to another, until she finds herself at the foot of a large ashlar wall—blocks of squared stone interlocking block on top of block. The finished product looks to be about thirty leopard lengths tall and it is more than just a wall. At the top of it is a parapet protecting a walkway with soldiers standing guard.

Nova leans on her hind legs and leaps again, silently landing on top of the parapet. Two guards standing watch are holding crossbows, watching the advancement of the oncoming enemies below. She hops to the solid stone flooring between them to speak, but before she can open her mouth she hears a startled yell from the guard on her left, then the thud and zip of a crossbow releasing its arrow. With a reaction faster than any the guard has ever seen, Nova spins around the flying arrow, slaps her tail against it, throwing it off course and away from the other guard, harming no one.

“Hey!” yells the other guard, startled by his friend’s sudden action, but then he realizes that an intruder has just arrived, so he aims and fires, also.

Watching the arrow as though it’s moving in slow motion, Nova simply moves out of its way as she swipes downward with her paw and pins it to the ground. She closes her eyes, twitches her tail and concentrates, and then opens her eyes. Looking left and right, she sees that her magic has worked. Both men are suspended in the air with their swords drawn to attack. Though both guards are still conscious, they can’t move, as if frozen by some unseen force.

Nova speaks. “I’m sorry, my friends. I mean you no harm.”

“Then let us go!” screams one of the guards doing his best to move without success.

Ignoring the man’s plea, Nova continues. “A call was sent to me. I’m here to answer it.”

One of the guards relaxes, which instantly releases him from the magic. He kneels before her, bending his head to the ground. “Our apologies. You must be one of the heroes our King has beckoned.”

“Hero? I’m no such thing. I’m Nova, VioletLight of the PureLight Lineage, counselor and sage of the Sihu Tribe.” She looks over her shoulder, again seeing the ominous army still far off in the distance and marching toward them. “Who are the negative Beings approaching?”

Finally realizing that Nova is of no harm to him, the other guard is released by Nova’s energy grip. He kneels as well, saying, “They are not men. They are filth, excrement of the vilest creatures ever created. Those are Orcs you see coming. They invade us to end the reign of man. We’re the last resistance, the last of our kind.”

Nova nods. “I see.” She searches the landscape below, now seeing even more armies approaching from several other directions, and knows that if they pick up speed they could arrive by sundown.

One guard looks at the other. “Notify King Yadi that Nova has arrived.”

The guard runs off, his armor clanging loudly as he makes his way down a stone staircase. At first glance, it’s difficult for Nova to determine whether or not the guards are wearing armor. It’s covered with the fur of some unfortunate animals and Nova considers that given the circumstances, if she weren’t a VioletLight she could be a piece of fur keeping another soldier warm. It is a disturbing thought, but she also remembers a time when control of her own body temperature wasn’t as easy as it is now.

Setting that aside, Nova looks around and sees walkways on the top every wall, with only a few soldiers stationed on each one. These soldiers are being used as lookouts, but Nova knows that when the Orcs arrive the walls will be crowded with defenders. They have to be if Ebulon expects to survive. She observes a city well fortified, but it has many entry points. She is standing near one of them and it seems to be a side entrance to the city. Its gate is large, dark and metallic and currently open. Barbicans stand outside of the gate, housing several soldiers in each tower. They have slits big enough for a crossbow to shoot through, but not much else.

Scanning the courtyard, Nova sees waiting soldiers everywhere being coated by falling snow and taking orders from several commanders. They’re waiting for a battle they don’t want, and hoping they won’t catch an arrow in their chest to end up clinging to their final breath of life.

If these are the last representatives of their kind, like the guard had said, these are desperate people. They’ll have to fight not only to save themselves, but to save their race, making sure to take ten lives to each of their one. The Orcs might find these humans not so easily defeated.

Nonetheless, she can feel fear penetrating the entire city, readying it for the explosion of battle. Here, nothing is safe, not even the King deep in his hall or tucked away in a turret or hiding under the trap doors of his oubliette dungeon. Even the mountains that stand bleak and cumbersome aren’t safe.

“They bring Mangonels and Belfries!” shouts the guard.

Pulling Nova out of her thoughts, she sees the guard’s face now stricken with horrific fear. She takes a step toward him to look in the direction he’s pointing.

Indeed, large wooden siege towers on wheels are being pushed and pulled by the Orcs. Slinging machines follow behind, pulled by thick ropes harnessed to large animals that Nova has never seen before. They have the area mass of a rhinoceros, huge horns and bull like faces with sharp fangs jutting out of their mouths. They’re covered with long, shaggy hair and there looks to be about a hundred of them moving through the main army of Orcs.

Nova points with her tail. “What are those terrible looking things pulling the Mangonels?”

The guard squints his eyes to see what she is talking about and finally grasps for something at his side, but then sighs in annoyance. He flicks his head toward the staircase. “Palin has my telescope.” Nova understood that Palin must be the guard sent to notify the King. The guard she was conversing with ambles to the edge of the walkway and whistles to a large group of soldiers in the courtyard below. “I need a telescope and I need one now.” He lowers his arm readying for a catch. A soldier flicks one up to him, which he catches effortlessly.

Impressed, Nova gives a smile, though it’s hidden from the soldier. A simple show of accurate hand-eye coordination and the ease at which the exchange took place gives her more confidence in this crew that works well together, and who are probably very advanced in their form of fighting.

The guard places the telescope to his eye and extends the tube. He gasps in terror, taking the telescope away from his face as the seeing device slips from his grip, hitting the ground. He slowly shakes his head, looking as if all hope was gone. “Those are Fangols. They’re trained to destroy humans, and are very successful in doing so. A quick arrow at the hump behind their head kills them instantly, but it’s a small hump. Otherwise, it takes several of us to get in close enough to hack away at it, over and over again, in order to kill it. Most don’t survive a Fangol attack. They’re quick, aggressive and savage until the very last drop of blood has been spilled.”

As the guard alerts the others down the stairwell of this latest development, Nova observes the Fangols more closely, noticing that they must be trained only by the group of Orcs heading toward the wall they stood upon, because she doesn’t see any Fangols with the other Orc troops heading toward a different section of the castle.

Nova stood confidently, staring into the guard’s eyes. “Tell the king to bring me a hundred of his sharpest shooters. If we want a quick strike and a strong defense, we’ll have to take the Fangols out as quickly as possible.”

Outright killing is against Nova’s nature, but when defending your own life from inevitable death, along with the extermination of a race you’re helping to defend, matters must be put into perspective. And unless the Orcs experience a sudden change in consciousness, killing seems unavoidable.

The guard bows his head, and then races down the stairs.

“Where’s my brother running off to?” Palin was at the base of the staircase asking the soldiers standing around. Those who heard him shrugged, and then went on with their business quietly but nervously, and murmuring amongst themselves.

As Palin ran up the stairs, snow bounced off his coat of fur and Nova, having noted the kinship, replies, “Your brother is gathering your sharpest shooters.”

“Good,” responds Palin, peering around the walkway. His lips form a slight grin as he says, “I’ll be one of them. Arrows are my specialty.” Then he turns to look out across the expansive plane extending to the base of the mountains. “Keep in mind that the Orcs are relentless, much like a dragon with its gold.”

Dragon? thinks Nova.

“Are there dragons nearby?” asks Nova, forming a new plan.

Palin turns around and points to a large mountain behind the city. “There used to be one on the other side of the peak there, but she was killed years ago.” Palin shrugs his shoulders and frowns, “Why do you want to know about dragons?”

“A dragon can give us an advantage.”

Palin laughs. “I don’t think a dragon would help humans. It’s against both our natures.” He tilts his head as if he was about to teach this snow leopard something about life. “We kill them, they kill us. It’s rather simple.”

Nova thinks deeply, staring into the distance, looking as if she doesn’t hear Palin until she says, “If I can get a dragon to come to our side, what reward could we offer it?”

Palin shakes his head. “The only reward he’d receive would be you as food the moment you entered his cavern. They don’t take too kindly to trespassers, especially if it thinks you’re after his gold.”

This puzzles Nova. “Gold is only good to heighten your spiritual awareness, not for material gain. How much gold would this dragon need?”

“Whatever it can get its greedy claws on.”

Nova raises her brows while concentrating. “If I could offer a dragon some of your king’s gold, would the king generously give it?”

“I don’t know,” replies Palin, gazing at the oncoming armies and holding his crossbow in one hand as he tightly gripps the handle of the sword holstered to his side with his other hand.

“It’s worth an effort,” says a voice behind them.

Turning around, Nova sees a man standing at the top of the staircase; bow in hand, with a quiver full of arrows tied to his back. His eyes, though, are soft, much different than the eyes of the other humans she’s met so far. His ears, too, are different. They are pointed at the top. He wears a purple tunic that hangs snugly to his body. His pants are black and he wears no shoes, unlike a collection of new soldiers standing at the bottom of the staircase behind him, all holding the same type of bow. At closer inspection, only half of them has shoes and the other half has pointy ears.

The charismatic man in purple gets down on bended knee, bowing his head to touch Nova’s paws. She rubs her cheek against the side of his face, purring. He stands up and gestures to the troop behind him. “These are your sharp shooters. I’ve trained them well.” Palin’s brother stood at the bottom of the stairs. He looks pleased with what he has fetched.

Nova stares into the blue eyes of the purple robed man, “You do not come from this race, do you?”

“I’m of the Elf Nation. I’m Aldoren, and prince of my people.” Pointing to the group standing at the base of the stairs, he continues, “Some of them are my people, some of them are of the human race. We Elves have traveled a long distance to help our allies, much like you have.”

Marksmen and women walk up the stairs, lining the parapet and ready for battle. Peering out across the land, Nova can see that the long line of torches draw closer and closer. If she can convince a dragon to help, then all won’t be lost, but she will have to leave immediately.

Aldoren points over Nova’s shoulder, “The name of the dragon you seek is Attor. To get to him to help will be difficult. The way I point is directly through the line of attackers coming to Ebulon. If the Orcs haven’t slain him, then he’ll be in the red castle just beyond the western hills. I’m confident you’ll see it once you get past the Orcs. You can’t miss it. It’s displayed for all the world to see.”

Nova rests on her hind legs, her tail over her fore-paws. “I understand. I’ll be back before sun down.” And with that, she spins around and jumps over the wall, landing softly on the rocky ground below.

* * *

The sun is nearly at its peak, creating a pale glow through gray clouds. Nova belly crawls forward in thick brush as she watches the Orcs slowly approaching her position. She weighs two options—continue to hide in the snow and brush while inching her way to the red castle, or use her incredible speed to run past the massive army. Both choices are difficult, and each has the potential to be just as deadly as the other.

Her final decision is forced by a loud grunt coming from a nearby Orc. She whispers “Lemla Semta”, a phrase created by the VioletLights that was woven into the energetic fabric of the manifesting universe, causing one to shape shift into one’s surroundings. This camouflages her very well in the snow and underbrush where she hides, and just in time.

She feels a tepid, fowl breath on her shoulder as the Orc climbs over her clump of underbrush, grazing her back with its hands and feet as it passes. Then it turns around with a loud grunt, as if something was slightly off about what he has just touched.

His eyes are yellow and vacant. This Orc is much smaller and skinnier than the leader she’d seen this morning. He must be a scout, thinks Nova. He has no armor, only a brown skirt covering his lower extremities. Nova can tell that this creature is quick, and from what she has just experienced he has mastered the art of tracking in almost complete silence. She didn’t know he was on her until a second before he appeared, and only because of the grunt—probably a mistake rarely made by the Orc.

Coming closer, he sniffs the camouflaged snow leopard, and then tilts his head. He opens his mouth, showing yellow stained fangs.

What was The Great Spirit thinking when creating a creature like this? Nova remains as still as she can. The Orc extends its index finger, exposing a sharp fingernail, slowly moving it closer to Nova’s flank, and then forcefully gives her fur pelt a poke. She feels a sharp pain, like a big thorn jabbing her skin, but not hard enough to penetrate.

She holds her breath while the Orc lifts his finger to his face, observing and moving his fingernail around until he takes a sniff. He blinks several times. Something is off and he can smell it. Slowly extending his arm toward Nova’s flank, he pokes again. Nova does all she can not to yelp.

With another tilt of his head, he pulls out a dagger from under his skirt. If she were to use her magic she’d have to stay within its presence, an option she isn’t excited about, especially with the rest of the Orc troop marching so close. Instead, Nova decides to pounce on this vile creature, but the moment she goes into a crouch to leap at him, a leather whip lashes above her head, slapping the Orc across the chest. The Orc scrunches its face in pain and rolls backward. A large Orc riding a Fangol and holding the whip comes into Nova’s view, grunting several aggressive sounds to the scout. The scout turns and runs quickly ahead, fearfully doing his job by scouting for any foul play that the humans may have planted anywhere in the area.

The Fangol and large Orc now stand about five leopard lengths from Nova. A minute later a large band of Fangols and Orcs travel past them, grunting ever so often in rhythm with their march. Her camouflage masks her well, but the moment she thinks that, the Fangol standing near her abruptly moves its head, flexing its nostrils to sniff something unusual. It slowly bares its teeth, making a low lion like growl. He detects Nova concealed in the snowy brush.

Again, why did you create these creatures, Great Spirit? She knows all creatures have their right to live, having their lessons to learn as individuals or as a species, but these creatures seem devoid of any purpose other than negativity and destruction. In resignation, she knows that a soul’s advancement isn’t going to excel by her mere judgments. There is a reason for everything, including these filthy Beings.

The Orc kicks his foot against the Fangol’s side. It jumps slightly in surprise, taking its eyes off Nova for a moment and silencing his growl.

Nova goes into a lower defensive crouch, determining that if anything attacks it will be surprised by the agility of a snow leopard.

The Fangol turns again, growling and ignoring the several kicks the Orc plants against its side. The Orc’s mount takes predatory steps toward Nova, and doesn’t flinch when the Orc pulls hard on its reigns. About an inch away from Nova’s face, the Fangol attacks her hiding place.

Nova is swift, jumping just a split second before the Fangol lunges. The action is quick, taking her thoughts away from the shape shifting spell and thereby releasing the magic that reveals her true form to the army. Her violet crystals glow brightly as she flips in mid-air, planting her paws on the back of the Fangol’s head. She pushes off its head, outstretching and thrusting her claws against the chest of the Orc. He yells some type of ghostly scream and pulls hard on the reigns, trying to keep himself from falling. The Fangol loses its balance from the Orc’s hard pull, toppling on its side, landing hard on top of the Orc. The Orc, now trapped, gives a war cry to those who haven’t already seen what happened.

By now, Nova is a few leopard lengths away from the fallen Fangol and the trapped Orc, and speeds off, fleeing the scene.

But it’s too late. She’s been exposed, and many Fangols give chase.

To Nova’s surprise, Fangol’s are everywhere, zigzagging in hot pursuit. When one is close enough to rake her with its horns, she either flips into the air and twists, or simply leaps over it, making them all miss her each and every time.

There is too many of them to use her magic and she knows she has to rely upon her training, great speed and quick reflexes. The guard was right though, these animals are dangerous, far more than she had expected.

Regardless, she has to get to the castle.

Suddenly a Fangol comes running at her with his horns low to ram a sharp point through her skull.

Not hesitating and running faster toward the oncoming creature, she kicks up some dust as they are about to collide. Then she sees it—an opening. The Fangol’s head is low, but not quite low enough.

Sliding across the dirt, she turns with her back legs pointing toward the grotesque monster, and then easily slips under its chin; undercutting the Fangol’s legs, forcing it to topple over and smash against another Fangol hot on Nova’s heels. This causes a stir amongst the Fangols, creating confusion and chaos.

Able to escape and peering over her shoulder, Nova observes the two collided Fangol’s fighting ferociously as other Fangols jump into the fray. Farther off, she notices that the other Orcs have stopped the rest of the Fangols from joining the fracas by somehow bringing them back in line and not giving chase. They obviously view Nova as no more than a nuisance, instead of a legitimate threat.

Continuing to run, Nova can see the red castle up ahead. It’s built on a slight incline, surrounded by a sparse copse of trees. It’s a large castle, and if it wasn’t built for a dragon it was definitely fit for one. The Keep, the main inner stronghold of the castle, is also large. Nova decides that if the dragon is anywhere, it has to be in there. High in the sky, green flags torn from a battle long ago are waving from poles at the highest points of the red castle. Although frayed, a black insignia embroidered on each of the flags can still be seen—a fist holding an arrow. Nova can tell that this castle was created by a proud people.

The castle’s drawbridge is down, and as she places her paws on it she hears the creaking of damp wood through heavy snow with each of her steps. Several wooden splinters protrude through the snow, causing Nova to take calculated, accurate steps until she reaches hard ground just beyond the entrance. She is in the bailey, a large courtyard behind the castle walls. She can tell it hasn’t been touched for who knows how long. Weeds grow between the aged bricks covering the courtyard, and old broken carts are sprinkled about. She eyes the surrounding towers, wondering if a dragon could somehow fit into any of them. Deciding otherwise, she views the main building. Shaking her head, she silently walks to the Keep.

The door is missing, allowing her to peer inside without the nuisance of a squeaky door announcing her presence to anyone in the vicinity, such as a dragon. She enters the huge room and sees the door lying on the ground, half burnt. Dragon sign.

The Keep is wide and long. On the east and west side of it are two spiral staircases leading up to a second level. She stares ahead, noticing a circular hole in the back wall of the Keep. This must be where the dragon broke the wall’s hold, giving it an entrance and exit.

Below the big hole is a pile of gold that could make an entire kingdom’s inhabitants rich. The ceiling above her is a bit low, maybe ten leopard lengths high, but just a couple of paces forward it quadruples in height.

She speaks loudly. “I’m here to speak to the dragon. Please show yourself!”

Nothing happens.

She takes a couple of breaths and looks around. The silence is oppressive and she feels an eeriness that tells her something, or someone, is waiting somewhere in the shadows.

Nova looks up. Hanging upside down from a thick glass dome built into the pinnacle of the Keep’s ceiling is a huge dragon, red in color, with yellowish green eyes shining down at her. The dragon’s bat-like wings open. It lets go of its grip and roars as it spins, free falling downward. It hits the ground with a giant thud and the castle Keep shakes and the gold pieces clink in the pile behind the dragon.

Nova stands unflinchingly, only a couple of paw lengths from the dragon’s front claws. But, she moves backwards slightly, hoping to give the big creature some space—a show of respect. In truth it was, but for this dragon it is a sign of cowardice.

The dragon bends down and sniffs Nova’s head. She feels steamy heat coming from its nostrils as it clears its throat, the sound echoing through the hollows of the stone castle. Then the dragon rears its head high in the air and demands, “Who are you?”

Nova dips her head in gratitude. “I’m Nova, the VioletLight of the PureLight Lineage. I’m here to help the humans repel the negative beasts coming their way.”

The dragon takes a deep breath, straightens himself and puffs out his chest. For a moment, Nova wonders if fire is going to rain down on her, but a deep resounding laugh fills the Keep instead. “You help the humans? They truly are desperate.”

Ignoring the insult, Nova continues. “I’ve come for your services, Attor.”

The dragon’s eyes grow wide, shocked that she knows his name, for a dragon tells only its closest confidants its name. And their confidants are always few and far between, or non-existent. A dragon’s name is a secret kept by a dragon, usually until death, for it is the last word it will ever speak.

He draws his head close to Nova’s and demands, “Who gave you my name?”

“Aldoren, the prince of Elves.”

The dragon scratches his bottom chin, “Ahhh, Aldoren. My friend.” He looks as if remembering a happy time in his life. Then his eyes turn to rage. “The elves pose no threat to a dragon. ..nay! Humans, though…” he pauses, shaking his head up and down. “…take great pleasure in murdering my kind!” The last words resound against the walls, almost deafening Nova. Then he takes a deep breath and exhales fire.

Nova quickly jumps out of the way. The floor where she had stood is blackened char with wisps of smoke rising from it. Then Attor turns and leaps, hoping to smash Nova under his clawed feet. Instead, he is violently slammed against the wall, as if an unseen, invisible force struck him.

Attor knows that whatever can do this to him must possess great strength—immense, in fact—or be magic!

Attor places his clawed hands on the ground and pulls himself up. He stares deep into the eyes of the snow leopard.

“Please, listen to me, Attor. I don’t want to hurt you.”

If Nova had said those words a moment earlier, the dragon would have given a hearty laugh. Now he knows she’s someone with knowledge in the arts of magic—something Attor doesn’t like.

“No,” replied Attor. “Leave my castle!”

“We have gold we can offer you.” With that, Nova closes her eyes for a second, expands her aura and sends Attor love. Simple, pure love. Attor hasn’t felt that since his mother comforted him as a baby.

The dragon perks up, suddenly feeling a comfort for Nova. He ponders about the offer of gold for a moment. “How much gold?”

He looks interested, which is strange to Nova. In her world, gold is used to enhance the spiritual abilities of a Being, not as some object to withhold or use to bribe others. Gold helps her tribe resonate closer to the universal spirit, where all knowledge, magical abilities and love originate. That’s why she lives in a hut spun of bright, delicate gold. It is her sanctuary for dreams and quietude.

“I don’t know how much gold, Attor. It’s something you’ll have to discuss with King Yadi.”

“The fair King of Ebulon?” There is a hint of sarcasm in Attor’s voice. His tail whips to the ground, smashing gold coins and flinging them about. “There are no fair kings among the human race! Let them come to me and make peace. Then I’ll consider your plea. Otherwise, let them die!”

Nova shakes her head. There isn’t time. The humans are readying for battle, facing annihilation and possible extinction. She has to be bold. “We’ll offer you half of the King’s gold.”

Nova figures this is a gamble, one that the king of Ebulon may likely turn a cold, angry eye, but if she can get the dragon to complete a few passes over the Orc alliance while breathing its fire, the human race will gain a slight advantage, giving them hope.

To Attor, this is a negotiation to his liking. Half a king’s gold was one thing, but knowing that Ebulon was in the heart of the mountains and their mines were probably filled with gold. He liked the prospects. Half would mean the humans would stay busy mining for the dragon, thus leaving him alone. He wouldn’t have to sleep with one eye open every night. And, it would be proof to the rest of the dragon nation that Attor was a powerful, fierce conqueror and enslaver of the human race. He might be chosen to be the next head of the dragon lords where he could decide the fates of many dragons.

Attor begrudgingly nods his head. “When do you need me?” His head lowers to better observe the leopard’s response, looking for any defiance, lies, or suspicious words.

“Now.”

Jerking his head in surprise, he moves back and takes a seat on the pile of gold. “How will you stop the humans from killing me when I arrive?”

Nova smiles as her crystals glow a brilliant violet. “I’ll make you so attractive that they’ll be in such awe when you fly overhead that raising a weapon toward you will be a near impossibility.”

Attor liked her words and the feelings that came with them. And it wasn’t just the feeling of power—this wise little snow leopard gave him a feeling of peace, something even better than power. It was something he’d always yearned for, but never experienced.

