After the explosion in New York, it had taken congress only twenty minutes to declared war on the Western Powers of the west. The United States of America had joined the Allies in battle against them. It was now up to congress, the General, and the President to decide the US’s first act of business.

            This time, things were different. Congress would not act in their usual manner. They had only a short period of time before the Western Powers rushed in, seizing the US. There was nothing formal, just a proposal and a vote.

            General Lukas stood before congress, “Senators, representatives, and friends, I have grave news from Russia. In seventy-two hours, another wave of missiles are headed our way. Unless we act quickly and declare war on the Western Powers, there will be no hope! President Quinton and I propose we sent a secret tactical group into Siberia to destroy the nuclear launch sites. But! We must pass this proposal quickly! Time is running out! Please, I don’t have time for a long speech, who supports me?”

            Every man in that chamber voted yes. Now, it was up to the President, Vice President, and General to choose the most trusted squad. The US’s hopes would lie on that squad’s shoulders.

            Exactly one hour later, Robert sat at his leathery desk chair. At least a dozen file folders were strewn about on the desk in front of him. Jonathan and Vice President Arnold Chamberlyn sat on the opposite side of his desk facing him with wan faces.

            “Well, Mister President, here are the candidates. Make your decision,” Arnold Chamberlyn said.

            Robert ignored him and continued browsing through the files. After a couple of minutes, three browsed folders, a gulp, and a flooded psyche, Robert said, “Bring in specialty squad 13.”

            Tears flowed down Hayden’s cheeks as the phone rang. Hayden stood, walked up to the ringing phone, and slowly picked it up. “Hello,”

            “Mister Weston? This is General Jonathan Lukas. I need you at the Oval Office pronto.”

Hayden gulped, “For what reason, sir?”
            “We have a problem in Russia and need your help. You are Specialist Weston of Specialty Squad 13?”

            “Yes, sir,” Hayden said.

       “Well then, we have a plane waiting for you at the airport. It departs at 5 o’clock, the ticket is under the name Rosenal. Tell no one of your mission; it is top secret. Get here as soon as possible.”

“Yes sir, General.” Hayden firmly said over the phone, “I will be there, sir.”

Hayden slammed the phone down. Eyes darting back and forth across his floor with no perceptible purpose, he slowly meandered into his room. Moving into his room, Hayden groggily struggled to locate his suitcase stashed away somewhere in his closet. Nothing went through his mind. Almost sub-consciously, Hayden kept his mind empty and his eyes dry.

As Hayden found his bag, he slowly and silently began to pack it.

Time passed, and with his bag finally packed, Hayden gulped and headed out his house and into his car. Starting the engine, he backed out of the driveway and headed for the airport.

To be continued...

President Quinton tugged at his hair. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he remembered the tip he had gotten only an hour ago. Twelve nukes had been launched at the US, one headed straight for the White House. Agony and desperation began bubbling in his gut when, after half-an-hour, Quinton had gotten no word on how his SS-13s had faired in destroying the bombs. He knew not whether the planes had failed or succeeded in taking out the nukes.

            Abruptly, the doorknob to the oval office began twisting. Robert Quinton straightened and fixed his tie. His general, Jonathan Lukas, walked in carrying a folder full of crisp, newly printed paper. The man’s hand was shaking. Gulping, Jonathan said, “Mister President, I have some bad news from the Dets.”

            A lump formed in Quinton’s throat and the President barely was able to say, “Well say it, General.”

            “We have lost tracking of the planes, sir. The techs are saying they are gone.”

            Robert’s hope had disintegrated and he said shakily, “And, what about the nukes?”

“One remaining, sir. We can do nothing to stop it. It is headed for New York City.”

Quinton sat back in his chair. Jonathan’s lip quivered. Both of them knew that millions of lives would be lost; there was t-minus three minutes to impact. Time was ticking and all Robert could say was, “God help us.”

Hayden was flipping through channels as something caught his eye. He flipped back and saw a pampered newswoman speaking. She was in a helicopter hovering above a smoking New York City. The woman spoke shakily to the camera, “As you see, people are committing suicide and some are struggling to flee. We all know time is ticking.” Then, for a moment, the camera shook as a voice from behind the camera called out, “Listen!”

A whistling sound, the sound of a massive… something… falling from above, rang in Hayden’s ears. The woman screamed, “YOU IDIOTS! Get out of here! You’ve—” Then the camera shook and a bright orange cloud of smoke was seen outside of the plane behind the woman. Then, as a mushroom cloud formed, the newswoman suddenly disintegrated into dust. The camera shook and then dead air adorned the television screen. It fizzed, static.

Hayden gasped and ran for his phone. Shakily, he dialed the numbers. The phone rang, and rang, and rang. No one picked it up. Then, he came to a sudden realization. His family was dead.

To be continued...

The SADMs, sub-atomic detonator missiles, shrieked as they cut through the thin, icy air.

Suddenly, the missiles slammed into two of the nukes.