Attor nods. “Shall I meet you at the base of the mountains?”

“No, you shall carry me on your back.”

* * *

The view above the rest of the world was amazing, a scene Nova knew only dragons, harpies, and birds had seen. Yes, being on top of a mountain, taking in the grand view of everything below was something that many non-flying beings had seen, but soaring through moist wisps of cloud and feeling the streaming currents of wind against her fur was more wonderful than anything she’d experienced in a very, very long time.

Gazing at the ground, Nova watches the Orcs marching on the wide, snowy plane below, trailed by a huge swath of mud churned up by thousands of hooves, claws and feet. With her keen vision, she can see ice particles forming on hair and fur from heavy breaths. It is cold, even for her.

Suddenly, several Orcs stop and point up at them flying overhead. Some of them duck, as if afraid a dragon is going to swoop down and snag them for an evening snack. The Orcs fear dragons a lot more than they fear humans. To them, a dragon is like a god, something to avoid no matter what.

Nova takes her eyes off the massive army and shifts her attention to the oncoming stone structures of the great and last remaining human stronghold, Ebulon. Her heart feels for it as she extends her aura out to it, showing her true self to all of the city’s inhabitants.

To the dragon, nothing has changed other than a nice feeling of peace that had engulfed him. But, to the oncoming city, they could see something else. They were all staring at the sky with their hands off their swords, their bows dropped to the ground, and some were even walking away from the catapults. King Yadi is the most impressed, giving an audible ‘ahhhh’ as he watches from the window of a large tower and scrapes his beard with his fingers.

They all see a Being of violet light pulsing energy like a beating heart. It looks like an illuminated orb outwardly shooting rays, raining a calm radiant energy over the city. As it draws closer, some of the combatants regain their wits about them and start pointing and discussing the marvel that is occurring. Is it a message from a god coming to protect the last living humans? The Elves, though, know. They can see Nova through the light. It is a good sign, they think, but not a god.

“Attor!” yells Nova. Her voice echoes across the planes, bouncing off the mountains and ringing in the ears of the city inhabitants. “Today he is our ally—no weapon shall be lifted against him unless he strikes first!”

Nova figures that Attor isn’t dumb enough to attack a fortified city readied for attack. He’d be dead before he hit the ground.

Landing on top of the parapet wall, Attor exhales loudly as smoke trickles out of his nose. He looks around suspiciously, feeling a little uneasy about the situation. But, seeing his friend Aldoren softens his gaze. He dips his head, bearing a slight smile. “My friend.”

Aldoren dips his head in return, “Attor.”

* * *

The enemy army had massed on the plane surrounding Ebolon during the night, but it is just before dawn when Nova hears it. A large explosion from a hefty rock encased in fire hits a large outcropping on the ground, just missing the wall. It is the first attack.

“It’s begun,” whispers Palin, who stands next to Nova. She can feel his body tense, filling with fear.

All of the troops that line the walkway ready their stance and aim their arrows. Nova looks down upon the city courtyard, seeing the mass of fur covered armor moving into position, readying themselves for the coming storm.

Palin picks up his brother’s bow, which was leaning against the wall of the walkway. “Mark. Your bow.”

Mark hastily grabs it. “Thank you, brother.”

Attor, perched on a wall, looks down at Nova. “When shall I attack?”

Standing next to his friend, Aldoren reaches out and touches his scaly reptilian skin. “When we see a clear line of them, that’s when you shall strafe.”

Nova looks at Aldoren, seeing the love he holds for his friend, and gently smiles. There is hope.

Aldoren turns to her and says, “My friend and I have shared a number of battles.” His eyes become sad. “All of which could have been avoided.”

Another explosion bursts chunks of stone into the courtyard. Several troops are blown backward. Some are a burnt mess, some have fire flaming from their flailing arms, while others were dead before they hit the ground.

Nova surveys the landscape below the mountain, looking beyond the massive army to see more Orcs streaming toward the main body, coming from many different directions. She scans the mountainside roads, observing bands of Orcs moving cautiously and using the shadows to hide. Aldoren sees them as well. Pointing, he yells, “Be ready! They’re coming!” Nova pads over to him. “I sense many scouts climbing up the mountain, just over the lip of the cliff in front of us. It’s how I came to this wall. I’ll divert them.”

Aldoren dips his head, and then places his hand on her cheek. “You’re in service to others and I thank you for that.”

Nova gives a nod, then jumps the wall, landing with a soft thud. She walks to the edge of the precipice and peers over it. Just as she had sensed, she sees several small Orcs, nimble and agile, climbing at a rapid pace. She is about to hop down to an outcropping, but suddenly stops. The sun peeks over the horizon, showing the first light of day. Attor can find a line of sight now.

Just as she thought he would, Aldoren has sent the dragon swooping high into the air. Attor is gliding toward one of the roads winding up the middle of the mountain, to the gate closest to Nova.

Minutes later, Nova hears a dragon’s roar and sees a fountain of flames shooting from the dragon’s mouth, engulfing the road and sending the Orcs running back down the mountainside. Many of them are on fire. Orc screams fill the air, sending a pang of sadness through Nova.

She shakes off the feeling, then steps down to a lower rock for a better view.

Her eyes widen. Fangols had joined the climb and they are quick, easily out climbing the scouts. These are very handy creatures for the Orcs to have. Taking a step back, she yells at Aldoren, telling him to have the sharpshooters aim at the small humps of the Fangol’s upper backs, then she feels an abrupt tug on her tail.

The Art of Defense teaches to use your opponent’s energy against them, something Nova has taught her students for thousands of moons. This proves to be very handy, indeed.

Looking behind her, she sees who has her tail—a Fangol. He has it between his teeth and sends a low growl her way. He flings his head back, hoping to throw Nova off the mountain, off the rocky cliff. She goes with the flow, flipping as he throws her, using his energy to arch herself more toward his back than over the side of the mountain. She unsheathes her claws and sinks them deep into the Fangol’s back. She uses his back to pull herself up as he groans with pain, and then shoves her back legs against its head. He slides backward, bumping into another Fangol, causing it to lose its footing. It falls to its death.

In the next moment, a dozen Fangols and a handful of scouts climb over the lip of the cliff. For an instant, they all freeze in place, and not of their own will. It is because of Nova’s wizardry. She has them locked in an energy grip, but she lets go the moment arrows come flying, hitting the invaders. They drop to the ground and Nova looks up, eying the Elf sharp shooters. They were fast.

The flap of heavy wings pulls her attention to Attor, who is just above her. He dives, shooting blasts of flames at the climbing enemies. Nova feels confident that she isn’t needed in this area anymore and turns her attention to her right, where the road meets the closest gate. The Orcs were advancing quickly, and at any moment they might break into the city.

Seeing that the dragon had secured the cliff and realizing that no Orc would be crazy enough to continue to climb with fire blazing down on them, she turns toward the large wall and leaps to the top. The sharpshooters firing into the battle raging at the gate are picking off the Orcs with incredible speed and accuracy, while easily avoiding their battling friends.

Nova sees Palin draw back his bow. He lets his arrow fly, then he gasps. His eyes are wide as he falls to the ground. A spear has plunged into his stomach, almost penetrating through to his back.

“No!” Mark shouts. Dropping his bow, he races over to help Palin. Nova jumps from the wall, onto the walkway, and quickly pads over to the brothers. Blood leaks through Palin’s fur covered armor as puddles form around his body. Palin’s eyes are full of tears.

“No, no, no!” screams Mark, shaking his head. “Don’t fade, Palin. We’ll get you to a healer!” Mark’s eyes are full of hope, but his voice carries doubt.

Palin’s eyes dart back and forth, but no words leave his lips no matter how hard he tries. His hands grasp at the heavy spear stuck in his stomach. He pulls on it, doing his best to stop the pain.

“Keep it there, Palin,” whispers his brother. He starts to lift Palin, but Nova places her thick tail between them. Mark looks at her with confused eyes.

“Let him pull the spear out.”

Worry strikes Mark’s face. “That will surely kill him. And even if I allow it, the spear is too heavy.”

“Then help him lift it.”

Just as Mark goes to speak again, Nova places her tail on his shoulder. In an instant, Mark relaxes as understanding fills him. A tear falls from his cheek. There is no healing for his brother, not by any healer, not by any sage. The best he can do for Palin is to end it quickly by pulling out the spear.

“I love you, brother.” Mark run his fingers through his brother’s hair as Palin’s eyes continue to dart around, clearly in shock from the trauma and pain he is experiencing. Overcome by grief, Mark wails as he holds Palin’s head in his arms. He kisses his brother’s forehead. Then he stands up. In one quick motion, he lifts the spear out of Palin’s body. A cry of pain drifts from Palin’s mouth as his chest convulses. His eyes start to drift as a dull haze begins to settle over them. Mark drops to the ground on his hands and knees, next to his brother, weeping. Blood is everywhere.

But something happens. An unexplainable light radiates from the sky above. It is so bright that it distracts Mark from his dying brother. He looks up, seeing luminescent light pouring down from the heavens. It is saturating the battle and everyone within it. The light begins to move like a vast whirlpool, funneling downward. Mark is shocked when his eyes follow the funnel to the glowing snow leopard leaning over his dying brother with her eyes closed. She seems to be drawing light down from the skies into her head and through her body, where it is exuding through her paws that are laid on his dying brother. Palin begins to glow, and to Mark’s utter amazement, his brother’s stomach wound vanishes right before his very eyes! How is it possible? Then Mark notices that all of the fighting around him has ceased. Many of the participants are gazing at the heavens and many are staring at Nova and witnessing the scene of a grief stricken warrior obviously trying to save his dying brother, who is now glowing.

Nova opens her eyes and says, “Take your brother away from here. His life will now be changed forever, but he must rest for many moons.”

“How did you—”

Nova holds her tail up and says, “Prana.” Then she stands, lifting her head high, and jumps to the courtyard below. She searches for the gate. Those who had gazed at the sky and witnessed all that had just occurred only moments ago are fighting again. She roars loudly. This battle is far from over.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

The PureLights of Ohm Totem (Book I of the PureLights Series) by Brandon Ellis

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Entry Point 8 - by L. Blankenship

The portal of woven kir let me pass, tearing like cobwebs across my arm held before my face. Fresh snow on paving stones crunched under my boot. And the moment my ears reached this new world, this place that had begged for help, the crashing and shouting of battle filled them.

I stood in a small square, at the foot of a snow-covered statue of a knight on a rearing horse, within sight of city walls and a barred gate. The battlements stood above the timber-and-shingle houses, full of men fighting and surging back and forth.

A shadow fell across me; I turned and saw a riveted brigantine over a mail shirt. Shoulders wrapped in bear fur. Above that, a scowling, scarred man in a battered helmet.

“Who else comes?” he demanded, glaring at the green cloud of kir I’d stepped through. It faded now, shedding tiny stars. “Who else! King Yadi begged for aid and you —” The knight gestured at me, half shrugging. “Who are you?”

I gripped the strap of my medicine bag, across my chest, in both hands. That steadied me. “I’m Kate Bockmann.” I straightened as much as I could, but I still didn’t reach his shoulder; he was a huge man. “Saint Qadeem heard your call for help and sent me.”

A second knight, striding across the square from a formation of some hundred, looked puzzled by me, but not so angry. “Vess, what do we have?”

“We have a girl,” Vess answered, stepping aside and presenting me with a sweep of his arm. “Fifty thousand Orcs at the gate and they send us a fucking handmaid. One with — what the hell are those?” He pointed at my Blessing ridges, which parted my blonde hair in two lines across the top of my head.

My resolve quavered as the shouting on the walls above drowned in a rising, inhuman howl. No; Qadeem and my teacher had seen fit to trust me with this, as they had the secret mission.

“I’m a Blessed of Saint Qadeem and the student of the Elect, sir, and I’ll aid you however I can. These are my Blessing.” I ran my fingers over the ridges where they pushed up through my scalp. Being so tall, Vess must have a good view of them. “I remember every moment of every day since I received them. All my skill, all my kir, are at your service. We face invasion, as well, and Wodenberg could hardly spare me, let alone — Prince Kiefan, or…”

The howling on the wall broke and men’s voices surged. I glanced up and saw a red banner with gold crowns advancing across the battlements. Who were they fighting, up there? Orcs — what manner of men were those?

“And what do you do, miss?” Vess asked.

“I’m a Physician.”

His brow furrowed in a frown, then he threw up his hands and turned away.

“We begged for aid,” the second knight told him. “King Yadi begged, and you know what that cost him. If her people face war as well, that they sent anyone at all — oh, have a little faith, will you?” His reasoning tone slid toward anger. “We’re all to die under the sword, if we fail, and your hangman’s humor only feeds the men’s fears.”

“Watch your tongue, lieutenant.” The bigger man took a sharp step toward him, pointing.

“Sirs!” My standing there was poor use of my healing skills. They both looked to me, the scarred officer scowling, the lieutenant — well, he looked doubtful, but far kinder. “You must have an infirmary?”

Across the square, metal clashed, rattled. We all startled; I whirled around. A grate bounced, among the paving stones, and then flipped open. A drain, it was a grate covering a drain. Up leaped a stocky, mail-shirted man with a heavy spear in both fists. With a roar, he charged as his brothers followed him.

Straight at me. The man, the… Orc had tusks. Piggish ears sticking from his helmet. Dusky grey skin. I froze for a heartbeat. They’d brought me to the Winter Wood itself, to face kobolds?

The spear plunged at me and I threw up my arm, kir spinning out. The stubby green shield I knit stopped the iron blade. The blow threw me to the ground with a numbed arm. The Orc raised the spear again and a sword took him through the ribs. Blood spurted when the lieutenant kicked him off the blade, and the dying monster fell. He met the second Orc head-on — and I was scrambling away, out from underfoot.

The knights rushed across the square before the stream of Orcs could organize. I pressed against the statue’s pillar, watching them cut the monsters down. True enough, I was no knight. Surely Kiefan or Anders would’ve been better suited to this.

But surely I could help, too.

Vess carved through the enemy, sword slinging off blood with each stroke. Soon enough, they’d fought their way to the open drain, and the big captain threw a dying Orc down the hole. Two men flipped the grate back into place, and a third jammed a spear in to wedge it shut. A cheer went up.

I was already slipping from my safety, running to the first fallen knight. Touching his bare cheek, I called his kir-pattern but it didn’t answer. He was dead, bled out on the trampled snow. The second was weak and wilting, the whorls of kir in his flesh stumbling and fading as I watched. Among the whorls, the bright lines of his meridians pulsed, fighting death and losing.

Kir powered all charms, and all flesh was kir bent into shape and set to dancing — life was its own charm, my teacher had said. Wounds and sickness broke the flesh’s patterns, sending the whorls and threads into tangles and jumbles. Too much confusion, and the patterns lost their dance. Died.

The third was the lieutenant. The spear jammed through his gut wobbled in his hands as he gasped for air. Knuckles white, he tugged at it, and the pain curled him on the paving stones.

“Don’t touch it!” I pulled his hands away. His pattern, whirling up in all its dance, frothed around the blank space of the spear shaft. It had missed his prime meridian, along his spine, thank Mother Love. And the cruel thing held in his blood, for now. “The infirmary! Where’s your infirmary!”

“Del! Fucking whoreson—” Vess dropped to one knee beside the lieutenant, catching his hand and gripping it. “I shouldn’t have let you stay, little cousin — you had to sign up!”

“Who else is wounded?” I glanced around the other knights, seeing some blood. None too serious; they were still on their feet. “Come with us. Where’s your infirmary?” I dared shove big Vess, to get his attention. “Let him lie here, and he’ll die.”

Vess blinked at me, as if I’d told him Del would sprout wings and fly. Then he scrambled up and hoisted his cousin by the shoulders. A second knight took his ankles and they carried him between them. I had to run to keep up.

# # #

The tavern was just a block up from the square.

Its main doors stood open, as did full-length shuttered windows, to let in the clear, winter sunlight. The bustle of wounded soldiers and goodfolk pressed into service for them was dense, but my Blessed memory recognized it. I’d seen as much while assisting my teacher in the surgery during the battle at Ansehen.

When the knights slowed, uncertain what to do, I strode ahead of them toward the man by the door. By how the traffic swirled around him, he had triage duty.

He saw me coming, and the spear through Lieutenant Del, and put up one hand. “Light bless you, child, but he’ll not last the watch. Pray with him till he passes.” He pointed toward the open doors of a chapel across the street.

“I can mend him. Lend me a table and a pair of hands, no more,” I said, stopping before the man. Past his shoulder, I saw the large common room arrayed in a fair infirmary, if over-stocked with patients and thin on physicians. The goodfolk served as orderlies and nurses.

“Miss, you can’t know what to—”

Enough of this. I put some kir in my voice, to strengthen it. “Your King Yadi begged my saint for aid, and I came. Now let me save what lives I can. Who has charge, here?”

That cut through the noise. All froze and stared at me. Vess stared, too. I folded my arms; yes, I was only a slip of a girl, sixteen, with a long braid wrapped around my head. I’d watched my teacher cheat death and saved my share of lives. I meant to do more.

One of the surgeons, who hadn’t so much as looked up from his work, pulled an arrow free of a soldier’s thigh — the man screamed, writhing on the table, and a spurt of blood flew over the surgeon’s head. In the quiet, all heard him curse as he reached into the wound. He looked up at last.

Across the room, he answered me with a bitter twist in his voice. “Doctor Ceros at your service, miss. If you’re such a wondrous life-saver, come see to this.”

I could guess what it was as I trotted across the common room, weaving through patient-laden tables and more laid on the floor. When I reached Ceros’ side, he started to speak but I held up one hand. The patient’s kir patterns told me all.

The arrow had nicked his artery, in the thigh, and his meridian wavered. The wound was full of blood; Ceros’ fingers, pinching the nick shut, were buried in it.

“Think you can stitch through the spray?” he asked, snide.

I’d had a belly-full of such attitude, at home. On the tip of my finger, I wove a little patch charm. “Don’t move,” I told Ceros, and slipped my finger in next to his. The patient’s patterns glowed under my call, showing me just where to place the patch. “Done.”

Ceros snorted. I shrugged one shoulder and turned away. “The bar.” I told Vess, pointing. It was the only surface left to claim.

“I’ll be damned,” Ceros said, behind me. He’d let go of the artery, no doubt. “Luzan, assist our little miracle-worker. Who are you?”

“I am your surgeon. Kate.”

“Clear that table!” Ceros snapped his fingers, pointing at one in front of the open, full-length windows. The soldier on it lay too still, and looked too pale, to be alive.

“Bring Del,” I said.

Luzon, my new assistant, looked to be a scrawny boy with a shock of black hair, but he dragged the dead soldier off the table on his own. The infirmary’s bustle whirled back to life. Vess bulled his way through it, carrying Del by the shoulders. He and the second knight laid Del on the table, spear jutting up. Del still clutched it in both hands, chest heaving.

“Get his brigantine loose,” I said, putting my medicine bag on a stool and opening it. “And the mail. Luzon? I’ll need a —”

When I looked, the boy was sliding a piece of belt-leather into Del’s mouth, to bite. Luzon knew his business, then. I reached into my bag, looking for the wallet with my scalpel and curved needles. I had some catgut, and a spool of wool thread. Iron shears. A few cleansing charms, bound to little bone figures of Mother Love. Some boiled bandages.

“Tell Peren he has command,” Vess told the second knight, as I turned. “Watch those fucking drains.” The man saluted and went; the company of knights moved off, first checking the drain in the middle of the street before the tavern.

Vess eyed me up and down, taking in the bright little blades in my open wallet. “You won’t just magick his wound shut?”

I laid my wallet and a cleansing charm beside Del’s head. His brown eyes flicked to it, showing panicky whites. “I have only what kir my saint gave me, before I came here,” I said, taking my larger scalpel. “With it, I must save as many as I can, before the kir runs out and my mind tires such that I lose focus. Should I lose that, I’ll only cause more harm.”

My friend Ilya, lying pale and dead, flicked through my perfect memory. I nodded to the spear shaft. “You must let go, Del.”

Vess took it in both his hands. Del’s hands twitched, unwilling to obey. I put mine on his, worked my fingers between the wood and his skin. Called his pattern as I did it; he’d bled, but his dancing kir-whorls and pulsing meridians were still strong. The cruel, barbed spear-head was blackness invading his pattern. As Del’s hands loosened at last, I flipped aside his loosened brigantine and the mail underneath. Slicing through his thin gambeson, I found skin at last.

A cut, and Del’s hands slammed onto the edges of the table. I went deeper, widening the gash where the barbs would catch and rip. He bit into the belt leather, screaming through it. The spear had jammed through three coils of gut, stopping just shy of his back.

Vess, despite being such a bear of a man, had a fine touch. He and I eased the spear out, the barb catching only on Del’s mail along the way. Blood gushed, stinking and tainted by the contents of his gut. Vess swore as he threw the spear aside. I shoved Del’s layers up higher and reached into the wound — he screamed around the leather clenched in his teeth and convulsed — to stop the bleeding.

My memory brought me all the small vessels of the gut, from when I’d seen them on other patients. A little blood-stop charm was enough for such. Vess held his cousin down with both hands, talking to him in a tense mutter. I kept my focus on the wound.

The gash in Del’s belly was wide enough to clamp open. I gently shifted wounded coils of gut aside, seeing the flesh’s patterns rather than the blood and greenish slops. It overflowed, ran onto the table and floor. The smell would need hard scrubbing to get out, I knew.

Luzon had threaded the correct needle with catgut; I spared him a smile as I took it. “Bring water,” I told him.

One slice, deepest in, I could simply stitch. The second coil was worse off, having been nearly cut in half. Del sobbed, clutching the table, honestly trying not to thrash. Not entirely succeeding. Luzon poured water, when I asked him to, and much of the gore rinsed away. What I could see, at least; I knew that it was loose among his guts, now, and would kill him with fever. The cleansing charm would mend that, though.

For the topmost coil, the first to take the spear, I had to reach for my scalpel and cut away the shredded hand’s-width of tube. Stitched one trimmed end to the other carefully, as if it were a sleeve. My mother’s lessons, before I’d been apprenticed to the Elect, had proven their worth often enough.

“Must he suffer?” Vess asked, his voice strained. “If he’s to die…”

I looked up at the big man, then glanced to Del’s slack face. He skimmed the edge of consciousness, lost in the haze of pain. Luzon turned his head, to be sure he didn’t choke on his tongue. “He’s not dying,” I said, taking the last few stitches and knotting my catgut off. “I’m nearly finished.”

“You are?” Vess frowned at my work.

“Do you still think me just a fucking handmaid?”

His mouth opened, then shut again. I cut my thread free.

Metal rattled. Vess and I looked for it, in unison, but there was nothing that would rattle so. The tables were all wood, and — my memory flicked to it.

“The street drain.”

A second rattle, a bang, and the grate fell to one side. It was a small one, barely wide enough for the pig-headed Orc who sprang up. Those lightly wounded sitting just outside the full-length windows, and the orderlies bandaging them, tried to scramble to their feet. Shouts and screams drowned out the infirmary bustle. Orcs popped up from the drain.

The lead monster snarled, whirling his spear as a staff. Its shaft cracked off two orderlies, knocking them down. One soldier drew his sword in time to take the spearhead through his chest.

Vess roared in fury, yanking his sword from its sheath, and hurdled the window’s low sill. He sliced the first Orc’s head clean off and met the second with a crash. The monsters charged the wounded soldiers who dared try to face them while the orderlies and nurses fled deeper into the tavern. Spears cut the weak men down. Vess caught one by its haft in his free hand, cut the guilty arm clean off with one sweep of his sword. The rest turned on him, rather than chase the helpless goodfolk.

“Vess!” Del, snapped to clarity by the screaming, fumbled for his own sword.

“No!” I touched his head, snapping a little charm into his mind. Del slumped, unconscious. I caught him by the hair, lowered his head gently. Only one man, only one bit of faith offered when I stepped into this dark place. I’d not let him die.

Further up the road, a squad of Vess’ knights rounded the corner at a run. No time; half a dozen Orcs were already in the street. More coming. Vess held three at bay. Another charged past him, slapped Luzon down with his spear butt and then there was only me between him and Del. The Orc grabbed my shoulder to throw me aside, spear swinging toward Del.

I shot my kir up the Orc’s arm and stabbed his prime meridian, at the neck. He dropped like a sack of flour, bouncing off Del’s sturdy table. His spear skittered away, doing no harm. My kir snapped back to me, through his flesh.

With a yell, Vess’ knights met the Orcs and slashed into them, spears clanging on shields, swords biting through iron mail. Blood splashed across the paving stones, followed by falling bodies. A knight went down, spitted. I saw one more Orc pulling himself through the drain. The monster was too big, too much a hog to simply leap through.

A chance to stop them. I ran, bent low, dodging behind Orcs; they fought for their lives, and hardly noticed me. The Orc in the drain spotted me, snarled, and hauled himself up to the waist. Caught there. I lunged to grab his ear, and he jabbed his spear one-handed. I fell on my knees, in trying to dodge it. His filthy hand clapped down on my wrist, pulling his spear back to stab me.

Foolish. I cut his meridian at the neck. His spear clattered to the paving stones. He slumped, stuck in the drain.

Grabbing my shoulders, Vess jerked me back. Then he saw the monster was dead, and frowned down at me. “Did you—?”

“Oil!” one of the knights shouted. A short man in filthy, plainspun clothes unstoppered a skin and poured oil on the corpse. Two knights grabbed spears and rammed the corpse back through the drain. From below came grunts, guttural shouting — and a whiff of stink. The filthy man kept pouring, emptying the oilskin.

“Candle!” Vess yelled. “A flame! Someone!”

My memory flickered to what my father had told me of that smell, long ago. Swamp gas. Careful, the stuff burns. “I have it!” I shouted, over Vess. I held my hand over the drain, gathering kir in my fingertips. Knotted down, squeezed, the kir ignited into a candle-sized spark. Below, I saw bodies moving, heard more piggish snarling. A grey-skinned hand grabbed the rim of the drain.

“Get back!” I shouted, and with a snap released the spark. The filthy man yelled it with me, already running. “Get back!” Ran, myself, toward the tavern windows. The knights scrambled to fall back, too, as flame roared up in the drain for a moment—

—and the earth shook, rumbling. The explosion burst through the hole. Earth flew up from the paving stones. The drain widened. Crumbled. Cracks ran between the stones and the road sank along its center line. A dying Orc, trying to crawl, was dragged down. Vess snatched me up by the waist and carried me into the tavern itself, with the huddled, shouting infirmary. Down into the square, the gash ran. The statue of the knight shifted, tipped as its ground collapsed. It settled at a wild angle in the rubble.

The wound cut the street in half. A tangle of stone and corpses half filled it, leaving a sheer drop of perhaps a yard. A ragged cheer went up, and I had to smile. “Light bless you!” Doctor Ceros patted my shoulder, with a laugh. “You’re more than you seem, aren’t you.”

“Peren!” Vess shouted, beside me, and he strode out onto the street. His officer, across the split, saluted him. “What the fuck happened?”

“We cut them off at Binder’s Street, sir, and some of them doubled back. The sewers, well —” Peren gestured to the filthy man beside him.

“That’s the main cesspit,” the man shouted, pointing at the fallen statue. “Them all must’ve come in by there. Had to! Won’t be coming up here no more, sir!”

“How many doubled back?” Vess asked. Peren gestured openly, trying not to shrug. Vess swept one arm up to summon his men together up the street. “Back to Binder’s Street, then, to hunt the bastards down — and Kate! You keep Del safe!” He swung around, pointing at me.

I saluted in return. There was work to do, still. Del’s wound still needed stitching. I found my needle and catgut I’d dropped, and called his pattern again. The muscle healed best if matched grain to grain. Luzon righted the fallen stool and collected what had fallen from my medicine bag in the confusion. He considered one of the figures of Mother Love a moment, and tossed it in.

Del breathed easy, peacefully sleeping through the rest of the stitches. I’d only knocked him lightly, as I couldn’t spare much kir, and it wouldn’t last much longer. When I knotted off the thread at last, I took my cleansing charm and held it over the wound. A squeeze with my mind, and the kir bound to the bone figurine unwound. The charm fell onto Del in a green mist, destroying any patterns that would fester into abscesses or gangrene.

That made him twitch. He groaned. His hand moved toward the wound.

“Don’t.” I nudged him away and laid a bandage on it.

His head lifted from the table, but the pain made him hiss. “Fuck, it wasn’t a dream.”

“No. But you had a little faith and you’re going to live.”

Luzon brought a pair of orderlies to help Del off the table. They’d see that he was properly bandaged. A third man stood waiting with the arm of a soldier across his shoulders, his own arm holding the man up by the waist. The soldier was wilting fast; an arrow jutted from his ribs, the blood frothing as his punctured lung leaked through it.

“Next.” I patted the table.

<<<<>>>>

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

DISCIPLE (Series) by L. Blankenship

Now available

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Entry Point 9 - by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

The man stood before him, a plea in his eyes that could not be ignored. His shoulders were broad and strong, but at the moment they drooped pathetically, as though he had been carrying a weight that was far too heavy for far too long.

“Please,” the man began, his tone imploring, “please, we cannot hold any longer. We beg your aid. If there are any heroes left to hear our call, they are desperately needed here at Ebulon.”

Brant awoke. He blinked, feeling disoriented. For a moment, he was unsure of what had woken him. He sat up in bed, shaking off the fog of sleep. Dylanna sat up as well. She squinted at him in the Toreth-light. He gazed at her, his eyes tracing the lines of her face and noting how the silvery beams of the Toreth glinted in his wife’s dark hair.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“A strange dream…” Brant shook his head, “it was probably nothing.”

“Me too,” she admitted.

“I was being asked for help…”

Dylanna stared at him oddly. “Was it by a man standing in the snow, dressed strangely in furs and armor, with a battered crown on his head? A… King Yadi… was that his name?”

He stared at her. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Was he in a place called Ebulon?”

Brant nodded slowly. “It wasn’t just a dream, was it?”

They dressed quickly, adorning themselves by unspoken agreement in warm clothes and battle-armor. They spared but a moment to retrieve their weapons. Brant always kept the Fang Blade sharp, and he buckled it to his waist now as Dylanna strapped a simple knife to her wrist and slung a bow and quiver over her shoulder. He hoped she wouldn’t need either; magic was her primary weapon.

They raced through the halls of the palace, to the secret tunnels leading to the depths of the slumbering volcano beside which the castle was built. In the center of the concealed chasm rested the greatest gift of magic their world had ever seen. Brant and Dylanna stood before it, hesitating.

“Send out the call,” Dylanna urged. “Even now we may be too late.”

“We don’t even know where we’re going,” Brant replied. “What if…?”

He felt the cry reverberate once more inside his head. It was desperate, pleading. Whoever this King Yadi was, he sounded sincere. As he reached out to touch Yorien’s Hand once more, information poured into his mind. Ebulon. The last human kingdom in its world. Besieged by a monstrous army of creatures… Orcs… whatever those were. The city was on the brink of falling. If nobody came…

Shaking these dark thoughts from his mind, Brant grasped hold of the fallen star more tightly. Yorien’s Hand blazed with a brilliant, blinding light as Brant transmitted the cry for help across his kingdom. He knew, without understanding how, that the star would take them to Ebulon, as well as any others who answered the call. He poured his will into the star and felt a strange freezing sensation wash over him. The sensation passed, though the chill in the air remained.

When Brant opened his eyes he found himself beneath a forest blanketed deep in snow. Though it had been nighttime in their realm, it was a cloudy, overcast dawn here. The forest was dark, but hints of morning peeked at them from the distant horizon. Dylanna stood next to him. Brant breathed a sigh of relief that Yorien’s Hand had brought them here safely.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment, a look of deep concentration creasing her forehead. After a moment, she nodded. “Perfectly. My magic is still available to me.”

The barren branches of the forest above them creaked in the wind. Brant breathed in deeply; the others would be here soon. He knew his people; they would answer the call. A soft noise made him spin around, sword drawn in one fluid motion. A man stepped out from the shadows. As his face came into view Brant lowered his blade, eyes wide in stunned disbelief.

“Ky?”

The man’s face softened. “It’s me, little brother. Answering the call.”

“But… you… how is this possible?”

“A gift from an old friend of yours.”

“You’ve spoken with him? Nobody has heard from him in years.”

“He’s the one who sent me here. Said it was his chance to finally ‘right a great wrong’ or something. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

Brant shook his head numbly. “No.”

Ky cocked an eyebrow. There was a pause, then Brant strode towards Ky, a broad grin spreading across his face as he threw his arms around his brother, wrapping him in a hug. They both laughed exultantly. A gust of wind whipped the snow around them, icy particles stinging their faces as an enormous red dragon landed in their midst. His wings were golden and his eyes glowed amber.

“Hail, King Brant,” the dragon rumbled.

“Yole,” Brant returned. “It is good to see you again.”

“Hush! Do you want to bring the enemy down upon us before we’re ready?” Kamarie slid down off the dragon’s back and her husband, King Oraeyn, followed. Though her words contained a reprimand, her eyes sparkled with laughter.

The deafening sound of hoofbeats made them turn. Others had arrived. Brant’s heart swelled with pride as he gazed fondly on the familiar faces. Arnaud, his dearest friend, was there, along with his wife, Zara. Jemson, Brant’s nephew, along with an entire army of aethalons also appeared. Along with these were the wizardess, Leila, dragons, and knights of Aom-igh. He searched, but one face was conspicuously absent. He was not sure why this bothered him, but he could not help but wonder where the Minstrel was in all of this. If there was time, he would have to ask Ky what he knew.

Jemson swung off his horse, disbelief and joy on his face at the sight of his father. Ky embraced his son and stepped back, holding Jemson at arm’s length.

“Look at you, all grown up!” he cried. “Your mother would be so proud.”

A horrible chorus of blood-curdling shrieks and howls recalled them to their purpose. All eyes turned to Brant as he raised his sword high over his head.

“Friends!” he called out. “We have answered the call. This world and these people have been robbed of their fighting strength, and in this final hour they have need of ours.”

A cheer rang out in response.

“Just on the other side of this forest lies a city besieged by Orcs. I know not more than you what dangers such fell beasts may pose, but I have faced seheowks and wyvrens with many of you. Together, we have faced dread dragons and were-creatures. With you valiant warriors at my side I fear nothing that lies before us.”

“For Ebulon!” Ky’s voice rang out, reverberating off the snow-covered trees. Others took up the cry. High above them, the dragons wheeled and roared.

Brant answered the cry, “For Ebulon and all who seek peace and freedom!” He leapt onto the back of one of the extra horses. Dylanna and Ky followed suit.

The army poured through the forest with Brant and Ky leading the charge. The men and women were well-trained and needed no further orders for now. Brant and Ky raced together at the head of their force. Brant glanced over at Ky and they shared elated grins. Despite the danger they were about to face, there was something exciting and wild about the coldness in the air, something exhilarating about the way the snow sparkled in the early light of dawn, something invigorating about facing a new challenge and testing their skills as warriors once more. Beyond that, it was good to see his brother again, the way Brant remembered him: his best friend.

They reached the forest edge and halted, surveying the scene before them. A narrow plain separated them from the outer walls of a massive city. The walls stretched away in either direction as far as the eye could see… or they would have, had they not been demolished. The remains of the wall lay in large, jagged chunks as if they had exploded from the inside out. There was no way to tell how far the damage extended, or even if the wall had been unique to this particular portion of the city.

Inside the walls were buildings and dwellings the like of which Brant had never seen. They lined cobbled streets that wound their way up the mountain around which the city had been built. The roads culminated in a massive stone castle that had been carved into the face of the mountain.

But it was not this sight that made Brant pause. It was the army of creatures before him. Thousands of grotesque beasts were arrayed just on the other side of the broken wall. He could not make out their numbers clearly, but his own forces were easily outnumbered by more than five to one. The leader of this monstrous army, a massive, hideous Orc, sat atop his Warg. The Orc’s mouth was stained red and his eyes gleamed a sickly yellow. He gripped an immense sword in one mighty claw and a thorn-covered whip in the other. In contrast to his own ugliness, the Warg he rode was actually a stunningly beautiful creature. Its appearance was not unlike that of a wolf, though it was nearer the size of a dragon.

Urging his Warg forward with a loud, “Hah!” and a lash from his wicked-looking scourge, he rode swiftly across the plain until he came to face Brant and Ky, who sat their horses at the front of the army. The Orc sneered, his face even more ghastly up close.

“It proves I was right to return with my legion to fortify this area once more,” he snarled. A cunning light appeared in his eyes as they darted between the faces of the two men before him. “The reports were true: armies of unknown origin have come to save Ebulon,” his voice became a mocking hiss. “What interest have you in Ebulon? This is not your fight. Why risk your lives for this paltry kingdom? We have no quarrel with you.” The Orc grinned, a ghastly sight. “You are too late. Ebulon has fallen. Ebulon is ours. Leave us this place. Leave us our feast and we will let you go in peace.”

“We seek no terms with you,” Brant growled through clenched teeth. “You offer peace to us in exchange for slaughter to them? We will never have peace with you, and you will never butcher again!”

“Then you choose death for all!” the Orc roared.

“Enough talk!” Ky yelled. “Aethalons! Forward!”

He lowered his sword and charged at the enormous Orc. The creature appeared amused and brushed aside Ky’s attack. He let out a chilling howl, unleashing the flood of grisly, malice-filled creatures to flow over the field of battle.

With his brother surrounded in the midst of the enemy swarm, Brant drove his horse forward. With the Fang Blade aloft he shouted his battle cry, which reverberated before and behind as his army followed and raced into the attack.

All was chaos and blood and the clang of steel upon steel. Brant lost sight of Ky. He lost sight of every familiar face as he rode into the fray. Tusks, teeth, claws, and a foul odor were his entire world as he battled his way from one foe to the next. The Orcs fought with unparalleled ferocity. This enemy was powerful and skilled, and they knew no fear.

The pure white snow gracefully blanketing the meadow quickly transformed into a muddy, blood-strewn horror. Arrows rained down on the Orc ranks as Kamarie and Zara commanded the archers. Oraeyn and Arnaud, the kings of Aom-igh, fought desperately side by side, felling Orcs and Wargs in reckless abandon.

The dragons above blasted the enemy with searing bolts of fire, but this was hardly the first battle for these Orcs and they had their own archers and spearmen. It soon became apparent that the enemy’s overwhelming numbers could not be held at bay for long. One dragon fell to the earth, screaming, a javelin buried in its chest.

The battle raged on and Brant could see that many who had answered his call now lay dead on this field of grief. The destroyers of Ebulon had paid dearly, but victory was still theirs to claim. Suddenly, the Orc army pulled back. Brant stared, uncomprehending, his senses strained as he tried to discern why the enemy seemed to be calling a retreat. A humming noise filled the air, followed by a soot-like mist that emanated from the ground and shadowed all it touched. Realization struck and Brant’s mind cried out a warning. He wheeled his horse frantically. He knew not what this mist could do, and he did not want to find out.

“Dylanna! Magic!” he shouted, his eyes scanning the ranks of his comrades, searching for her face.

In an instant she was at his side, along with her sisters, Leila and Zara. They studied the darkness as it shrouded the enemy from sight.

“Can you counter it?” Brant asked.

“We will need the help of dragons,” Dylanna replied. She bent her mind towards that purpose in hopes that this new call would soon be answered.

Zara and Leila joined Dylanna and the three wizardesses stood together silently. Brant could not see the magic they wrought, nor did he understand it, though he could wield a measure of his own magic. A shimmer appeared in the air between them and the writhing mist. It reminded Brant of the dome Calyssia had created around her Pearl Cove, as well as the shield Zara had once erected around Fortress Hill to protect a large group of women and children during a battle many years ago.

A great red-gold dragon landed nearby. It shimmered and the creature became a young man who raced over to Brant.

“Brant, Dylanna sent for me,” the lad panted. He was limping slightly, but he shook off Brant’s concern. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Good man,” Brant stepped back, letting Yole join his wife.

The black mist reached the barrier. It paused as if uncertain, though surely it was impossible for such a thing to have emotions of any kind. Yole closed his eyes as the mist hesitated and all the muscles in his face tightened. Sweat trickled down his forehead at the effort he was expending. A brilliant blue-white bolt of lightning sparked out from the barrier and cracked through the mist like a scourge. A mighty wind whirled into existence and the black mist was flung back towards the Orc army.

A truly horrifying scream soared up from the Orcs as the mist reached their front line. Brant could not see clearly what was happening, but the sickening cries and howls emanating from his foes told him he was glad of this.

As the mist cleared, Brant could see that it left behind a void of twisted, tortured death on everything it had touched. The horror of what had just been avoided caused the bravest to tremble. Taking advantage of the momentary pause, Brant regained the initiative and urged his men forward to the attack.

Once more Brant’s army surged onto the battlefield. The Orcs, with a greatly reduced advantage, met them halfway with a renewed savagery and hatred. As Brant felt the weight of the unrelenting malice of his enemy, he understood that their opponent could not be measured in numbers, but rather the evil that inspired it.

Searing pain in his left side caught him completely off-guard. He had not seen the Warg as it leapt, but he felt its claws and teeth as they sank into his shoulder and side, and he felt the sensation of being airborn as he was carried from his saddle. He landed on his back with an anguished thud, the Warg’s teeth still firmly embedded in his shoulder. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and he lay there, gasping, unable to lift his sword or reach his dagger. The Warg pressed a large paw onto his chest, making it even more difficult for Brant to find his breath. The beast lifted its head in an earth-shattering howl then its sharp teeth drove towards Brant’s unprotected neck.

There was nothing he could do. Brant closed his eyes and accepted an honorable death in battle. It was not the worst place he could have died, he reasoned, waiting to feel the fangs rip into his throat and the warmth of his lifeblood seep out onto the ground.

Instead, he felt the pressure lift from his chest and he heard a savage death cry. Then a strong hand wrapped around his wrist and he felt himself being pulled to his feet. He opened his eyes and looked into the solemn eyes of his brother. The Warg lay a few feet away, its dark blood staining the trampled snow in a wide pool.

“Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner,” Ky apologized. “How badly are you hurt?”

Brant gingerly touched the gashes on his side and shoulder and found they were not as deep as he had feared. He could not raise his left arm, but he could still swing his sword arm with full range of motion.

“I think I’ll live,” he said, “thanks to you.”

“You’re my little brother,” Ky said simply. “It’s my job to watch your back.”

Brant swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat, but had no time to reply, for the enemy was upon them once more. Back to back, Brant and Ky battled the fell beasts, slaying many. As he stood with his brother, the carcasses of their enemies piling up before them, Brant found himself experiencing a sudden euphoria.

This is how it was supposed to be! he thought as he stabbed an Orc that was lunging towards Ky’s unprotected side. Ky parried a blow and then gave a mighty back-handed swing, cleaving an Orc’s head from its shoulders just before it could drive its dagger into Brant’s back. Their movements were like an intricately choreographed dance. Their swords were a whirling frenzy of death. Their every motion perfectly complemented the other’s movements. There was a momentary lull in the battle around them and Brant and Ky shared a wild grin. Brant threw his head back and laughed up into the sky.

“Thank you, Minstrel!”

* * *

The battle raged through the day and into the misty hours of twilight. As the sky darkened and the clouds parted to reveal a rising moon, Brant and Ky found themselves standing in the middle of the battlefield, surrounded by dead or dying Orcs and warriors alike, the good and evil sharing the same tomb. The army of Tellurae Aquaous held through the brutal, bloody day, despite staggering losses. The enemy hounded them mercilessly, galvanized into action by their hideous leader who had laid low so many good men and dragons. Now he turned is eyes to Brant and Ky, who accepted the challenge readily and fought through the enemy ranks to match his blade with their own. Evidence of his skill lay all across the blood-soaked ground. Both Brant and Ky recognized the shields, swords, banners, and faces that were not trampled in the mud at this great Orc’s feet.

“This is my battle, little brother,” Ky said. “Watch my back.”

Brant wanted to argue, but the look in Ky’s eyes halted his protests. Instead, he nodded and gripped his sword a bit more tightly.

“Monster!” Ky’s voice rang out across the battlefield. “Turn your hate to me!”

The Orc gnashed its sharp, blood-stained teeth and strode forward to destroy Ky.

The two faced each other cautiously. They circled one another, and a hush fell across the meadow. The Orc was a full head and shoulders taller than Ky, its massive arms and legs bulging with strength and contempt. Ky exuded confidence in every gesture. The Orc swung his great, jagged sword casually through the air, the blade whistling a deadly tune as it sliced back and forth. Ky held his ground, waiting.

With a roar borne of impatience, the Orc attacked. He lashed out with his whip. Brant held his breath, but his brother stepped nimbly aside and brought his own sword down in atop the whip, chopping through the twisted, thorn-ridden cords, rendering the weapon useless. The Orc hissed angrily and tossed the mangled weapon aside. He attacked again, hammering a blow at Ky’s head, and then another at his legs. The wicked blade rang and hummed as Ky blocked and danced away again and again.

The duel continued, with neither combatant gaining ground. Ky had not yet gone on the offensive, and Brant watched in concern as his brother used a completely different fighting style than he ever had before.

Ky began to falter. It was imperceptible at first, but he was starting to make small mistakes. They manifested in a tiny mis-step here, an almost slip as he blocked yet another violent blow. The Orc’s lips pulled back in a wicked sneer of triumph as Ky stumbled and almost fell, dropping to one knee. The creature pressed its advantage instantly, stepping closer and slicing his blade upwards. Blood blossomed in a bright streak across Ky’s chest. He gasped and then lunged forward, too close for the Orc to get any purchase with his own weapon, and plunged his own sword into the creature’s chest. The Orc’s eyes bulged and he wheezed as Ky’s blade, driven to the hilt, ended his challenge. The Orc swayed, fell to his knees, and gurgled as Ky withdrew his sword and raised the blade high.

“For Ebulon!”

The remaining Orcs dropped their weapons and fled, howling, into the forest. Brant raced to Ky’s side, concerned, tearing the cloth from the sleeve of his shirt and offering it to his brother as a make-shift bandage.

“Ky!”

“I’m fine, Brant, it’s just a scratch.”

Brant eyed him dubiously, but Ky remained steady, his expression sincere. He accepted the cloth, however, and pressed it to his wound gratefully.

“I had to let him think he was winning so that he would make a mistake. Really, I’m fine.”

A strange sound made them both turn. The doors to the buildings and homes Brant had noticed at the outset of the battle were opening and people were emerging slowly, their eyes haunted and wary. The people looked around in disbelief as they wandered out onto the battlefield.

A woman came running up to Brant and Ky, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she said, clasping Ky’s hand in her own. “We had given up all hope.”

“You are welcome, dear Lady,” Ky’s voice was gentle.

“I only hope things are going as well in other parts of the city,” a man added, coming up to speak with them. “Our warriors have been falling back for weeks; they abandoned this section of Ebulon as undefendable days ago. We were hiding in our homes, waiting for those monsters to find us…” a look of horror passed through the man’s eyes. “You have saved us. We cannot thank you enough.”

More villagers reached them now and everyone wanted to express their gratitude. Brant and Ky spoke with many of them as they returned to their people to check and see who had made it through the battle. In all they had lost a staggering number of good men. A half-dozen dragons had fallen to vile Orc javelins, and more had been brought down by ropes and beheaded. Brant and Ky mourned each loss quietly.

“It’s time,” a new voice said, coming up behind Brant and Ky as they searched the battlefield for their wounded.

The man who had spoken was different from the villagers. He was not dressed in armor and furs, and did not have that haunted look on his face. He was tall, with pale blond hair and ice-blue eyes. He wore garments not at all suited for the snowy conditions. His lips were twisted in an irritated scowl and he gestured impatiently at Ky.

“It’s time,” he repeated.

Ky nodded.

“Ky, what… who is this?” Brant asked.

Ky gave a glimmer of a smile. “That gift I mentioned earlier? It’s only temporary. This is Joshua… he’s from another realm, but he’s here to help me get back to where I belong.”

“But… you said you weren’t hurt that badly,” Brant protested.

“My leaving now is not due to a hurt I sustained this day.”

“Then…”

“This is how it must be,” Ky saluted, fist over heart, and fell to one knee. “I could not do this in life, little brother, but I am truly grateful for the chance to set that right. Hail, King Brant.”

The lump was back in Brant’s throat, and he found he could not speak. He reached down and raised his brother back to his feet.

“It’s alright,” Ky put a steady hand on Brant’s shoulder. “The Minstrel is wise. He saw this as a chance to right a wrong of his own. For myself, I hope that in some small way more than one great wrong has been atoned for this day. I am at peace, Brother, you should be, too.” He turned to Joshua. “Lead on, good man.”

Brant’s eyes were bright with unshed tears as he watched them begin to walk away, their images shimmering and fading. Before they disappeared entirely he heard the man, Joshua, say haughtily, “You’re going to owe me for this, you know.”

Ky’s laughter rang out heartily, sounding far too full of life. “You did not arrange this deal; I owe you nothing. This was all the Minstrel’s doing.”

Joshua glared hatefully in trapped frustration and Brant could not contain a chuckle. He knew the feeling all too well.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

Minstrel’s Song series by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

“King’s Warrior” and “Second Son.”

Now available.

Website: http://jenelleschmidt.com

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Entry Point 10 - by Tom Barczak

The veil broke to the cacophony of war.

The child knight Al-Aaron stumbled through. The ghost of Malius followed close behind him.

The screams of missiles and the dying assaulted him. The blood of the dead painted the stone and wood ramparts in shades of red.

A rolling dark shadow filled the horizon, as dark as the Dragon itself. It was a horde, a legion a hundredfold. Its cry boiled and thundered. Its eyes burned in multitude.

The sun of this world was setting.

And in the growing darkness, the world’s cry set the stone and the wood to tremble, until the cries of the dying couldn’t be heard anymore.

The angels had told him to come here. The ghost of Malius who haunted him had followed him.

Al-Aaron held Baeryth out before him. The quickening light of torches and the burning casualties of war danced across its steel, beneath the soft gaze of gossamer that bound it, the cloth aglow with the reminder of angels, a sign of his promise to never to shed the blood of man.

Even here.

The angels had said they didn’t need a hero, but a teacher. And he was to be theirs.

The ghost of Malius, arriving as always after the angels were gone, had only smiled, as the portal opened before them, the gateway to this other world.

A harried knight strode up to him among the hail of stones and arrows. His chainmail hung rent open across a bandaged wound.

A smirk cracked open his broken jaw.

“Welcome to the defense of Ebulon, my lord.”

His hand made a pass across the burning citadel and city beneath them.

“You’re just in time.”

“For what?” Al-Aaron heard himself say.

The reflection of the man’s bloodied visage held across Baeryth’s length and the shield of gossamer that feigned to protect it - a virgin symbol of a promise broken long ago, that the knights of his order now hoped to reclaim.

“I do not know that I can help you.”

The man stalled, confused.

“What is your name, knight?” Al-Aaron asked.

“Doernyth. First Prince of Haardit. I am the last of my city, the only one to make it here alive.” He shook his head.

“I was sent here by an angel.”

Doernyth shrugged. “Why are you here if not to help us?”

“I am sworn to never shed the blood of man. My sword is only a symbol.”

The cry of the horde broke across the city wall.

“Ladders!” One of the defenders screamed.

“We are a spiritual order.” Al-Aaron continued.

Doernyth shrugged again. “Great for a priest, boy. Pretty bad for a knight.”

Doernyth pulled a medallion from beneath his mail, over his head and placed it on Al-Aaron.

The ghost of Malius, his hands outstretched, his face upturned, passed through them both, through the blood and the war.

“You can man the postern gate,” Doernyth said. “They need you there.” He signaled to the gatehouse. “And besides, you’re in luck. The horde which attacks us isn’t men.”

* * *

From the gatehouse, through the narrow door leading to the surround, a cry came from the dark, closer than all the other cries of war. “Let him through. He wears Doernyth’s medallion.”

“One of the hero’s then, are you?” the first voice answered. A broken face, full of scars, some old, some new, peered at him from just beyond the vestige light of burning things.

“My name is Al-Aaron. I am a Servian knight.”

“Follow me then knight.”

The cries of beasts heralded across the surrounds like trumpet calls. Dying sounds. Slaughter sounds. The defenders here sending them back, whatever they were, to wherever they came.

Dark shadows more beast than men with gripping poles with savage sword and splitting axe and snout and beak and fang. Their eyes burned yellow. Their blood flowed black.

The blood of the men on the battlements flowed red.

But the men held.

At least he wasn’t too late.

For whatever reason he was here.

The cries of women and children came from the citadel.

That was if a boy could do anything at all to help them. No. Not a boy, a Servian knight.

Naptha balls of fire streaked overhead. They exploded against the citadel in answer.

He followed the broken face through the narrow door and down sharp winding steps to a small passage the size of a tomb. A dozen faces of boys and old men stared back at him. Bravery was a cloak over the fear in their eyes.

“Here you go, hero.”

The broken faced man stared at him, his eyes rimmed red. He seized his arm. He thrust his mouth against his ear. Sweat and blood and spit and tears. “Please let them die well.”

Cries of beasts, cries of war, trumpeted beyond the small postern gate in answer.

* * *

A pallid haired boy who couldn’t have seen more than fourteen summers, no more than he had, drew up to him.

“Are you here to save us?”

“Are you are all that’s left?” Al-Aaron asked.

The boy nodded, then nodded to another, his hair more gray than pale. “I’m Gaydyn, our commander is Samuel, of the watch.”

Samuel nodded back then stared at the gate. “I’ve armed them, more for their courage then for the steel,” he murmured. “Steel won’t stop what’s coming to them.”

The ten others cradled their weapons nervously. Three boys with crossbows bigger than they were, their windlass already cocked for them, because they were too small to have done it for themselves. The other three boys clutched their spears to their breasts. The four men leaned against their own like crutches.

Al-Aaron felt a chill. The ghost of Malius whispered in his ear, “They are but lambs for the slaughter. A pity they would be without you here to save them.”

“Why do they attack you?” Al-Aaron asked.

“Because they’re Orcs,” Samuel replied.

“I do not know them.”

Samuel said nothing, his expression one of disbelief, then understanding. “Do you know evil then?”

The ghost of Malius smiled at him.

“I do,” Al-Aaron replied.

“Then that’s all that you need to know.”

“If not men, then what are these Orcs?”

“Beasts perhaps. But not. For even a beast will cower. Even a beast will stop when it knows it’s going to die. Not even a beast will kill until there is nothing left to kill.”

“No. Only men do that.”

“Until only we, the young and the dying, are left to defend ourselves.”

A shudder wracked the postern gate.

Mortar fell from the stones above.

“They’re coming,” Gaydyn whispered. The bravery in his face fled.

Al-Aaron came beside him.

“Then I shall stand beside you.”

Shards of splintered wood flew from the gate. Ax and spike and spear rammed through. But it was the sound that was the most terrifying. Beneath the breaking wood and bending steel, beneath the cry of death beyond it, was the absence of these things. It was a tired sound of silence.

The first Orc through died before hitting the ground with Samuel’s spear through his neck.

One bolt of the three found its home in the skull of the second Orc. A cruel wrought helm flung from her head as her death squeal fled, a crooked fist clutched to her breast.

Another, larger by two, broke through.

He was an ogre if ever there was such one. One eye gone, his rage blinding, his hammer crumpled Samuel’s chest and sent his corpse across the room.

Gaydyn fumbled with his spear.

Al-Aaron drove baeryth beneath the beast’s plated chest. The beast staggered back, bringing his hammer down in a clumsy fell.

In two strokes, Baeryth severed it from him and then opened his neck up as well.

Black blood like pitch soaked the shredded gossamer that remained upon Baeryth’s steel.

Then the cry of children came.

One of the crossbow boys staggered back, a spear through his frail chest. The small Orc who released it, still bellowing, clearly had never seen death before. He didn’t recognize it when it came for him as three of the men’s spears went through him.

Two more Orcs, children too, leapt forward through the breach.

Gaydyn, now moving, screamed as he thrust into the flesh of the first of them.

Then the cry of men came.

Booted feet descended amidst the clash of steel, the cry of war, and the weeping of the dying.

Al-Aaron fell to his knees upon the black and red blood splattered stones.

The men arriving barred the gate with shield and spear as barricades were called for.

Providence perhaps. But too late for the dead, and the dying.

Gaydyn wept. He clutched his blood soaked abdomen, where one of the young Orcs, now dead, had marked him. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was enough, perhaps. Sometimes death can be fickle. Sometimes providence even more so.

Al-Aaron slumped next to him.

The ghost of Malius watched, waiting, smiling from the shadows.

The eyes of the defenders swept past them with no solace but the truth to give them. War and death never lie.

One of the men kicked the corpse of the Orc matron.

Her vestige hand opened.

The small wood carving of an Orc child, a doll, fell away. Something precious, something to defend.

Gaydyn stared at it.

Doernyth drew near.

“They’ve fallen back. For now. How did we fair here?”

“We held, my lord.” Gaydyn answered.

“Strange that something called them back.”

“They’re the only ones left.”

Al-Aaron took Gaydyn in his arms.

Gaydyns eyes fixed their stare as he did. His breath ended.

He closed Gaydyn’s eyes, and wiped away the blood and tears from his face. Then he wiped them from his own.

Doernyth picked up the doll. He stared at it as well.

“Because the ones who defended them are already dead,” he whispered.

Al-Aaron closed his eyes. He listened to the more distant cries of war, and waited for the angels to take him home.

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Veil of the Dragon by Tom Barczak

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Entry Point 11 - by SKN Hammerstone

Ebulon; the once proud city ruled by its loving King Yadi, was falling to the armies of Orcs that trampled through it, destroying every life that they passed. I had never reaped a soul before. It was my first time as angel of death. Joshua was temporarily removed from his station in Hell to go with me and teach me how to fulfill my duties.

My guardian angel, Jesse, had come as well to protect me from both the surviving Orcs as well as Joshua. About a month ago some things happened between myself and Joshua that ended in me being forced to kill him. I hadn’t wanted to, but when I was forced to decide between him and Jesse; the choice had been evident.

I wasn’t exactly sure how we had gotten to Ebulon. I didn’t have wings to transport myself between worlds yet. One minute I had been standing in front of Gabriel, archangel of Heaven, and in the blink of an eye I was underneath the softly falling snow in a city on the brink of destruction.

“You need to be careful.” Jesse came up from behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Not all of these people or creatures are dead. Many of them are still alive.” I struggled to listen to him with all of the voices crying and screaming in my head. Death surrounded me, invading my mind. When someone dies, their soul is given a direct line into the head of the closest angel of death.

They continue screaming and crying out inside this angel’s head until they are reaped and taken to their final resting place. With thousands dead all around me, I couldn’t sort one voice from the next. They were speaking in numerous languages and dialects, trying to gain my attention to free them from their bodies.

“Yes, it’s a dangerous job.” Joshua rolled his eyes as he walked by us. “Baby the little queen to the point of you doing her job for her. Isn’t that how it has always worked?”

“I don’t baby her,” Jesse stated. “Rachael is new to this job. I am making sure she stays safe.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Joshua stopped in front of the body of what I believed to be an Orc, kicking it onto its back so he didn’t have to touch it. “That one’s dead. Come over here.”

I reluctantly walked over to him, Jesse following closely behind me. Somehow I had once again found myself trapped between the two of them. I stopped within a safe distance. The Orc was covered in grayish, scaly hide that had numerous lesions and stab marks all over it. Its face was deformed and hideous and the entire body smelled putrid.

“Good god!” Jesse turned his head. “How long has that thing been dead?”

“Not very long.” Joshua picked up a discarded sword and prodded the body with it, letting loose a new flow of greenish blood. “You’re up, princess.”

“I don’t want to touch that,” I told him. “I would much rather start on a human.”

“Of course you would.” He turned to me. “But you don’t have that choice. You have to reap everything that has a soul, no matter how dark and twisted. You think this is bad? Try reaping a demon. Now get on your knees and reap that… thing.”

I wanted to just turn around and run, but he was right; I didn’t have a choice. I had to do this. There was no one else out there to help these creatures. Taking a deep breath; I rested an unwilling hand on the Orc’s forehead. I found his voice among the numerous ones in my head, following it straight into his mind.

“Who are you?” He was hostile and angry, trying to figure out what was happening to him.

“My name is Rachael,” I told him. “I’m here to help you.”

“Help me what?” he wanted to know. “I want out of wherever you have taken me!”

“I can’t.” I had found myself inside his head. It was dark and desolate, filled with disturbing images and self-loathing. “We are inside of your mind. I am here to take you to your intended resting place.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“You’re dead.” I didn’t know how else to put it. It was true.

“I’m dead?” he asked. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry?” I had expected anger and rage. Instead he was thanking me.

“You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment,” he stated. “Take me to where I can finally rest.” I nodded and started to draw his soul out of his body. I opened my eyes to the snow inside Ebulon again, a glowing sphere hovering above my hand.

“Now what?” I asked. This was all the farther I knew how to get.

“Where is he supposed to go?” Joshua prompted me.

“Hell.” I winced. “He’s supposed to go to Hell.”

“And how do you get him there?” he continued.

“The soul finds its own way once it is released from the cage of the body,” I answered.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “So let it go.” I took a deep breath and pushed the glowing soul towards the grey sky. It started to flicker briefly before it disappeared. “Now was that so very hard to do?”

“I just killed him.” Realization hit me.

“No.” Jesse helped me stand with a gentle hand on my waist. “He was already dead. You helped him be at peace.”

“Well, if we are done here, I am going to let myself be returned to Hell to live out my sentence of eternal torture.” Joshua’s voice interrupted my guilt.

“You can’t just leave!” I told him. “I can’t reap this entire city of its inhabitance on my own!”

“I did it on my own for a thousand years,” he answered. “And you act like I care.”

“You’re not allowed to leave until this is finished,” Jesse informed him.

“Who might you be to tell me what I can and cannot do?” Joshua turned his anger on Jesse.

“I am the angel appointed to keep you from escaping and to keep you in line,” he stated.

“So, the babysitter?” The two of them had never gotten along, even before I was in the picture. Now they really didn’t get along.

“No.” Jesse’s grip on my waist involuntarily tightened and I winced slightly. “I’m the man who is going to kill you if you do not do what you are supposed to do.”

“I’m already dead,” Joshua hissed.

“I can make it worse.” Jesse stared him down until Joshua eventually turned away.

“Whatever.” He moved over to another body, starting to reap the soul of the fallen human. I reluctantly walked over to another Orc, lying in a sticky pool of his grayish-green blood.

I rested my hand on his forehead, trying to center in on his voice with my eyes tightly closed. Whereas the last voice had been so easy to find, for some reason I could not get this one. I didn’t understand why I was having such a hard time until a hand closed around my throat. My eyes flew open and I tried to escape, but the Orc I had thought to be dead had me in a vise-like grip, growling savagely as it strangled me.

“Rachael!” Jesse was suddenly there, stabbing his hunting knife deep into the creature’s heart. I took in a pained breath as the Orc let go, falling onto my back on the ground. “Are you alright?” I struggled to breathe, my windpipe closing in on itself. I couldn’t think or answer him as this Orc’s voice joined the others. Every minute added another agonized voice to the masses screaming at me.

I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t talk. I didn’t want this job. I wanted to go home and hide from all of this death and agony around me and I wanted my mind back. The feeling of insanity closed in around me, sending a panicked feeling through my body. Escape wasn’t an option anymore. The only option was to calm down and get back to work.

“Rachael.” Jesse’s soothing voice broke through the chaos. I focused on his brilliant blue eyes, my breathing swiftly going back to normal. I got up, using the back of my hand to wipe the Orc’s blood off of my face.

“I’m fine,” I told him.

“Ok.” He nodded. I knew he didn’t believe me. He knew I wasn’t actually ok. I placed my hand on his forehead again, knowing he was actually dead this time. He was far more hostile than the first Orc, mostly because he had died trying to kill me. I decided to move on to a human then.

If I stumbled upon one who was not actually dead at least they wouldn’t try to kill me. I chose a young man, dressed in the uniform of Ebulon. He looked like he was frozen in time; his eyes still wide open in shock and horror. The snow fell onto and around him, covering his hair and the fur on his uniform.

He might have been twenty years old, if that. Dead long before his time. My hand melted the frost and snowflakes on his forehead as his terrified voice led me inside his mind.

“Hi.” I decided to say the first thing since he was looking at me in fear.

“You’re an angel,” he realized.

“Yes, I am.” It was better to start small and build up to the fact that he was… well dead.

“If you’re an angel, then that means…” He struggled to build up the courage to say it. “That means I’m dead, right?”

“Yes.” I didn’t know what else to say. Maybe this was why Joshua was so angry and testy all of the time. He had to tell people numerous times a day that they were dead. Not that they were dying but that they were dead.

“I’m not ready to die,” he told me. “Please! I have a fiancé and she’s pregnant! I can’t leave them all alone!”

“I’m truly very sorry,” I answered. “There is nothing I can do…”

“I have heard stories about people being spared.” He interrupted me. “They were dead for hours or even days and they were brought back. You are the angel of death; you must know something about that! You have to be able to help me!”

“I’m not… I haven’t been the angel of death for very long,” I admitted. “I don’t know what caused something like that but I don’t think…”

“My leader’s name is Ky,” he interrupted me again. “He was dead and has been for a long time and yet he fights today in Ebulon because of the deal he made with the angel of death. You’re the angel of death. I wish to make the same deal with you as he did.”

“I didn’t make a deal with anyone,” I insisted. “I don’t know who Ky is. If someone made a deal with him; it was Joshua…”

“You have to help me!” He repeated. “I cannot leave them alone! They need me! Don’t you understand that? Isn’t there someone that you would give anything to be with?”

“Yes.” My answer was quiet. Jesse. I would give anything to be with him. I knew that my mistress, Elizabeth, did not approve and she would do anything she could to separate us. She knew it wouldn’t work though. Jesse had been by my side since I was six years old, never letting anything happen to me and never letting anyone hurt me. I knew what this man was feeling.

“If this was you and you were dying, wouldn’t you want someone to help you?” he asked. I struggled with what I knew I was supposed to do and what I now wanted to do. This man was right; it was possible. Joshua had done at least three times. There was a way to do it. I had to think. The soul was damaged right now.

It would be repaired once it got to Heaven. That was where this man was destined to go. If I could take it out and then repair it, I might be able to put it back into his body and bring him back to life. The reason for death in any human is the damaging of their soul. A person could sustain horrible injuries to their body, but they only died when their soul suffered injuries as well.

If I could heal his soul, there would be no reason why he couldn’t live again. I had to at least try. If I was in his place and I was the one who was dead, I would want the angel of death to do everything they could to bring me back to Jesse.

“Ok.” I agreed. “I will help you.” I drew his soul out of his body, opening my eyes in the snow-covered street inside Ebulon. The glowing orb floated over to my hand, waiting for me to help it. I only knew basic healing and I didn’t know if it would help the soul or not. I would try though. I knew Joshua wouldn’t help me and Jesse wouldn’t approve either. I had to do this on my own and fast.

I held my free hand over the rotating sphere and started to slowly release a small amount of healing energy into it. The slight red line started to turn with the soul, filling in the little empty spaces and tears in its surface.

“What are you doing?” Jesse asked, moving to stand behind me. I didn’t answer him. I had to concentrate. The soul kept drawing in more and more energy, feeding itself and bringing itself back to life. “Rachael?” When the soul stopped taking in my energy I knew it was healed. Now I had to put him back in his body.

I didn’t know any way other than to force it into his body like pure energy. It would hurt but there was no other way. I slammed the soul down against his chest, restarting his heart and re-embedding his soul at the same time. The man jerked to a seated position, drawing in a sharp and agonized breath.

“Rachael!” Jesse pulled me to my feet, moving me away from him.

“Jesse, it’s fine!” I insisted. “I did that for him. He had a family. He wasn’t ready to die. It wasn’t his time.”

“Actually.” Joshua wandered back over. “It was his time. There are no rules against bringing souls back from the dead but there will be consequences. There always are. They can come in any form and most end in the person you saved dying again.”

“It wasn’t his time,” I repeated. I knew I was wrong but I had to believe that things would work out for this man.

“I’m not here to argue with you.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m here to escape a few hours of torment. However this is turning out to be even worse than the torture I suffer in Hell. I’d rather have my ears cut off than listen to either of you for one more minute.” Joshua moved to yet another victim after his rampage.

“Thank you.” The man I had brought back got to his knees in front of me, grasping my hand tightly. “I will repay you. I swear.”

“You don’t have to repay me,” I told him. “It was nothing.”

“But it wasn’t nothing!” his eyes started to tear up. “You have given me my life back! I will never forget what you have done for me today.” I didn’t know what to say. I was still new to… well all of this. Everything to do with being an angel of death. I didn’t like it and I really wished I hadn’t doomed myself to this.

“Find your family,” I stated. “They will be looking for you.” He quickly got to his feet, dashing further into the city. “Don’t say anything.” I knew Jesse didn’t like this. I wasn’t about to let him tell me what I had done was wrong, though.

“I wasn’t going to.” He surprised me by sounding pleased with it. “I think you did a good thing. I don’t like this whole angel of death business any more than you do. I don’t like anything that puts you or the baby…”

“Don’t talk about it in front of him,” I stopped him before he went too far. Joshua was beside an Orc, deep inside the creatures mind, but I knew him well enough to know he was always listening and he wasn’t supposed to know about that.

“Sorry.” Jesse glanced over at him. “I don’t like anything that puts you in danger. Or her.” He spoke quieter, resting a tender hand on my stomach.

“Jesse.” I turned as Joshua drew the soul out of its body. Jesse quickly moved his hand so he didn’t draw attention to where it was placed.

“What are you standing around for?” Joshua wanted to know. “Move! Go reap someone so I’m not stuck here any longer than I absolutely have to be.” I closed my eyes briefly so I wouldn’t snap at him. I had murdered him. I deserved to be treated like that. He should get a free shot at me.

I bent down next to another human, searching for his voice. I let myself disappear into his mind, cut off from the rest of the world. It was the worst thing I could have done at that moment. I just wouldn’t know it until it was too late.

“Who are you?” It was a question I would get used to.

“My name is Rachael,” I answered. “I am here to take you to your place of rest.”

“No!” He was angrier than any of the other ones were. “You will not kill me!”

“I am not the one who killed you!” I tried to calm him down. “I am here to help you.”

“You want to help me?!” he demanded. “Then get the hell out of my head!”

“I’m trying…”

“No!” he shouted. “You are not trying anything! You will not kill me!”

“I don’t want to…” It wasn’t him that cut me off this time. It was an agonizing, shooting pain in my back. I choked on the sensation, rippling through my disconnected body.

“What’s wrong with you?” His voice faded as my subconscious ripped its way through his mind, trying to get back to my body. The pain threaded its way through every vein in my system, tearing through me.

“Rachael!” Jesse’s voice slowly made its way into my panicking mind. He guided me back to the reality of Ebulon where I found myself in worse pain than I had been in that man’s head. I couldn’t even scream; it hurt that bad. What was going on?

“I thought you said that there weren’t any more coming!” Joshua’s angry shout momentarily distracted me enough from the pain to see the tip of a barbed arrow piercing the skin under my collar bone.

“What…? What happened?” I could barely whisper.

“There weren’t!” Jesse didn’t answer me, turning to Joshua instead.

“Well you didn’t do enough research, now did you?” Joshua was standing near the gates to the city, his sword in his hand. I turned slightly, the pain intensifying. Jesse was next to Joshua, his hunting knives in his hands. They were looking out at a huge squadron of Orcs, charging towards the city.

“Jesse.” I tried to get his attention. Neither of them realized I had been shot by an arrow because they were focused on the approaching army. The arrow had gone into my back and went the entire way through my body. If it had hit something vital, I would have known. I had to help them because they couldn’t help me.

I started to get up, gritting my teeth against the pain. As soon as I tried to take a step, the darkness descended around my vision. I stumbled and started to fall, the poison from the arrow flowing through my blood stream.

*********

“Jesse.” I barely heard her whisper as I turned around. Rachael fell towards the ground, an arrow embedded in her back.

“No!” I ran to her side, barely catching her before she hit the street.

“What are you…? Good God!” Joshua turned to see what had happened.

“Jesse.” She struggled to breathe, her wide, panicked eyes focused on me. A cold sweat covered her skin and her heart was beating so fast I could feel it against my leg from her body resting on my lap. Her blood spilled out onto the hand I held tightly around the base of the arrow in her back.

“You’re ok, sweetheart.” I tried to reassure her but I had no idea what I was going to do. I didn’t have the kind of training required to help her. She had a poisoned arrow shot the entire way through her body.

“You need to pull it out and you need to do it fast,” Joshua told me, glancing back and forth between Rachael and the quickly approaching Orcs.

“She might bleed out!” I wasn’t just going to pull this thing out. I could kill her.

“If you don’t get it out of her, she’ll die from the poison,” he stated.

“Just let me think!” If I wasn’t a guardian, I would have been a healer. I really liked helping people. The reason I wanted to be a guardian more than a healer was because of Rachael. Gabriel had given me the option as a child. He showed me several pictures of angels I could help if I used my power to be a healer. However; as soon as he had given me a picture of Rachael there was no longer a choice. I knew I had to be with her. Now I was losing her and my baby and there was nothing I could do.

“Fine! Think all you want while we all die!” The Orcs were so close that I could hear their individual roars of bloodlust. I didn’t have much time.

“Don’t let me die!” she begged, her voice still a whisper. A single tear escaped from her eyes, the fear all over her features. “Don’t let us die.”

“I’m not going to let you die.” I refused to let that even be a possibility. I cradled her in my arms, knowing my time was running out.

“Hurry, angel boy!” Joshua stood ready for the Orcs. They were less than twenty yards away from him. Thirty yards away from me. I only had seconds. I couldn’t pull it out from her back. The barbs would take pieces of her with it. I had to help it continue its path through her body.

“I am so, so sorry.” I kissed her forehead before I pushed it out through her chest. She gave an agonized cry but I couldn’t stop. As much as her pain hurt me; her death would be far worse. I pushed the arrow as far as her body would allow before I switched hands and took the end coming out of her chest to pull it the rest of the way out.

By now the Orcs had reach Joshua. He was able to fend them off because only about four or five could come through the gate at a time. He wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. I had to fix Rachael as fast as I could. Her blood poured out onto my hands, her shock and agony evident. I pressed my hand to the wound in her chest.

“You are going to be ok,” I repeated. I pushed as much energy into her as I could with no regards to my own personal store. My life and my own strength were not as important as hers. It didn’t take as much energy as I expected. Her vitals were uninjured and it was mostly just the repairing of her muscles and skin. “Does anything still hurt?”

“No.” She shook her head. I glanced back to see that three of the Orcs had escaped Joshua and were headed straight towards us.

“Stay back here,” I ordered. “Don’t go anywhere near the fighting.”

“But, Jesse…”

“No.” I didn’t let her finish. “You are not endangering your life or hers. Stay here.” I stood up, making sure she moved away from the fighting, before I met two of the Orcs with my knives through their throats. I pulled them out as quickly as I had stabbed them in, sending the third one to his knees with one in his stomach and then to the ground with the other straight into his brain.

I stayed behind Joshua, letting him head them off and catching what he missed. I was more concerned with keeping Rachael safe than protecting the city. However with the vast amount of these creatures pouring in through the destroyed city gates; it was very likely that I was going to be taking her out of this place.

She could continue to reap these godforsaken souls once they were all truly dead.

*******

These creatures were even more grotesque alive than dead. They varied in how deformed their faces were. Several could be recognizable as having slightly human faces. Others were so horrific that they couldn’t be distinguishable as living. If they didn’t have souls I wouldn’t believe that they were living beings.

I was so distracted I could barely hear the voice calling to me for help. Even when I did hear it, the voice almost got lost in the numerous voices screaming desperately in my head. It wasn’t until I actually saw one of the bodies move that I realized there was still someone alive among the dead.

“Hello?” I walked cautiously up to the body. With all of the snow and mixed blood around I couldn’t tell if it was a human or an Orc. “Did you say something to me?”

“I asked why it took you so long to come.” A distinctively human voice came from the mass of snow and fur.

“I’m sorry?” Most people didn’t ask me that. They didn’t want to see the angel of death coming to them. More often I got asked why I was there so soon.

“We have been waiting for hours for our reinforcements to come.” He turned around and I quickly hid my expression of shock. A huge gash ran from his left temple to the lower, right side of his jaw. It went through one of his eyes and sliced his nose completely in half. “There were only twenty of us down here. We sent out a distress call hours ago and no one came. Why did you take so long?”

“I’m… we’re not your reinforcements,” I told him.

“Than what the hell are you?” he wanted to know.

“I’m the angel of death,” I reluctantly answered. “I’m here to collect the dead.”

“Good luck with that.” He laughed bitterly. “You’d have better luck collecting the living. Why don’t you tell me when there’s good news? Like when my reinforcements finally show up.”

“I don’t think anyone is coming,” I stated. “I think that once we come it means that the battle is over. There’s no one left to come to you.”

“This may be why you’re the angel of death.” He turned away from me. “You don’t even have the common courtesy to comfort a dying man with the possibility that his death might have been worthwhile.”

“I’m sorry… it’s just… this is my first time doing this.” I winced inwardly. That came out wrong.

“This is your first time doing what?” He turned back around. The last thing a man on the brink of death wanted to know was that the angel of death who should be taking him to rest was on her first day on the job.

“Never mind.” I shook my head.

“This is your first time being the angel of death,” he guessed.

“Maybe.” I glanced over to Jesse. He was surrounded by dead Orcs with more rushing towards him. I really would much rather be helping him keep the Orcs at bay than talking to a bitter, dying warrior.

“One of my fellow soldiers came this close to death last year,” he started to explain. “He said the angel of death was at his bedside for hours before he pulled through with the help of our most talented healers. He also said that the angel of death was a man.” I looked away from him. He didn’t need to prove I wasn’t who he expected. I already knew.

“I am sorry that I am not what you wanted,” I started. “But I am not here for you. I’m not here to help you fight and I am not here to collect your soul because you are not dying. Count yourself lucky. Not everyone else was so gifted.”

“I don’t count myself lucky.” His eyes were filled with a frightening fire that made me wish I was facing an Orc instead. “I would rather die defending my city than live knowing it has fallen.”

“We don’t know for sure that it has fallen.” Now I was starting to feel uneasy. As soon as I got back to Washington DC I was going to give this title and this job over to Elizabeth. She had wanted it from the start and I never wanted it.

“I know it has fallen.” The fire left his eyes. “This city is in the heart of all who live in it. We know when it is dying.” Joshua and Jesse were finishing off the last of the Orcs but I knew he was right. There was nothing left of this city.

Smoke rose in all directions from across the mountainous city and the death rippling through my head was worse than anything I have ever heard in my entire life. Death was not something I wanted to experience anymore. I was supposed to be focusing on life but I couldn’t when all I could think about was that every life ended in death.

My own life would end in death as would Jesse’s and our baby’s. Joshua was already dead and I was the one who had made that happen. Every person and every creature of every kind was going to die and it was my job to take their life. This was not the life I wanted. The life of the angel of death is a lonely and desolate one. The life of an angel of death is the only one that truly welcomes death when it comes to them.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

The Rift by SKN Hammerstone

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Entry Point by 12 - by Jennifer Priester

The Star Power Puppy was awoken from his nap by a voice in his head. Due to sleepiness all he heard was, <Ebulon… danger… help… follow.> From what he understood, someone or someplace called Ebulon was in trouble and needed help. He was unsure about the last part. Who or what was he supposed to follow?

Being a superhero, Star Power knew that it was his duty to help, but how? What was Ebulon? This is the question he felt needed answering first. Luckily the young terrier mix was expected at the Fountain City Observatory, where he and a group of other superheroes called Heroes United, met weekly and in emergencies.

At the observatory, when all members of Heroes United had arrived, the team leader, Black Cat, began the meeting. As usual the cat began by saying, “If there is anything that needs immediate attention, please bring it up now.”

“I received a telepathic message this morning and was alerted by a mysterious voice that someone or something was in danger and needs help,” Star Power reported.

“Did it have a name?” Black Cat asked him.

“I don’t know about the voice, but someone or something called Ebulon is in danger,” Star Power replied. When Black Cat didn’t respond right away he said, “We have to help. We are heroes, it’s our duty.

“I agree,” Black Cat said, “But does anyone know who or what Ebulon is?”

“It sounds like a world to me,” a human with the power to shape shift into a Grizzly Bear called Grizzly girl said, “And I should know, I come from one.” The Grizzly Girl was from The World of Shape Shifters in the Other Realm.

“If that’s true then Asantra should know about it.” Wonder Wolf said. Asantra was a witch who came from the Other Realm. Her mom, DWW, had been the Head of the Witches Council, which is the person in charge of all magic users in both the Other Realm and Mortal Realm, as well as all the worlds in the Other Realm. Because of this Asantra knew about all the ones in existence and as a kid, had explored many of them.

“You mean the original Wonder Wolf?” Black Cat asked.

“Yes,” Wonder Wolf said. Before her days as Wonder Wolf began, Wonder Wolf was a girl called Dillon who had superpowers but hero identity until she met Asantra. In order to stay out of trouble with DWW, Asantra had asked Dillon to become Wonder Wolf, after creating the hero and going on an adventure with Black Cat and Chihuahua, which she wasn’t supposed to do.

“Do you know where to find her?” Black Cat asked.

“I’m pretty sure I can find her at the school,” Wonder Wolf replied confidently.

“I don’t think we should waste any time responding to the distress call,” Trixie said. Trixie was a shape shifter who could turn into any animal and look however she wanted. She could even become an exact duplicate of any animal or human in looks. Because she had this ability Trixie didn’t feel she needed a superhero costume to hide her identity and so she and her two sidekicks, a Golden Eagle called Miles, and a magical white Bengal Tiger cub, Cosmo, where the only members of Heroes United to use their real names full time.

“I agree,” Black Cat said, “Wonder Wolf, take Wonder Horse and find Asantra as quickly as you can.”

“Okay,” Wonder Wolf agreed, quickly mounting her horse. “We will be back soon!”

Black Cat’s sidekick, the little brown Chihuahua, Chihuahua, then quickly pushed a button on the wall, opening up a large hole in the observatory ceiling so that Wonder Wolf and Wonder Horse could fly out of the building without any delays.

Asantra was in the middle of class when Wonder Wolf rushed in with Wonder Horse.

“Dillon! I mean…Wonder Wolf!” Asantra exclaimed in surprise, “What are you doing here?”

“We need your help!” Wonder Wolf said hurriedly, “Have you ever heard of a world called Ebulon?”

“No,” Asantra replied. “That isn’t a world in the Other Realm. Why?”

“Star Power got a distress call saying Ebulon needed help,” Wonder Wolf explained.

“And you think Ebulon is a world?” Asantra asked.

“We did,” Wonder Wolf said disappointedly.

“It still could be,” Asantra replied thoughtfully. “It could be a dimension.”

“A dimension?” Wonder Wolf asked.

“Dimensions are worlds in the Mortal Realm,” Asantra explained. “It’s a recent discovery. Mortals sometimes just call them worlds. Sometimes they are also known as alternate realities or alternate Earths. Until my discovery witches didn’t know that they really existed. We always thought the only worlds in existence were those connected to the Other Realm. Although we now know of a few, we don’t know all of the dimensions in existence.”

“How would I find Ebulon?” Wonder Wolf asked.

“Follow the voice,” Trom said walking into the room.

“What voice?” Wonder Wolf asked the old warlock confused.

“Didn’t you hear a voice in your head from Ebulon requesting your help?” Trom asked.

“I didn’t,” Wonder Wolf said. “Star Power did, but he didn’t hear the whole thing.”

“Hang on a minute,” Asantra said. “Trom? You received a help request from Ebulon?”

“Yes,” Trom confirmed. “The voice said to follow it to Ebulon.”

“Why didn’t you follow it?” Asantra asked.

“Because, I can’t just leave,” Trom said, “I have duties here.”

“Well, Sky and Jill can cover for me.” Asantra said quickly.

“What are you talking about?” Wonder Wolf asked.

“I’m going with you!” Asantra said determinedly.

From atop her shoulder Asantra’s familiar, a Double X Bird called Screetche, said, “I’ll go too.”

“But you guys aren’t superheroes,” Wonder Wolf said, “And from what I can gather from the call, is if out world is being contacted from another dimension, then there must be a big war or something happening.”

“I have been in fights before,” Asantra said stubbornly. “And I am a witch.”

“Asantra definitely knows how to fight,” Screetche said, “I have seen her in action. She once took on and almost won against a whole wolf pack!”

“Well…okay,” Wonder Wolf said hesitantly. “I guess Ebulon does need as much help as it can get.” Upon saying this Wonder Wolf and Wonder Horse turned to leave. “Meet us at the observatory as soon as you can!” Wonder Wolf said to Asantra.

As the heroes were leaving Trom called, “Remember, tell Star Power to follow the voice!” Then to Asantra he said, “Tell DWW and the others back home about this!”

“Why?” Asantra asked confused.

“Ebulon needs them!” Trom replied offering no further explanation.

Not wanting to waste time Asantra changed into her wolf form and sped home with Screetche flying as fast as he could behind her. Just before she left the school she called back to Trom, “Tell Sky and Jill to cover for me here!”

Once home, Asantra changed back into a human and ran inside where she immediately ran into her mom’s familiar, a Golden Retriever called Trillman.

“Asantra!” Trillman said in surprise, “What…?” He began.

“I need to talk to you, DWW, and even Sampson quickly!” Asantra interrupted.

Sampson, who was a goldfish that had once been a warlock, upon hearing his name looked at Asantra expectantly and eagerly.

DWW had been in a room nearby. Upon hearing Asantra’s urgent request she came into the room. Asantra quickly told them everything. DWW was the first one Asantra would have expected to agree to help so she was surprised when DWW reluctantly said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“But Trom said…” Asantra started.

“I know,” DWW said, “And for this reason I will talk to Turtle. If she agrees then we will go help.” Turtle was a witch living in the Other Realm who was now in charge of making most of the decisions regarding magic users.

“Okay,” Asantra said, “But hurry!”

DWW zapped herself to the Other Realm where she quickly found Turtle.

“We should help them,” Turtle said after DWW told her the situation.

“But witches have never been involved in a Mortal Realm war before,” DWW said.

“You wanted witches and mortals to get along,” Turtle reminded her. “Just because Ebulon is a different world that doesn’t change the fact that mortals live there. Don’t you want to have a good relationship with all mortals, no matter where they are from?” Turtle paused before saying, “Helping these mortals in a large war like this could only help.”

“You’re right,” DWW said slowly. “I do want to help them, but…”

“I know,” Turtle answered softly, “It’s a part of war that can’t be helped, but this doesn’t mean you have to take part in the killing. There are other ways you can help. Besides death, war comes with injuries, some of which a witch can fix. You can help everyone as a healer.”

“I could do that,” DWW said thinking it over. “Okay, I will tell Asantra that we will help Ebulon.”

After DWW returned to the Mortal Realm, before following her, Turtle’s familiar, a Labrador Retriever, asked, “Do you want my help?”

“Yes,” Turtle replied. “But not in battle.”

“Then what do you want me to do?” He asked.

Before answering him Turtle went to her friends, a witch and her familiar. “I need you two to cover for me while I am in the Mortal Realm,” She said.

Both agreed to do this. After they did so, Turtle turned to her familiar and said, “I need you to make sure someone stays out of trouble.” When she said this she was looking at her friends familiar.

Her own familiar saw who she meant and dutifully said, “Got it.”

Now in the Mortal Realm, Turtle said, “Because Ebulon will need strong fighters, I am going to release Sampson from his fish prison and allow him to become human until we return home.”

Because DWW had once allowed Sampson to return to his human form with disastrous results she said, “Why would you do that after what he did last time?”

“Because,” Turtle said, “He was one of our best fighters during the witch/witch hunter battle. He was a big help to us.”

“Yes, but he had alternate reasons for helping!” DWW insisted, “The last thing we need is for him to turn traitor again!”

“Again?” Asantra asked confused, “When was the first time?”

DWW and the others stared at her. “How could you forget?” DWW asked.

Sampson laughed. Something in the way he did this made Asantra suddenly remember. “Oh, yeah. I was there!” Asantra said.

Answering DWW, Turtle firmly said, “We need him.” Not waiting for any kind of reply from anyone, Turtle transformed the fish into a man. The next thing Turtle said was, “Now that everyone who is going is here, Asantra, lead everyone to the observatory to meet with Heroes United!”

As everyone started leaving, DWW noticed that Turtle wasn’t following them. “Aren’t you coming?” She asked.

“Yes, I will be there,” Turtle said. “But you won’t see me.” With that Turtle used her magic and disappeared.

Confused, DW followed the rest of the group as they headed to the observatory.

At the observatory the members of Heroes United were impatiently awaiting Asantra’s arrival.

“You’re finally here!” Wonder Wolf said as Asantra and her group entered, “Where were you?” Her question was answered when she saw the rest of the group.

“I’m sorry,” Asantra apologized. “Trom made me fetch them to go with.”

“The important thing is everyone is here and ready to go,” Black Cat said. Then to be sure this statement was really true she asked, “Is everyone ready?” When everyone confirmed that they were Black Cat said, “Star Power, lead the way into Ebulon!”

“But, the voice hasn’t returned.” Star Power said.

“Well, get it back,” Spy Girl said impatiently. The Spy Girl was one of the only human member of the team with no superpowers. She was just a regular, but well trained, girl with gadgets.

“How?” Star Power asked.

To avoid any in group fighting, Black Cat said, “What were you doing when the voice came to you the first time?”

“Sleeping,” Star Power said.

“I doubt Ebulon has the time to wait for Star Power to get to sleep,” Asantra said.

“You’re probably right,” Black Cat said thoughtfully. “Star Power, try calling out to the voice with your mind. This has always worked with your teammates and enemies.”

“Yes, but I know who they are so I can send them thoughts. I don’t know who the voice is attached to,” Star Power said.

“Try anyway,” Wonder Wolf said gently.

“Just focus on how the voice sounded as you send your own thoughts,” Chihuahua suggested. “Maybe that will help.”

Star Power did this. <Great voice> Star Power thought, <If you hear me, tell me how to get to Ebulon> There was no response so Star Power tried again. Once again he got no response. Getting frustrated Star Power unintentionally thought out loud, <Do you want help or not>

<I hear you, you don’t need to yell> The voice said.

<Sorry> Star Power apologized.

The voice then said, <To get to Ebulon, just follow my voice>

<But how will I know when I am getting closer?> Star Power asked.

<My voice will get louder> It replied.

Looking at his teammates and giving a quick nod to them, Star Power began following the voice in his head. The voice led them to the other end of Fountain City and right into the Fountain City graveyard. <Dig at stone 23> The voice instructed.

“We have to dig,” Star Power informed his teammates.

“In a graveyard?” Chihuahua whimpered.

“Yes,” Star Power said. “And at a grave.”

“If that’s what the voice says to do, then that’s what we do,” Black Cat said.

Star Power then led everyone to gravestone number 23 and began digging. Chihuahua, although reluctantly, helped, as did Trillman. When they had dug a deep enough hole for everyone to fit through they noticed a staircase leading down. “Let’s go,” Star Power said.

At the bottom of the stairs was a small room and two tunnels. <Now where> Star Power asked the voice.

<Take the tunnel on the right> It answered.

Indicating with his tail the direction they would be going, Star Power led the group through the tunnel on the right. As they got to the end they were very confused, for at the end of the tunnel was a wall. The wall was made of stone. <Now what> Star Power asked.

<Just beyond the wall you will find Ebulon> The voice answered.

<But how do we get past the wall> Star Power asked. The voice did not answer, this was a problem they would have to figure out for themselves.

“Well, how do we get past the wall?” Spy Girl asked.

“The voice didn’t tell me,” Star Power replied. “We are on our own now.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Spy Girl said, “The voice asks for our help then won’t tell us how to get to the other side of the wall! There has to be a way though.”

“I agree,” Black Cat said. “If there wasn’t a way into Ebulon, the voice wouldn’t have called for our help.”

“Maybe the wall isn’t real,” Wonder Horse suggested. “Like that one time.”

Wonder Wolf knew what time Wonder Horse was referring to, even though no one else did and said, “Maybe.” She went up to the wall and checked it everywhere. “It’s solid stone,” She reported.

“My claws can cut through anything,” Black Cat said. “I could probably cut through it.”

“Yes, but that would still take a long time,” Spy Girl said. “We need a faster way. Maybe Wonder Horse can break it down.”

Wonder Horse went over to the wall and gave it the hardest kick he possibly could. The wall didn’t even move, much less break. It should have, but it didn’t.

“Anyone else have any ideas?” Black Cat asked.

“Well, the voice called to Star Power. Maybe there was a reason he specifically got the message,” Asantra said.

“What do you mean?” Star Power asked.

“You aren’t the only member of Heroes United to have psychic powers,” Black Cat said quickly catching on to what Asantra was thinking. “So maybe you have the power to break this wall.”

“What can I do?” Star Power asked.

“Use your powers, it’s all you can do,” Spy Girl said.

“Well, okay,” Star Power said. As he said this the star shaped marking on his head began to glow, and as his the glow got brighter they were able to see something happening to the wall. Unexpectedly an image began to appear on the wall. The image was of the sun. Then images of a star and the moon also began to appear. Underneath Star Power saw these words: Shine a light on that which has the most. <What does that mean> Star Power wondered.

“Has the most what?” Grizzly Girl asked.

“The most light, I’m guessing,” Cosmo said.

“Well that would be the sun,” Spy Girl replied.

Star Power was about to use his powers to light up the sun when Black Cat stopped him. “Wait,” She said. “I think this is a trick question.”

“Why?” Star Power asked, “The sun always shines brighter than either the stars or the moon.”

“Yes, but think about it,” Black Cat said. “What is the sun?”

“A ball of gas?” Asantra asked.

“Well, yes…” Black Cat answered, “But what else is it?”

“My powers come from starlight but are often most effective in the daytime,” Star Power said thinking he figured it out.

“Exactly,” Black Cat said. “And how is that possible.”

“Because the sun is also a star,” Star Power replied.

“Right.” Black Cat praised him, “Which means…”

“I need to light up the star!” Star Power exclaimed. This is exactly what Star Power did next. As his light shone on the star the wall began to fade and eventually disappeared completely. The heroes stepped past where the wall was and as they did, they entered Ebulon. As soon as everyone had gone through the wall suddenly reappeared, but now that they knew what to do, this wasn’t going to be a problem.

Upon entering Ebulon, the first thing they noticed was how cold it was. Black Cat observed that it must have snowed recently. Luckily besides fur, the animals were all in their superhero costumes so they were warm enough. The humans were a little cold but aside from Spy Girl, all of them could turn into some kind of animal. Spy Girl’s costume was weather adaptable so she quickly changed it into a winter suit. The witches and Sampson all had the ability to magically head themselves internally so they didn’t feel the cold either. Trillman and Screetche were the only two that would remain a little cold, but they weren’t freezing so they were okay with it. Besides they were here to help Ebulon and nothing was going to stop them from doing this.

After the weather the next thing they noticed was that they were in a market area. For a moment Wonder Horse wondered if anyone was selling apples, but was quickly reminded by Wonder Wolf that they were here to fight if needed. But what were they here to fight?

The question was answered when a large creature was seen approaching. As it came closer they noticed that besides being large, it was well muscled, had green skin, red eyes, mustard yellow armor, and was carrying large and sharp looking weapons in each hand.

“It’s an Orc!” Sampson exclaimed gleefully.

Immediately, the heroes got ready to fight. DWW quickly set up a medical area using her magic, where she would be if anyone needed her. To make it blend in with the other structures she saw in the area, she made it out of stone.

Chihuahua growled a warning at the approaching Orc, but as he did so he backed up. Black Cat unsheathed her claws and waited for it in the hunters crouch as if awaiting prey. Next to her, Cosmo did the same. Wonder Wolf mounted Wonder Horse and prepared to signal him into action. Grizzly Girl changed into her Grizzly Bear form, Trixie and Asantra changed into wolves, Star Power prepared his star, Miles and Screetche awaited their humans signals, Spy Girl drew a sword from her utility belt, and Sampson just stood coolly waiting for the enemy to arrive.

As the Orc got nearer, Black Cat began commanding her team, “Wonder Wolf and Wonder Horse, you two are the most indestructible of the team. You will lead the battle from the ground. Fly if you need to. I will lead an air attack with Chihuahua. Asantra you will be in charge of orders for your team! The rest of you, follow me and Chihuahua!”

Considering her team was just her and Sampson, Trillman was going to help DWW, and Sampson was not about to let himself be ordered around, knowing this Asantra simply said, “Sampson, fight!”

“I can do that!” Sampson said eagerly. He was impatient for the fight to begin. Although she wouldn’t admit it, Asantra was also impatient for the fight to start.

Black Cat observed the Orc as it moved towards them. Being a superhero she wasn’t about to lead her team into a fight until the enemy threatened them first. To her surprise the Orc walked right past the heroes and into the marketplace, where it immediately began smashing things.

“I don’t think we were supposed to let it past us!” Spy Girl said.

Although not attacking her team, it was threatening innocent people. For this reason Black Cat said, “Team, attack! Don’t let it do any more damage!”

Sampson used his magic to make his hands flame. He began creating a large fireball.

Black Cat, took to the sky and aimed her attacks at the Orcs head. The rest of her aerial comrades did the same. The more grounded members of her team went for the Orcs heels. Together Black Cat and her team managed to surprise the Orc with their strength. It had not expected them to be much of a threat. The Orc aimed some strikes at the members of Heroes United with its weapons, but they were able to stay behind him, which made it harder for him to hit and easier for the heroes to dodge the attacks at themselves. Together Heroes United, and Asantra, managed to get the Orc on the run. Not paying attention the Orc ran towards Sampson, who looked up just in time, from creating his fireball, for the Orc to run right into him. To his surprise and delight the Orc caught fire and began to burn.

When the Orc was dead, Sampson looked at it proudly. “I just killed my first Orc,” He bragged. Sampson caught a look from DWW as he said this. “What?” He asked defensively, “He ran into me! Besides magic can’t be used to kill anyone directly, only hurt them. What I was doing wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t been dumb enough to run into my fireball.” This was true, magic only worked to kill if the killing was indirect or unintentional.

DWW didn’t answer him. Although she didn’t like killing, this wasn’t her problem with Sampson, it was his attitude to killing that bugged her. It was hard for her to believe that she had ever liked this guy and had been friends with him. Rather than argue with him, DWW looked away.

“So, that’s it? We won?” Spy Girl asked.

“It can’t be,” Asantra replied.

“Why not?” Grizzly Girl asked.

“First, that battle was too short,” Asantra said, “And second…” Asantra noticed something in the distance. The rest of the heroes looked at what Asantra saw. More Orcs were on their way. “Orcs never come alone,” Asantra finished.

“Everyone get ready!” Black Cat called, “And this time, let’s keep them away from the market! On my signal we attack!”

The approaching Orcs looked much like the lone Orc that had attacked the group. Only the color of their skin and armor varied. All of the Orcs were large, repulsive looking, carried large and sharp looking weapons, and were wearing very aggressive expressions.

The heroes looked upon the Orc army with equally aggressive expressions. Sampson’s expression was just a little different than the rest. His was aggression like the rest, only it was mixed with excited anticipation.

When she felt the army was close enough, Black Cat launched herself into battle signaling with her tail for the other heroes to follow. Not far into it Black Cat realized that the heroes appeared to be fighting a losing battle, at least with the way they were fighting. Every hero had gone after a different Orc, and most were barely making progress against the army. There were too many Orcs attacking at once. The heroes would need to come up with a strategy to greatly reduce the enemies numbers.

“Spy Girl!” Black Cat called out, “Do you have any gadgets that could attack multiple enemies at once to at least give us some fighting room!”

“I think so!” Spy Girl called back after defeating her Orc. Spy Girl stopped fighting Orcs for the moment to look in her small, but mysteriously deeply pocketed utility belt. As she did another Orc began approaching from behind her. Chihuahua, who happened to get thrown in Spy Girl’s direction by the Orc he had been fighting, noticed this.

Regaining control of his flight ability, Chihuahua flew a circle around the Orc, distracting him for a few seconds. Spy Girl began pulling something long and green out of her belt and began doing something to. To Chihuahua who only saw quick glimpses, as he flew around the Orc, it looked as if she was unwrapping or peeling whatever it was.

Another Orc appeared while Chihuahua was busy with the first and raised his ax like weapon, which may have been an ax, Chihuahua wasn’t sure. Just before the weapon hit Spy Girl, Chihuahua rushed towards it and grabbed the handle in his jaws. Because Chihuahua had super strength, among his other abilities, upon having a hold on the Orcs weapon, the little dog was able to hold on tightly and pull the Orc in a different direction by twisting around in the air, though what he really wanted to do was get the weapon away from the enemy. As he was struggling to do this, the other Orc attacked Chihuahua.

With an extra strong twist, using all his strength and his full body to achieve his goal, Chihuahua finally twisted the weapon free from the Orcs hand. Chihuahua then turned, or rather, straightened himself out just in time to avoid having his head removed by the weapon of the second Orc. Instead of losing his head, the Orcs weapon landed a clean hit and cut right through Chihuahua’s long tail.

Fighting a yelp that would make him lose his grip on his confiscated weapon, the now angry little dog swung the weapon at both Orcs, who at this time were standing very close together. The Orcs were lined up just right and Chihuahua put just enough force in his swing to remove something very important to both of them.

“I got it!” Spy Girl exclaimed suddenly. She was holding something long and yellow.

Chihuahua heard her but didn’t respond. He was distractedly sniffing at something long, brown, and furry on the ground. With a whimper, Chihuahua realized that the thing used to be his tail. Chihuahua wanted to pick it up and make DWW reattach it, but he looked in the direction in which the majority of Orcs and heroes were fighting and once again he felt very angry. With a growl, Chihuahua decided that his tail could wait. Right now there was a battle to be won!

Spy Girl threw her gadget towards the center of the enemy army.

“Was that an ear of corn?” Asantra asked.

“Sort of,” Spy Girl replied. She then explained, “It is corn in the sense that it looks, feels, and is grown like corn, but it acts very different and you wouldn’t want to eat it.”

“Why’s that?” Wonder Horse asked curiously.

“What it does is highly destructive,” Spy Girl answered then offered no further explanation knowing that the heroes would find out what the corn does very shortly. Spy Girl watched where she had threw the corn and waited patiently until she saw a bright flash of light. The flash was a signal that Spy Girl knew meant the corn was ready to activate. As soon as she saw this, Spy Girl urgently said, “All heroes fall back now!”

Everyone did as Spy Girl said and the kernels of the corn began popping in all directions. As kernels hit something they exploded. This went on for several seconds, and maybe even as long as a minute passed before all was quiet, at least quiet as far as the exploding corn was concerned. Sadly, the results were not what had been expected. Only minimal damage had been done to the Orcs closest.

“It wasn’t powerful enough!” Black Cat said.

“Well, it was designed for humans and human sized enemies,” Spy Girl explained feeling disappointed.

Suddenly Sampson had an idea. “Do you have another one?” He asked Spy Girl.

“One, why?” She asked suspiciously.

“I have a good idea,” He replied smiling mysteriously and somewhat evilly at the same time. “This time, though, make sure it lands directly in the center of the Orc army!”

“How?” Spy Girl asked.

“Use the birds,” Sampson replied simply.

The birds, Miles and Screetche, soon found themselves flying over the Orcs with an ear of corn in their talons. Upon finding direct center they dropped it into the army which for some reason had stopped attacking and was only beginning to attack the heroes.

As it fell, Sampson used his magic to make the ear of corn as large as possible until it exploded. By the time the kernels began popping each kernel was almost as big as an Orc. This time, for most of the Orcs, as they got hit by a kernel, it meant instant death. For the remaining Orcs, which were around ten rather than two hundred as before, they were either injured, stunned from the bright light caused by the corn activating and the explosions from each kernel, or both. As soon as this opportunity presented itself, the heroes were upon the enemy quickly eliminating all remaining Orcs.

Upon winning the battle, all of the heroes except Chihuahua, wanted to celebrate. Chihuahua unhappily returned to his tail and picked it up. And for the first time, since it got cut off, Chihuahua felt the pain of losing his tail in more ways than one.

Sampson didn’t follow the other heroes back into the market either, but this was for a different reason. Sampson was looking thoughtfully at the dead Orcs.

Chihuahua carried his tail, which was colder than he had expected it to be even for having been sitting in snow, towards DWW. As soon as he reached her he handed DWW his tail, which she took from him.

“Can you reattach it?” Chihuahua asked her pleadingly.

DWW looked at the tail thoughtfully and examined it. Although she wanted to say something positive to him, DWW knew that she couldn’t. “I’m sorry, Chihuahua, but I can’t,” DWW answered him regretfully. “That part of your tail is dead. All I can do is clean and close your new tail stub.” While it was true that DWW couldn’t do anything about the tail he lost because magic can’t bring back the dead, although it can reanimate dead things with brains, she could easily have used her magic to give him a full tail again. DWW didn’t mention this to Chihuahua because she knew how proud the little dog was of his tail and he would never feel this way about any tail created by magic, it just wouldn’t have been the same.

Although he hadn’t noticed before, Chihuahua looked back to see that his tail was sill bleeding. Sadly, Chihuahua allowed DWW to do what she could in the shelter she had created. When she was finished she told Chihuahua to go celebrate with everyone else although she knew Chihuahua probably wouldn’t do this.

As Chihuahua came out of the shelter, he was surprised to see the other heroes waiting for him. Black Cat was sitting patiently in the front of the group. Before Chihuahua could say anything Black Cat said, “You may have lost your tail but you should be proud; not for the loss of your tail, but because of why. You lost your tail in a battle helping a friend and because of this the courage and loyalty you showed will not go unrewarded.” Black Cat paused here then she placed a paw on Chihuahua’s shoulder and continued, “You have now achieved full hero status. Today you are no longer my sidekick…you are my partner. Congratulations Chihuahua!”

“Really?” Chihuahua asked. His eyes were shining with excitement, “I’m now a hero…like you?”

“Yes,” Black Cat said, her eyes shining equally as bright.

“But how did you know?” Chihuahua asked in confusion, “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I know I didn’t say anything earlier, but I did notice,” Spy Girl said. “I told Black Cat because I felt you deserved more than just a thank you.”

Before Chihuahua could say anything else something caught his attention. Chihuahua stood rigidly for a couple seconds sniffing the air.

“What is it?” Black Cat asked unsheathing her claws in case another army of Orcs was nearby.

Suddenly Chihuahua’s stub tail began wagging. Excitedly he said, “I smell cookies!” He then ran off towards the scent. Black Cat relaxed and followed him at a slower pace. The rest of the heroes then followed her. While most of the heroes were beginning to celebrate in the market, one was busy with something else.

Sampson was performing a spell over the entire, recently killed, army of Orcs. During the battle he had noticed just how good of fighters the Orcs were and with Spy Girl having used up all her exploding corn, if he had control over this Orc army Sampson wondered if enhanced with his magic, he could take over this world. Now of course was as good a time as any to try he figured.

Just as his zombie Orcs began to rise, DWW noticed and quickly alerted the other heroes. The heroes complete with DWW, approached Sampson, whose army had now fully risen. Sampson’s zombie army was now ready and awaiting his command.

The heroes treated Sampson as any other villain and waited until he made the first move to attack them.

“Zombie Orcs attack!” Sampson called. The zombie Orcs didn’t move. “Attack!” Sampson said again. Still he got no action. “Zombies, come on! Attack! Attack now!” Sampson was getting very frustrated and feeling very confused. Why were his zombie Orcs not listening to him?

Suddenly Turtle materialized in between Sampson and the heroes. Quickly she conjured up a fishbowl then using her magic she turned a confused and surprised Sampson back into a fish.

“What just happened?” Wonder Wolf asked confused.

“In order to prevent an attack from Sampson, as I had expected,” Turtle began looking at DWW as she said that last part. “I used my magic to join with him so that I would be in him the entire time.”

“He should have been able to sense your magic then, shouldn’t he, or at least have known someone else was using his body?” Grizzly Girl asked.

“I was never using his body exactly,” Turtle said. “He never knew I was there because I allowed him complete freedom right up until that last moment, or last spell he performed. During that last spell I made it so that instead of using his magic, he was using mine which meant that the zombie Orcs would not be loyal to him…but to me.” Upon explaining this Turtle released the zombie Orcs from the spell and the Orcs resumed being dead.

“I should have known you would have a plan,” DWW said apologetically.

Turtle looked back at her thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything for a few moment. When she eventually did say something, it was to all the heroes. What she said was, “Now that all the enemies really are gone, let’s go celebrate!” And that’s exactly what they did.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

The Mortal Realm Witch series by Jennifer Priester

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Entry Point 13- by Kate Porteous

Teardon knelt and placed her hand on the ground to feel the beat of the war drums as she glanced towards the night sky. The voice that had called her here still seemed to echo in her mind. The war drums seemed to be the only thing other than the shadow of her beloved left in all the worlds that brought a true smile to her scarred face. She glanced towards the icy cave behind her that had led her to Ebulon and watched as the shadows that followed her grasped at the edges pulling themselves free. Darkness followed her as it always did as she stood up and made her way towards the Orc torches that shone through the trees in front of her.

It had been so long since this warrior had felt like this, the anticipation of battle and the smell of blood in the air made the long trip from Karpagne seem all the more worth it. Teardon was dressed in a dark purple hooded cape that was just a smidgen too big and had seen better days, her black iron handled claymore was sheathed across her back and was nearly as tall as her. She wore red clothe pants and shirt under her iron plated plain armour.

The torches drew closer as the shadows caught up to her taking on their own forms. A small shadow whirled around her and landed on her shoulder in the form of a gothic fairy. “Will we be spilling blood tonight?” the fairy spoke with multiple voices and an eerie eagerness. “Patience Aylen, soon” Teardon answered with a voice so quiet sometimes the wind could not hear her. The Darkness behind her had started taking its own form one of a wolf, one of a gargoyle and one of a hooded man that was dressed the same way Teardon was. The rest of the darkness took to the sky and whirled above them staying in shadow waiting to take its true form.

Aylen looked towards the hooded man “More souls Maliki,” Maliki nodded in acknowledgement.

“I have never tasted Orc blood before, do you think I will like it.” The wolf said in an angelic voice that seemed to have its own echo.

“I’m sure you will my dear Wynter, you will have your fill tonight,” Aylen answered the wolf as Teardon raised her hand bringing the party to a stop at the edge of a cliff that overlooked the Orc army.

The gargoyle through a sinister laugh said, “They will all die tonight, they… will… all… die”

“They shall Kastion, this will be fun,” Aylen said clapping her tiny hands.

As the party looked upon the Orc army they noticed that it was not just one breed of Orc that stood ready to march to battle but many. There were three distinct groups with about forty members which were large warrior type Orcs that had either a pig or a lizard face and had a sword or axe in one hand and a fire torch in the other. There were several groups of about twenty to a cluster of medium sized Orcs whose faces resembled a rotting corpse and who were waving daggers above their heads as they screeched. There were also about thirty smaller Orcs that had white faces with no features but a set of glowing red eyes who were wielding war axes and swords in a group in the middle of the horde. Scattered through the army mostly at the head of the horde were about fifty heavily armoured Orcs with horns on their helmets and wielding large two-handed war axes. Teardon had estimated this army at about three hundred warriors including the half breed Orcs that seemed to have no real formation playing the war drums all ready to march in the opposite direction to the cliff face. Teardon noticed that at the front of the horde was an Orc that was much taller than the rest whose armour appeared to be made of gold wielding a large claymore that also shone of gold against the torches held by his brethren. On this Orc’s head were two large horns, what appeared to be ratty shoulder length hair and a gold jewel encrusted crown.

Teardon looked towards the dark shadow that still had not taken its true form and said, “The Raygon is ready.”

Aylen clapped and giggled and started singing “how many will die tonight,” she then flew from Teardon’s shoulder and towards the Orc army. Aylen whirled around the rotting Orcs and as she went they let out ear piercing screams as their blood sprayed into the air. Aylen counted one, two… five still singing as she went. Kastion soon followed wearing a smile that was just as sinister as his laugh. His laugh was so evil that it caused some of the Orcs to weep and hold their ears as they buckled under the weight and fell to their knees. Kastion then descended upon a group of pig faced Orcs and quickly and efficiently tore body parts from them randomly and started to devour them. He ate it all arms, legs and even hearts all the while letting his laugh coat the battlefield.

Wynter was next bounding gracefully down the cliff face with her paws barely touching the ground. The Orcs had now become aware of an enemy and let out roars and screeches and frantically looked for an enemy they could run through. Wynter went straight for the lizard and pig faced Orcs knocking them over and tearing their throats out one by one. She bounded from one victim to another leaving a trail of bloody footprints as well as a line of blood that fell from her barred teeth. The bodies of the Orcs she had just slaughtered rose up shaking and contorting violently. Once the undead warriors had found their footing they then turned on their brethren clumsily but effectively.

Maliki looked to Teardon for approval to join the fray, she nodded. Maliki drew his long thin rectangle shaped sword also made of shadow from his left sleeve and flew towards the armies. Maliki majestically wielded the sword left to right and in a spinning motion cutting through any Orc unlucky enough to meet his blade.

The horned warriors at the front of the horde had come through the bulk cutting down all the walking corpses Wynter had left in her wake. These Orcs were clearly far superior warriors than the rest and were not easily overpowered. Wynter had been surrounded by them and she darted frantically for a way out. Aylen came from nowhere whirling around the warriors still counting and spraying blood, it was enough for Wynter to free herself and turn on her would be dispatchers.

Kastion flew above the horde piercing their ears with his laugh and occasionally swooping down to pick off the weaker Orcs for his next meal. His laugh proved too much for some of the Orcs who just dropped to the ground and drew their last breathe. Maliki was a superior warrior that always kept one eye on Teardon in battle. The smaller faceless Orcs used this to their advantage. A large group of them leapt into the air at him and several managed to run him through, he raised his sword into the air and a pale blue light whirled above it sucking the souls from the fallen Orcs towards him and then into him. This caused the faceless Orcs swords and axes to be pushed from Maliki’s body sending them into the air and landing against trees and the ground with that much force that they exploded when they hit the ground.

Teardon who had not yet joined the fray watched as The Raygon took its true form of a large dragon, letting fire explode from its mouth and setting several groups of Orcs alight. Teardon drew her sword and leapt from the cliff landing a few feet from the king Orc who had lead the horned warriors against Wynter’s undead. The King’s weapon was drawn and pointed towards her. She stood up and pointed her weapon back at him he charged towards her and she blocked his first blow successfully. Teardon managed to connect with his armour on more than one occasion and cracks were starting to form weakening his armour. The King who was not without skill barely connected with her armour leaving only scratches and small dents before he backed off and let out an almighty roar.

Teardon looked past him to see what was left of the army and not distracted by other party members charging in her direction. She held her claymore in front of her ready to defend herself. The party had managed to defeat about half of the horde now and only about fifty warriors of all different kinds of Orcs were coming towards her. The Raygon flew down and landed in the middle of the charging army crushing some under her feet. The Raygon started picking off surrounding Orcs throwing them into the air and catching them in her mouth. The remaining Orcs had reached Teardon and her blade now. Her skill was unmatched by these creatures and she slayed many of them as she forced her way through the Orc army and towards the King.

The King had retreated well into the middle of the horde now narrowly dodging The Raygon. Aylen and Wynter were now working together, Aylen would clear the Orcs that tried to surround Wynter as she completed her necromancy. Kastion had entered the battle full force now and he barely left the ground as he ripped and tore at surrounding Orcs. Maliki was now at Teardon’s side and was cutting down the Orcs that managed to miss her claymore. Maliki stayed behind her and devoured souls as quickly as they became available. Teardon had reached the king Orc now and had forced him to engage her in battle.

The army was falling fast as Aylen, Wynter and Kastion were getting closer and closer to Teardon, Maliki and The King. The Raygon had taken to the sky again and was raining down fire onto the battlefield. Teardon and the King were still locked in combat when the stragglers, the Orcs who were lucky enough to have survived and that were either missing limbs or holding fatal wounds started to retreat into the mountains.

The King brought down his sword with enough power to send Teardon sliding a few meters backwards still with her claymore in the defence position. The King looked to his heavily damaged armour and back up to Teardon who was already charging towards him again. He raised his sword to fight back but she moved so quickly now that he could not keep up his defences. Teardon then moved her sword in front of her connecting with the King’s armour again and again until she managed to hit him with enough force that she cracked his armour and found the flesh of his belly. He looked towards the sky dropping his sword and letting out an almighty howl of pain she lifted her sword above her head and threw the king causing him to land hard on the ground meters behind her.

“That’s thirty-two battles we have won now,” Aylen said happily clapping her dainty hands and landing on Teardon’s shoulder.

Maliki Placed his hand on Teardon’s other shoulder and she looked up at him and said, “No I am not hurt my love,” Maliki bowed and removed his hand from her shoulder.

Wynter and Kastion had rejoined the party now and they all watched as The Raygon turned to shadow once more and inhabited the cold air behind them.

“Does the voice ask more of us?” Wynter asked.

“The voice asked for aid no more and no less,” Teardon answered.

“Where will we go now? What shall we do now?” Kastion asked eagerly.

The sound of war drums started up again and they all looked towards the sound to see the dull light of torches moving towards them. They looked at each other and started towards the light, The Raygon took to the sky in front of them and Aylen clapped and started singing “Thirty-Three!”

This is an original story written specifically for the Anthology. Though the writer hopes to expand on the foundation she has placed here.

Entry Point 14 - by Wayne Borean

The Ebulonite sergeant gawked at the blue-green whirlpool that had formed above the battlements. He quickly sent a recruit running to find a superior officer. A few moments later a senior captain huffed his way up the stairs. He stopped, and stared bright eyed at the apparition.

“What,” he started to ask when a dark skinned, short, heavily muscled man dressed in a white silk toga trimmed with red stripes, burst from the centre of the whirlpool, grabbed him by the front of his armor, and lifted him one handed into the air.

The sergeant shocked, hesitated, and was lost. A shapely leg appeared, followed by a blue eyed red haired head, wearing a rather thin green silk dress, with her left breast bare. The nipple that winked at him mesmerized him. “Men,” she commented sadly. “Husband, put him down. Now. Before you embarrass us.”

The short, heavily muscled man did so, with ease. The captain guessed that he was no more than five feet tall, but must weigh close to one hundred and eighty pounds, looking more like a dark skinned, black haired, heroic statue than a real person. In fact with his tanned leather colored skin he was darker skinned than most of the Orcs…

No. No Orc was that handsome, scars or not. And the man had scars. He couldn’t be all that old, maybe twenty at the outside, but you could see where he’d been wounded a few times. Minor wounds, but wounds.

Another leg appeared, followed by another blue eyed red haired head. Identical woman, identical dress except yellow, identical nipple. The sergeant shuddered, and drew his gaze up to her eyes. They were cool, amused. She reached behind, and helped through a third woman, this one no taller than the man, wearing the same style of dress in red, but as dark skinned, and black haired as he was.

Another delightful nipple to avoid looking at, this one purple from pregnancy. Just great. Staring at the woman he almost missed seeing the tawny head, with dark tipped ears, till a snarl drew his eyes down to about her waist, where a large cat like creature strode. Cat like. Large blue-green eyes stared up at him, a thick tawny, dark tipped tail lashed in impatience.

The red head in green continued, “You called for help. The Goddess asked us to come. We are here. You should be honored that she was willing to spare her Beloved,” and bowed to the short man she’d indicated as her husband, her uncovered breast bobbing hypnotically. “And where the Beloved of the Goddess goes, so go his wives, the priestesses of the Goddess.”

Continusing, “You were lucky. The Imperator was free currently.” She looked at the blank look the captain gave her. “Strange. The Goddess gave us the ability to be understood, that word must not be in your language. Supreme War Leader? Does that make sense?”

The captain nodded. Still stunned, it was all he could do.

“He’s also our greatest warrior, as well as junior member of the Imperial Senate from our family,” she continued. “And Beloved of the Goddess for his services to her.”

A look over her shoulder at the pregnant woman with the incredible creature, now sitting at her feet. “We must rush. Kanerva is near her time. I am Pirjo, please tell us what needs doing.”

#

“So,” continued the woman in green, “Facing this gate is the Eagle Horde, made up of a number of tribes. Brrck is the leader because they couldn’t agree on anyone else, but he isn’t a warrior. The previous leader, Grg wasn’t a warrior either. The tribes wouldn’t name a warrior as Horde leader, for fear a popular warrior might gain too much power. The tribes don’t really agree on anything, though there are two general factions, and several smaller ones, correct?”

The captain very carefully looked her in the eye. When his gaze had wandered downwards towards the delightfully tanned breast earlier there had been a worrying growling noise from her husband, who she continued to refer to as ‘Beloved of the Goddess’ and nothing else.

“Yes. We can’t drive them away, we don’t have enough troops left, and if we don’t drive them away, they’ll come over the wall before long and masacare us. Or eat us. I’m not sure which would be worse.”

He paused. “How do you stand the cold?”

“The Goddess provides,” she replied simply.

Then she looked at her husband. Their husband. One man with three wives? Preposterous. But the two red heads stood beside him, while he massaged the pregnant wive’s bare feet, the beast curled beside him. He looked up at the one in green, made a sign with one hand, and nodded yes.

She nodded back, and said, “In that case, we need a place where we can make an announcement to the Orcs.”

#

The dark skinned man strode out onto the balcony like he owned it. No, like he owned the entire city. The Orcs didn’t notice. They continued their usual affairs, mending armor, tending wounded from the last attack, cooking, eating, readying scaling ladders.

The man took a place at the front of the balcony, the beast standing on its hind legs, muscled front legs on the balcony railing. It let out a most horrible sounding noise. It might have been a roar.

That got the Orcs attention. Everything stopped as they looked up at the balcony. The small dark man raised a well used, well kept long sword above his head, then lowered it towards them.

Pirjo, the priestess in green took a position to his right, Reeta the priestess in yellow took the other side. Kanerva, the very pregnant priestess in red stood where she could be seen for a minute, and then sat on a chair supplied by the sergeant with a ladylike grunt, the cat-beast curled up beside her.

Pirjo spoke, in what appeared to be a conversational tone to those on the balcony, but it was apparent that the Orcs heard her clearly. Apparently the Goddess had made sure the Orcs could understand her too.

“Orcs of the Eagle Horde, we are priestesses of the Goddess. Our husband, who is Beloved of the Goddess will fight your chosen representative in single combat for possession of this gate. Choose your representative.”

The ‘Beloved of the Goddess’ sheathed his sword, crossed his arms on his chest, and waited.

A buzz came from the assembled tribes. On the hilltop where the Eagle Horde leaders were standing a disagreement became evident. The one identified as Brrck shouted back at them, “This is no trick? We get the gate if our warrior wins?”

The ‘Beloved of the Goddess’ raised his sword again. Pirjo said, “Yes, you get the gate. But you will not win.”

That caused an even bigger stir. The evident confidence of the man on the balcony was an insult to all Orcs.

But not all Orcs were stupid. Brrck was holding forth at length and with great volume. He was convinced that this was a trap of some sort. Then a spear point tore through his back and out from his chest in a shower of gore. This upset the other Orc leaders, and the hilltop dissolved into a melee, as Orcish politics beget Orcish violence.

Pirjo breathed, “You were right husband.”

The ‘Beloved of the Goddess’ winked.

Several Orcs fled the fighting on the hilltop towards their tribes. The Cardinal Tribe, from which Brrck came, had been watching the hilltop. They were furious that one of theirs, even if he wasn’t a great warrior, had been killed. All of the tribe’s warriors, over three thousand strong, rushed the hilltop, weapons drawn.

Their traditional enemies, the Pelicans, were slow to react. By the time that the Pelicans realized what was happening, the Cardinals were slaughtering everyone on the hilltop. Fifteen hundred Pelicans rushed the Cardinals. The neighboring Panther and Turkey tribes, another three thousand warriors, reacted to the Pelican advance by following them into the fray.

The chief of the Badgers was jumping up and down, and screaming. Pirjo looked at him, and they could hear him attempting to keep his two thousand warriors in order.

One of his sub-chiefs decided enough was enough. He promoted himself in the time honored Orcish manner, by lopping off the chief’s head with a battle axe. While the Badger line was confused, by the sudden promotion, they were hit by two thousand Black Bear warriors from the side. It appeared to be an attempt to pay back a long ago slight forgotten to everyone else.

The captain looked at the battle below. “What an incredible slaughter. What an incredible slaughter.” He leaned back against the wall muttering.

Pirjo looked at her husband, and then spoke to the Orcs again. “The Beloved of the Goddess is still waiting. Should he go home, because the Orcs cannot decide who should face him?”

This galvanized the largest tribe, the Golden Bears into rushing the hilltop. Pelicans and Cardinals stopped fighting each other to defend against the greater threat, eight thousand screaming Golden Bear warriors. With the Golden Bears were packed against the base of the hill, the Bighorns, nominally Golden Bear allies, decided to backstab them, and three thousand Bighorns attacked the Golden Bears from behind.

The priestess in yellow spoke. “Sister, husband, I make it about half of the tribes engaged.”

The ‘Beloved of the Goddess’ inclined his head slightly to indicate ‘Yes’.

The priestess in red spoke for the first time, “We need to speed things up. The contractions are closer.”

Pirjo sighed. “I’ll try,” she whispered. In a louder voice, “Our husband is getting impatient. We thought that Orc warriors were honorable. Will you not supply a warrior to fight the Beloved of the Goddess?”

Chaos. Three thousand Squirrel and Raccoon warriors marched from their encampments (in one case after a quick change of command) to attack the Golden Bears from behind. Four thousand Deer and the Loon warriors attacked the Black Bears, wiping them out almost at once. Thousands of Mockingbird, Bison, and Elk warriors rampaged into the Badger encampment from the other side, ending up in a pitched battle with the Deer and Loon warriors when the last Badger warriors went down.

The Beaver tribe decided to imitate their namesake, thousands of warriors building traps across the front and sides of their encampment, to keep the warriors of the other tribes out.

“That is most of them now sister,” breathed the priestess in yellow quietly. “No, wait. Look to the rear!”

Five of the smaller tribes, the Fox, Moose, Roadrunner, Coyote, and Grizzly Bear had decided to take advantage of the chaos to loot. They were after women and children mostly.

Orcish rules were that women and children could be adopted by any tribe. They often were, because Orcish lives were brutal and short. Adopting the wives, sons, and daughters of a defeated tribe was one way to prevent your own from perishing.

In the case of the Fox tribe, they appeared to be going about it intelligently, making offers to the women to join them. In the case of the Grizzly Bears, well, they had a fight on their hands. Orc women may not have been warriors, but they knew about weapons.

Moose was smart. They’d been spying on the others, and decided to imitate Fox’s success with bribery. Roadrunner was doing both, depending upon what each local sub-chief thought was right. Coyote, well, they were so far to the rear it was hard to tell.

Meanwhile, the larger tribes kept on fighting, oblivious to what was occurring in the rear. Only the Beaver tribe realized that a raid was going on, and they were so upset with everyone else, that they suddenly decided to up stakes, and leave the battlefield. Of course they raided every encampment they could on the way out. They were Orcs.

About a half hour later, an exhausted Orc warrior in hacked and slashed armor staggered up to the gates of Ebulon. He cried out, “I claim the right of combat with the beloved of the Goddess,” then collapsed flat on his face in the mud and blood at the base of the wall.

Kanerva let out a little cry, and a gush of liquid came from beneath her legs.

Pirjo turned to the captain, who was still leaning against the wall, looking stunned. “Her water’s broken, we must get her home. I think that we’ve done enough here today.”

She looked over the battlefield. “I make that at least twenty thousand dead, and ten thousand fled. Those fled will take tales of this with them, and not return. Since we are Kanerva’s midwives, we really can’t stay.” She bent over, and gave the captain quick peck on the check. “Good luck Captain, and the Goddess’ Blessings be upon you and your city.”

Then the ‘Beloved of the Goddess’ picked up and carried his pregnant wife back through the whirlpool, his two other wives holding onto his shoulders, the cat-beast at his side.

This Entry Point features a character or characters from:

Warrior of Urbema Trilogy by Wayne Borean

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Entry point 15 - by Matt Taylor

Commander Alatearamae of the Ebulonite 7th brigade looked out over the snowy battlefield, the Orc bodies piled almost as high as the corpses of her fallen warriors. They had blunted the attack of the Orcish vanguard but she knew that it wasn’t over yet. Her ranks had been badly mauled and the knowledge that the main Orc force was still out there gave her pause. She wasn’t worried about the Orc blood running down her spear and onto her hand, she wasn’t worried about the remnants of her fortifications. The only thing on her mind was what would happen to her kingdom should the invaders overrun this entry point. Only a warrior knew the crushing silence of waiting, waiting for contact, waiting for death. A silence broken only by the sounds of her troops hurriedly trying to rebuild some defensive gate at their outpost. It was as if time was in slow motion. A gradual march towards a pre-determined fate that one would in turns anticipate and fear.

Alatearamae was snapped from her internal reverie by a sudden sound. Instantly, she raised her spear, preparing to call her forces into formation for battle, thinking that it marked the onslaught of the main Orcish hordes. She stopped herself short however when she recognised that the unexpected sound was not in fact Orc war drums but rather an odd singing. The song was almost whimsical, a stark contrast to the blood soaked environs and was like no battle march she had ever heard. This peaked her curiosity and she scrambled up the ladder to the lookout post in hopes of sighting the source of this strange tune, unsure if it would spell salvation or certain damnation for her and the remaining troops of the 7th brigade. To her surprise, three strange forms appeared on the horizon and marched towards her position, continuing their curious cant.

“The table is laid and the feast is prepared.

There’s wine and sky candy for all.

No matter the task that we have to complete,

for the banquet we answer the call.”

The commander was dumbstruck by the forms marching in military formation towards the outpost. They appeared virtually identical save for their colour. Each of the three was a corpulent figure with minimal definition around their features. Virtually just three roughly shaped balloon men, one in a deep red colour reminiscent of a fine wine, one the pale yellow of well matured cheese and one the vibrant green of a fresh celery stick and each carrying a unique weapon. Weapon might have been a euphemistic term she realised a moment later when she got a good look. The red figure was carrying what appeared to be a giant butter knife while the yellow figure was wielding a 4 tined fork. Rounding out the set was the immense desert spoon carried by the green figure. She knew that the king had called for help from the other worlds but this surely could not have been what he had in mind, could it?

The three arrived at the entry to the outpost where rocks of various shapes were being piled up to add some measure of defence for the oncoming onslaught. The green figure called out with the voice of a Command Sergeant Major “Kitchen party, HALT!” and the three came to attention. Setting aside her amazement for a moment, Alatearamae managed to call out to the three “Stand to and Identify” to which the green individual took one step forward and proclaimed loudly “I am Celarius, First kitchen hand of the mighty Pothcroth, most mighty God of cooking. Salivate at his words mortal. He has heard your cries for help and while he is unable to attend due to his obligation to oversee the banquet of the heavens, we have been dispatched to render aid”. The yellow individual then stepped forward and proclaimed “I am Edamgouda, second kitchen hand of the mighty Pothcroth”. A second or two transpired before the third character stepped forward and bumbingly proclaimed “Indeed, he is Edamgouda, of that I can assure you.” A blank expression then set in on his face and a long awkward silence ensued, eventually broken by Alatearamae, growing impatient, who simply said “And you are…?”. Celarius reached over and smacked the red character up the back of the head, growling “She wants your name, not his”. The red character blinked hard and a look of concentration came across his face. Finally, he managed to say “Yea. I’m Semillion”, looking over at Celarius as if to make sure he had his own name right.

“Stand by to render honours, I shall be down to greet you presently as commander of this outpost” Alatearame called out, turning back towards the ladder. Once on the ground, her principal lieutenant, Nemmin, appeared at her side displaying a look of consternation. “Seriously commander? Is this ALL the help we’re going to get? We have cooks enough already and at least ours can remember their own names. We need soldiers.” The commander barely broke stride as she addressed her right hand officer “Nemmin, of all people, I would expect you to have an open mind. You are barely 5 foot tall and weigh no more than 100lbs, yet are one of the bravest and most skillful warriors in our kingdom. Besides, any help is better than no help at all”. Chastised, Nemmin fell into position to his commander’s right, 1 pace behind. Despite her strong words of support, Alatearame was also rather perplexed by this turn of events. Upon approaching the entryway, she noticed that her troops had stopped work to gawk at the odd characters that had arrived to render some form of aid, though at a man, each of them was highly sceptical about the effectiveness of said aid. “Back to work you lot, we’ve still got plenty of the green skinned bastards left to kill”.

Marching right up to Celarius, Alatearame stood to attention. Completely fearless of Gods and men, especially those with such odd henchmen, she was never one to mince words so came straight out and asked “So let me get this straight. Your God couldn’t be bothered coming because he had some sort of banquet to attend and so he sent you? The annihilation of our kingdom is less important than some sort of cosmic buffet?” The three divine kitchenhands looked at each other in a state of bewilderment until Edamgouda turned to Alatearame and explained “Well, of course. There’s sky candy there. Have you ever HAD sky candy? It’s really good. Tastes like salt water taffy.” Celarius chimed in “Do you know why sky candy tastes like salt water taffy?” Alatearame barely managed to conceal her frustrations and stated a simple “No”. “Neither do we” Semillion jabbered from behind the other two, having fallen out of formation to look at a passing butterfly. “It’s a mystery that we may never understand and a question we will seek to answer for all of time” mourned Celarius.

Alatearame’s face dropped as she began mourning for her once proud kingdom that would surely be overrun by the Orcish hordes if these three buffoons were all the help she was going to get. Turning back to address the three, she showed a battleworn persona that was almost unidentifiable as the proud Ebulonite commander that she was. “Look. I don’t want to sound unappreciative but we’ve really got our backs against the wall here. Our position has been badly mauled already and that was just the Orc vanguard. I’m down to 30% combat effectiveness. My fortifications are almost gone and the main force of the horde is still out there. We’ve been trying to hold the entry point long enough for the reinforcements to arrive from the other worlds and you must understand my concern that the only help we’ve received is three kitchenhands. Cooks we have in abundance but we need Warriors, not snacks. Can the three of you even fight?”

The three shared a knowing look and in unison, their faces began to sink into their skulls like a sinkhole and a loud whistle like a kettle began to come from each of them. Alatearame was not overly impressed. While annoying, this noise would do nothing to stop the hordes. Moments later, it was as if small explosions were happening under the skin of the three and they began to grow and take on a more defined form. Chiselled muscle structure began appearing on their abdomen and arms and they were gaining height rapidly. A mysterious ethereal light encompassed the three, split only by bolts of lighting that seemed to emanate from within each of them. The shrill whistle began to change too, sounding as if the shofar had blown a call to war. The now gargantuan sized divine kitchenhands began to inspire hope in Alatearame, impressive as their form now was, but the transformation was not yet complete. An array of pots and pans began to appear around the three, forming up as armour on their skin, coming together with the clash of a thousand broadswords. Large saucepans descended onto each of their heads and as the dust begins to settle, Alatearame saw the divine kitchenhands in their new form clearly. Their faces were no longer round and jolly but rather fierce and intimidating. Their armour appeared as an impenetrable layer of cookery. Truly, they now looked like demigods. Strange demigods but demigods nonetheless. The three each stepped forward in turn and the handle on their saucepan helmets snapped down over their face as an additional protection. They were truly a fearsome sight except for Semillion who was rubbing his face and crying quietly from where his face guard had smacked him in the nose.

Alatearame was almost stunned beyond words. The doubt and uncertainty that she had been grappling with all day was suddenly boiled off like the morning fog and she truly believed now that they had a fighting chance. “Ok. I’m impressed. We may yet win this thing. If you gentlemen would come with me please, I’d like to show you what we’re up against.” She turned on her heel and began her march back towards the lookout post, the three divine kitchenhands following closely behind her. As she scaled the ladder with all the expertise of a professional soldier, the three simply began climbing the wall beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to be defying gravity. Reaching the top, they waited patiently for Alatearame to join them. Upon reaching the lookout post, Alatearame walked past the three and pointed out across the battlefield, preparing to begin her briefing. She politely ignored the ongoing sniffles of Semillion who was still rather upset by his unpleasant encounter with his own armour.

“As you can see, the mountain ranges encompass this entry point almost entirely. The Orcish vanguard actually marched upon us from amongst those foothills but the main hordes would have trouble maintaining formation through such rough terrain so we’re expecting them to approach through this pass” she moved her arm to indicate the direction. “Now, the standard Orc troop is armed with…” Alatearame was cut of by a sudden and unwelcome sound. The sound of mighty drumming emanating from the hills. It was an audible warning that Alatearame knew all too well. The Orcs were returning and this time, it wouldn’t be a screening force. The main battle was upon them. She dropped her arm and turned towards her remaining troops to give orders. “We have incoming! All units form up and establish defensive positions around the entry point.” Before she could continue, she noticed a thick sticky liquid forming a puddle near her foot. Turning swiftly to identify the source, she realised that the divine kitchenhands were all drooling. Their faces had taken on a demonic scowl that chilled her to the bone. Their eyes burned like fire as their forked tongues lashed the air like whips. Steam was rising from their mouths as their drooling was superheated by some internal fire that Alatearame could only guess about. Were these demigods or demons?

Troops were running in every direction to form their defensive perimeter and the Orcish horde was storming towards the outpost like a green avalanche. Suddenly, Celarius spoke in a voice unlike any Alatearame had ever heard. A voice so resonant and powerful that she almost fell back down the ladder. “Crispy Bacon!” Edamgouda added to the still echoing atmosphere of the warzone “Succulent Pork!” Moments later, even Semillion chimed in with “Honey Glazed Ham!” A fear gripped Alatearame the likes of which she had never known. Just what were these beings? Before she had the opportunity to reflect on this internal question, the three divine kitchenhands leapt down from the lookout post and began running towards the hordes. “Wait! Come back! We need to hold the position!” Alatearame called after them to no avail. The three had the scent of pork products in their nostrils and there was now no stopping them.

The troops of the 7th brigade were almost in position but Alatearame could not tear herself away from the scene that was unfolding on the battlefield. The Orcish hordes had moved into battle formation and were prepared to march on her position while the three divine kitchenhands stood between the two, continuing to drool with anticipation of what awaited them. The Orc commander grunted out some orders to his forces and they braced themselves for battle, spears coming to the ready and the shields forming up in the phalanxes. The divine kitchenhands didn’t move in the slightest and if anything, their drooling intensified. The tension could have been cut with Semillion’s knife if he had the coordination to do so and both sides were teetering on the edge of engagement, the anticipation absolutely electrifying.

The order was issued by the Orc commander and the hordes began casting their spears towards the three. The sky was almost blackened with projectiles and Alatearame waited with baited breath to see the divine kitchenhands in action. Edamgouda raised his hand towards the heavens and decreed in a voice of immense intensity “By the power of the almighty Pothcroth, supreme God of cookery, I summon the divine bib of guarding!” The clouds parted and an enormous, ethereal bib descended from the heavens. It was large enough to stand before the three divine kitchenhands and stood over 20 feet tall. It glowed with a majestic radiance and was emblazoned with the seal of the almighty Pothcroth, a roast pig complete with an apple in its mouth. The flying spears of the Orcish hordes hit the divine bib of guarding and simply deflected away except for one poorly aimed spear which passed to the side of the bib. Semillion ran to his left to collect the spear and, as it was what was happening with the rest of them, decided that it was a good idea to throw this spear at the bib too. After all, it might feel left out. He cast the spear at the bib and it deflected back and bounced off his saucepan helmet. Semillion stood there looking dazed for a moment and fought to stop himself from crying again.

As the final spear deflected off the divine bib of guarding, Celarius stepped around it and faced off against the hordes, reaching his hand towards the sky and proclaiming “By the power of the almighty Pothcroth, supreme God of cookery, I summon the divine cupcake sprinkles of flaying!” Instantly, a stream of multi-coloured sprinkles began descending from amongst the clouds directly towards Celarius. Just as leading edge of the stream was upon him, Celarius raised his other hand and pointed it towards the assembled masses of Orcs. The stream of sprinkles deflected off his outstretched hand and poured down on the Orcs with all the intensity of hellfire. The multi-coloured stream of cake decorations tore through the Orc’s armour like an arrow through tissue paper and the Orcs in its path were swiftly cut to pieces. Celarius guided the stream across the ranks of Orcs, leaving nothing but devastation and sliced bacon. Seeing their comrades taking this punishment was enough to cause the remaining Orcs to break formation and begin charging towards the three divine kitchenhands. They focused their offensive on Semillion who had not yet participated in the battle in any meaningful way.

Semillion raised his hand towards the sky and began to scream in anticipation. The hordes moved closer and Semillion was still screaming, appearing to take no action to stop them whatsoever. Finally, he called out “Give me the mighty tongs of holding. Please”. Nothing appeared to happen and Semillion was still standing there, hand raised to the heavens with the horde teaming towards him. Somewhat confused, Semillion lowered his hand and turned away from the oncoming Orcs. He looked at his hand as if it were a broken toy, trying to figure out what went wrong. Alatearame began to panic as it was clear that even with the mighty powers of the divine kitchenhands, Semillion was about to get swarmed by the Orcs and the line would buckle. While Semillion was still inspecting his hand, a dark shape came down from the clouds. What appeared to be a giant’s bottle of barbecue sauce landed on top of the oncoming Orcs, crushing them and ending the offensive. Somehow, Semillion had managed to summon the Divine Barbecue Sauce bottle. It was even smokey barbecue, the perfect companion for the pork meat that was the Orcs it had crushed.

The troops of the Ebulonite 7th brigade looked over the battlefield in utter amazement. The entire Orcish assault had been quashed in a matter of minutes using nothing more than a bib, cupcake sprinkles and a bottle of smokey barbecue sauce. What WERE these beings? Nemmin joined Alatearame in the lookout post to witness the carnage just as the three divine kitchenhands assembled in a circle. They then crossed their giant cutlery pieces together in the fashion of knights crossing swords and began to chant. “Ham and Bacon and Roast Pork, I want piggy on my fork.” Nemmin turned to Alatearame with an exasperated look on his face “What on earth are they doing now?” The chanting suddenly stopped and the three declared in perfect unity “By the power of the almighty Pothcroth, supreme God of cookery, we summon the skillet of the heavens!” On command, a frying pan almost as large as the outpost itself descended from the sky and came to rest before the three. In a flurry of action, the divine kitchenhands moved to the frying pan and attempted to light a fire under it with which to cook their hard won feast. After several minutes of work, Edamgouda turned back towards the outpost and addressed Alatearame, still standing in the lookout post. “Commander, how can we start a fire on such a frigid and snow covered landscape?”

Alatearame turned to her assembled troops and issues orders for her sappers to assist the divine kitchenhands by lighting a fire under the frying pan. As she turned back, Nemmin addressed his commander “Ma’am, I must confess I am confused. Why are we lighting a fire for them?” Smiling for the first time that day, Alatearame simply said to Nemmin “Well, they saved our bacon back there. So it’s only right that we save theirs.” Nemmin snorted in laughter and proceeded to descend the ladder in order to assist the troops in their efforts. Alatearame issued orders to her remaining troops to assist in gathering the fallen Orcs for the divine kitchenhands.

With the fire now burning under the skillet of the heavens, the divine kitchenhands began preparing the Orcs for cooking, binding their flesh and throwing them into the pan. Semillion stood and raised his hand “I summon the mighty seasoning of salt”. Upon his command, a rain of pepper began to fall into the frying pan. Edamgouda walked up beside Semillion and smacked him in the back of the head with his giant fork. “You idiot Semillion. It’s ruined now. You need to add salt BEFORE you add pepper.” As Semillion began sobbing softly again, Edamgouda turned to the skillet of the heavens and jumped on the handle, launching the half cooked Orcs like a catapult. One of the Ebulonite soldiers turned to Nemmin and said “Gives new meaning to ‘when pigs fly’, don’t it sir?” Nemmin shook his head laughing and walked away. Could this day get any stranger?

With the pan now empty again, the troops started helping the divine kitchenhands to throw the remaining Orcs into the pan. Alatearame had descended from the lookout post to render aid herself when one of her soldiers approached her “Commander, we’ve found the Orc chieftain. He’s badly wounded but still alive.” Reflecting on the earlier battle, she remembered the way the Orcs had slaughtered so many of her best troops. The brutal savagery that had been inflicted on her kingdom by these brutes and with a coldness she rarely felt declared “Throw the bastard in. Let him cook alive.” Overhearing the command, Celarius approached the commander and implored her “That is not right Commander. It is barbaric and uncivilised.” He then pulled a pepper grinder off his belt and handed it to her. “Here. Bash his skull in with this first.”

Meanwhile, Edamgouda walked up to Semillion who had spent the past few minutes preparing but a single Orc. “What ARE you doing Semillion? You’ve been preparing this one Orc for over five minutes now?” A confused look on his face, Semillion looked up at Edamgouda and said “But I really want Crackling. It won’t turn out any good unless you score the skin and rub some salt in. It’s just taking a little longer than I thought it would.” Edamgouda simply shook his head and replied “Well, you could take the armour off first. That might make it a little bit easier Semillion.” This took a minute or two for Semillion to process and as Edamgouda was walking away called out to him “I never would have thought of that. Thanks.”

The smell of cooking pork filled the air and the last of the Orcs had been thrown into the pan. The divine kitchenhands formed up together and crossed their cutlery once more. Together, they declared “By the power of the almighty Pothcroth, supreme God of cookery, we summon the divine dinner setting!” Long banquet tables mystically appeared around the frying pan and out of nowhere, tablecloths, cutlery, napkins and even candles appeared. Instead of a waiter though, a violinist appeared, playing soppy romantic music and walking around the tables. Celarious looked at Semillion and simply said “You had one job. Seriously”. Still, the music was beautiful and relaxing so no great ado was made about the lack of a waiter. Edamgouda approached the commander once more. “Commander, we would like to invite you and your troops to dine with us this evening in celebration of the salvation of your kingdom.” Alatearame nodded to him in appreciation of the gracious invitation “It will be as you ask.”

Nemmin, overhearing this walked up to Alatearame and quietly asked her “Commander, it’s not that I’m ungrateful for their assistance but are we really going to eat Orc meat?” Lowering her voice Alatearame instructed “With all that they have done for us, I think it only fair that we at least try their cooking. Issue the order to the troops. Everyone is to join the feast or they’ll have to answer to me.” The troops began to gather around the tables and though initially concerned about the nature of the feast, to a man they found the food to be delicious. The celebrations carried on for hours with good food, good company and good music courtesy of Semillion’s violinist. Suddenly, the festivities were disrupted by the whistling sound of a falling object above their heads. Looking up, Semillion cried out with joy “Oh. THERE are my tongs!”

This entry point is an original story written specifically for this anthology. It also marks the writer’s first published work of fiction.

Epilogue

The room was silent, which wasn’t a good thing. With no audible distraction he was left with his own thoughts, each felt like a demon summoned from a terrible place. Those demons worked together to rip and tear at his mind, soul and heart. He was conflicted in every way imaginable. His city, his beloved Ebulon was under attack from the largest confederation of Orcs ever assembled. There was no absolute ruler amongst the attackers, no one king that could be killed which would send the Orcs running like the beasts they were. Most of Ebulon’s allies had been wiped from the world before the attack had began, leaving King Yadi no other choice but to call for aid across all worlds. Ever since the dawn of his world, his lineage had known about the unique connection this world had to every other. The shadow of all worlds; his father had used this phrase to explain it to him when he was a young child.

He had known the dangers of calling for aid from foreign worlds. When walking through darkness you can call for help, but couldn’t completely control who heard such a plea. Hero was a loose term, there were Orcs that were considered heroes in their own ranks. But this consequence wasn’t amongst the demonic ranks that plagued his thoughts. He shouldn’t have been in his tower, he should have been out amongst his people, wielding his sword and fighting this wretched enemy. He could feel the weight of his crown within his hands; he had taken it off and then put it back on more times than he could count. He didn’t feel like a king sitting in this room, he felt like a coward. The weight of the crown in his hands was metaphorically flawless for it represented the weight of rule. He had had to beg for aid, a king should never be on his knees. But if it meant the survival of his kingdom he would bow to anyone, except the Orcs. He had been within his tower for almost two days, anxious and nervous the entire time. When he had heard the Orc drums he had been prepared to fight alongside his countrymen. He knew that the Orcs would attack every entry point of his city, that there was no way he could defend them one by one. But he had planned on being there, side by side his brave troops as they defended an entry point.

It had been drilled into his mind that in order to save his city, perfect strategy would be needed. As much as he desired the aid of foreign heroes he couldn’t count on them. Yet how quickly his strategy changed. With his own eyes he had been met with 50 warriors from another world, each strong and ready to defend a land that was not their own. He gladly would’ve fought alongside them until he was informed to hurry back to the Tower. There was once a time when his word would’ve been enough to keep his people loyal. But their fear and panic of utter destruction had rattled their minds. He had little choice but to do what was asked of him and returned to the Tower. He was shocked by what was waiting for him there, the severed head of Grock the King Killer. He had to touch its filthy skin before accepting the truth that a foreign warrior had killed the wicked fiend. He would have been honored to meet such a powerful soldier.

But his advisors convinced him, against his own desires to stay within the tower. Their words had made complete sense, that it was he and he alone that could call for aid from the other worlds. It was a power that only his bloodline possessed. He would need to call for more aid if the other world warriors were not enough to save his kingdom. He understood this completely, for parts of his city had already been abandoned, people fleeing in the hopes that the Orcs wouldn’t pursue them after Ebulon fell. Of course he made sure that all of his advisors and mages didn’t leak this information to anyone, that officially people had been evacuated by order of the king. Like a spear to the chest, the idea that he couldn’t keep his people safe was overwhelming. He didn’t care if the City walls were broken, the houses ransacked, the food reserves burned. Walls could be rebuilt, crops could be planted again. But the people of Ebulon couldn’t be brought back from the dead, even his wizards didn’t possess such power.

Earlier on in the day he had been anxious to see how his kingdom was faring. Even from his great Tower not all of the entry points into his city could be seen. He had no idea what was happening in certain parts of his kingdom. What he had managed to see, through a window of his throne room was encouraging. Aldoren of the Elf Nation had brought his finest troops to aid the city. He was grateful his old ally had answered his call, considering that the relationship between men and elves hadn’t always been pleasant. If his Kingdom survived he would find a way to one day repay Aldoren. More impressive than Aldoren was the appearance of the dragon Attor. At first Yadi feared the beast had taken advantage of the Orc attack and had come to claim its pound of flesh from the city. He was as confused as he was relieved when he saw it attacking the Orcs. Even more fascinating than Attor was the beast that rode it, of all things a snow leopard had ridden upon the Dragon’s back. He didn’t know how or why, but that snow leopard was the reason Attor was aiding the city. It was a riddle he feared never having a chance to solve.

He soon had left the window, unable to control his emotions, so many had come to aid his kingdom, while he had sat by and watched. He knew he was in a morbid mood when he began carrying the head of Grock with him when he left his great hall. Even by Orc standards the damn thing smelled terrible, but it was the ultimate symbol of what was happening outside the tower. Heroes who could gain nothing but injury and death had come to help his kingdom for no other reason than him calling for aid. He knew why he should’ve stayed in the tower but he felt sick to his soul about it.

Subconsciously his mind had directed him to this room, a place that very few people ever saw. The room of royal memory where the walls were covered in the history of his lineage. Great men and women, all once kings and queens of Ebulon marvelous deeds were etched all through the room. He had been in this room many times in his life and had read all the histories. Out of all the great deeds his ancestors accomplished, not one was similar to his current situation. They didn’t hide in the tower while others selflessly risked their lives, fighting for a land that was not their home. Warriors had come from other worlds before a handful of times in history. Each time the king or queen of that era had stood alongside them fighting as equals.

The demonic legion of thought made his head feel heavy and so he lowered it. With the crown still in his hands his gaze was drawn to the severed head of Grock. He had been consumed by his own thoughts too much to leave the head outside and so it sat on the floor, staring at him with its dead eyes. At first the severed head had comforted him, it had told him that there were foreign warriors strong enough to defend his kingdom. Now the severed head felt like it was taunting him, he didn’t hear any deathly voices or strange visions. But his own guilt seemed to bring the head to life once more. Even in death the hatred in its eyes hadn’t vanished, Yadi felt like it was taunting him. That even from beyond the grave Grock would cackle a ghostly laugh as the kingdom burned all around him and he was left with nothing but ashes to rule.

It was then he felt the cold sting of blood on his finger. Looking away from the head he could see that he had been holding the crown so tightly that one of its tips had slightly pierced his finger. He watched as the blood dripped onto the crown, in the otherwise silence the drops sounded like distant thunder, hauntingly reminding him of the beat of an Orc Drum. As the blood stained the once flawless crown he took it as an Omen. Normally he was a rational man and didn’t see Omens wherever he looked, but this was the excuse he needed.

His hands stopped shaking as he placed the crown back upon his head. He glanced over to the severed head as he silently told it that Ebulon would never fall, not while he was alive. He took a long glance around the room to the etchings of his bloodline; today he would earn his own etchings amongst them.

Grasping Grock’s head by the hair he held it like a piece of garbage as he stood up and left the room of royal memory. Entering one of the many pathways of his Tower, he could hear within the echo of his footsteps, the power of his own stride. Strength was quickly replacing the confusion that had once made him weak. From the edges of his vision he could see handmaids and other servants, going about their daily duties. All of them were in a form of denial. They couldn’t face the enemy at the gates, the possibility of destruction. But King Yadi wouldn’t be living in denial, not anymore.

He made his way to his own personal armory taking no notice of the sharp gazes of the tower guards as he passed them. The first thing he did was put on the royal cloak. Made from the black silk of Kiroawa worms, it was thought ageless. Every single king of the city had once worn this cloak into battle. This wasn’t the first time he had worn it, but today more than any other day he could feel the strength of his ancestors, a collection of bravery and power that seemed to warm his soul. He had several swords to chose from, weapons forged by the finest makers. But it was the golden bladed sword of his father he chose to accompany him. His father was considered the greatest King of Ebulon who had ever lived, he would need the strength and steel of his father’s memory today. He quickly put on his finest armor, steel that had saved him from the axes and swords of countless Orcs. Now prepared he glanced to the head of Grock. He would hold the head in one hand as he wielded his sword in the other upon the battlefield, it was about time that the Orcs feared Ebulon.

With his sword by his side and the royal cloak upon his shoulders he walked with purpose to the lowest level of the Tower. He could feel the gazes of so many as he went, he could feel the burden of their fear. He would show them that there was nothing to be afraid of. Upon the first level of the tower many of his advisors had gathered. They had been strategizing for the last two days while others fought and died outside the tower. Yadi heard their salute and greetings but paid no attention to it. Realizing what the king was doing one of the advisors rushed to catch him.

“My King,” he pleaded placing himself in front of his lord. “You can’t leave the tower you are needed here.”

“Out of my way Atfan,” The king demanded as his hand grasped his sword. “Or I shall cut you down!”

Seeing the power in his king’s eyes Atfan reluctantly stepped aside as Yadi reached the entrance to the Tower. He could hear his heart beat as sweat covered his hands, his lips felt dry, yet he was not afraid. With his hand still on the sword he commanded the doors be opened. His sword was already halfway out of its sheave before the doors were completely opened. He was ready to enter the fray, to kill as many Orcs as he could with his golden sword. If he were to die today than at least it would be defending his kingdom, not hiding from his enemies.

As soon as the doors were opened he stepped outside, his gaze narrowed and stung by the wrath of the sun. Using Grock’s head to block the sun he looked around the courtyard. It was as silent as it was empty. Raising his head but keeping his eyes shaded he listened intently but could hear only silence. Where was the clashing of steel, the screams of the defeated? The smell of death was thick in the air, yet everything was eerily calm.

He motioned to speak but went silent as dark shadows appeared in the courtyard. As they formed two lines on either side of him Yadi showed no fear. The shadows took their true forms, they were mages of the kingdom. Before the battle had begun he had ordered each of them to be as ghosts watching over each entry point. He also told them not to show themselves to anyone and come to this courtyard only when the enemy was defeated. He knew there were 15 entrances into his kingdom and so he quickly counted them twice just to be sure. There were fifteen Mages on either side of him and instantly he knew the battle was over, his kingdom had survived.

He lowered the head of Grock as he felt his knees weaken. Emotions within were overwhelming. Somehow he remained hard of expression as the mages spoke of what had occurred. He was told tales of Angels, of foreign kings bringing their armies to Ebulon. Yet through all of these stories his gaze was directed back to the sky, there was not a single cloud within them. A sight almost never seen in the dead of winter. He walked forward, his stride not as strong as it once was. Even though they stood only meters from him the voices of the mages were distant to his ear. He heard more stories of warriors who could summon dragons, a healer whose skill surpassed all the surgeons of Ebulon. He heard a story of a possessed statue and a vague description of something too terrifying to speak of.

He walked further, the entire time his gaze still skyward. Even talk of exploding corn, talking animals and the hall of heroes being vandalized couldn’t stop his stride. When he had heard all the stories of great warriors and the air became silent he had reached the end of the line of mages.

Suddenly he fell to his knees, his sword before him as he dropped the head of Grock. The mages moved to help until they understood what was happening. He hadn’t fallen from injury but from gratitude. The demonic legion of thoughts left his head and for the first time in over two days he felt he could breathe freely once more. He could feel a tear form and slowly fall from his right eye. He did nothing to hide it; he would not be the last king of Ebulon, something that terrified him beyond words. Closing his eyes he called upon his powers, giving thanks to the heroes, in all their shapes and forms for saving his beloved kingdom.

He concentrated hard, his eyes remained closed. He wanted to ensure that they all knew of his gratitude. With the last of his thanks given, he violently opened his eyes at the sound of something heavy and wet crashing before him. All except one of the mages shared his confusion at the pile of half-cooked Orcs in front of him. Narrowing his eyes, he found himself asking. “Why do they smell of Honey Glaze?”

Copyright

Copyright 2013 Shane Porteous Walter Rhein Vanna Smythe Neil Shooter R.M. McDaniel Kaine Andrews Brandon Ellis L. Blankenship Jenelle Leanne Schmidt Tom Barczak SKN Hammerstone Jennifer Priester Kate Porteous Wayne Borean Matthew Taylor

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 cover art and cover by Tom Barczak

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

Content

THE BATTLE OF EBULON
A Shared Anthology
Compiled by Shane Porteous

Preface

Entry Point 1 - by Shane Porteous

Entry Point 2 - by Walter Rhein

Entry Point 3 - by Vanna Smythe

Entry Point 4 - by Neil Shooter

Entry Point 5 - by R.M. McDaniel

Entry Point 6 - by Kaine Andrews

Entry Point 7 - by Brandon Ellis

Entry Point 8 - by L. Blankenship

Entry Point 9 - by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

Entry Point 10 - by Tom Barczak

Entry Point 11 - by SKN Hammerstone

Entry Point by 12 - by Jennifer Priester

Entry Point 13- by Kate Porteous

Entry Point 14 - by Wayne Borean

Entry point 15 - by Matt Taylor

Epilogue

Copyright