The SS-13s stopped dead in their tracks, letting the remaining bombs continue flying. A loud sonic boom shook the glass of the SS-13s as Connery screamed over the radio, “We have a hit!”

Two of the nukes had detonated, exploding in all directions, brightening the night sky like broad daylight!

“Keep your rejoicing to yourself, Connery. There are still ten more nukes. Over,”

Connery replied, “My plane’s stalling. Increasing speed to Mach 2. Over,”

The SS-13’s tail blew up in heat and flames and the stalling plane shot towards the dissipating nuclear cloud, leaving a black streak of smoke.

The two remaining planes increased their speeds, quickly catching up with Connery. Pilot one’s garbled voice spoke over the radio, “Fire at will, men. The nukes are leaving the atmosphere!”

Almost before the words were said, at least twenty missiles, bullets, and lasers blasted from each one of the three planes. Almost half of the nukes were destroyed and stopped their flying upward, just to safely plummet towards earth.

As the bullets continued flying towards the nukes until, abruptly, the missiles began burning like red-hot coals. All the pilots suddenly realized that they were leaving the atmosphere!

Connery spoke, “Bah! **** these rules!” Suddenly, his plane sped up to Mach 15 his couse set dead for the remaining nukes. His plane had become a suicide missile! All of the other pilots knew what was happening.

“No! Connery, no!” Pilot one screamed over the intercom. However, it was too late. Connery had crashed into a group of three nukes, detonating all of them and blowing everything up in an orange nuclear cloud.

All the planes had been incinerated, and only one last thing had survived the explosion. The first nuclear bomb made it into space and was beginning phase two of its disastrous plan.

To be continued...

The twelve nuclear bombs whistled through the air, struggling to break the atmosphere and pass into the realm beyond. Below was Siberia: the Russian Federation’s frozen wasteland, passing into a blue haze. Soon nothing below would be visible, only the things ahead. Ahead was space, indefinite, stretching far over both horizons, the so-called heavens. Tonight would not be like any other nights. Tonight the heavens would be tainted with the golden glare of a nuclear bomb and polluted with the screams of millions of burning civilians.

Three SS-13s flew above the atmosphere. There was no noise; they were flying at Mach 12. The radio jammed in the pilots ears fizzed annoyingly until, finally, the commands were given, “Dets, nukes at four o’clock! Destroy them at all costs. I repeat: Destroy them at all cost! Over,” The radio went dead and the pilots of the SS-13s knew what they had to do. The planes looped around, searing for the missiles until, there, in plain view, were twelve flaming missiles burning a bright smoky trail. They were headed straight out of the earth. Phase one was about to be completed.

“Phase one,” said pilot two, “in process. Over,”

The radio was dead for a moment until a voice from another captain spoke, “Yes, Connery, I copy. When I give the signal, fire the SADMs.”

Pilot three and Connery copied.

“Fire!” The voice screamed over the radio.

Six flaming missiles, the size of hot dogs, flamed outward out of the plane’s wings. Their course was set dead on the nukes. The skirmish had begun.

This is just something I jotted down yesterday. REMEMBER, IT HAS NO EDITING TO IT. IT IS A ROUGH DRAFT.

The suns were disappearing on the horizon as Rehan and Nathaniel finally finished setting up camp. A food privy dwarf volunteered to be the cook and, while he was preparing the dinner: boiled potato soup, Rehan decided to use his newly acquired telescope to survey the horizon. He placed the cold rim around his eye and began to peer out. As he was roaming his eyes across the dry plains, he spotted something moving. It was a large black mass speckled with spots of light. Horrifically, Rehan suddenly realized the mass was an army and the spots of light were torches! The army was headed straight towards them and closing in fast.

Rehan dropped the telescope, fortuitously breaking it into pieces, and dashed back towards camp screaming, “Aeväl! To your arms! They are upon us! Put out the fires!”

Almost fifteen full years after the historic battle for Dunwalen, the Divine Empire continues its attacks against Cepune: the capital of the desert country of the Illusion Sands. The amount of soldiers sent are growing with a furious speed.

      The gruesome never-ending siege of the goblins continued.

      Scorpions, the night hunters, scampered about the desert floor as two giant moons beamed light onto the hidden army of Cepune, the leader of the Desert Rebellion. Almost three scores of men hid themselves behind contingents of cacti or camouflaged themselves in the tan sand. That night was perfect for a raid. A usually colorful and star strewn sky, which would often radiate pure light on anything, covered in clouds effectively hid the attackers and a hazy desert mist loomed around the sweaty men. The range of vision was ten feet, no more, no less.

All of the men were Shenok warriors: guerrilla warriors bred for one thing, to kill quickly and without mercy. They had been fighting for three days straight and even now, as the Shenoks stood on the doorstep of the goblin’s camp, the men shook with exhaustion--or maybe fear. Trepidation was not something new among the warriors. They were always shaking whether from fatigue, hunger, or fear.

Adrenaline, like a raging ocean of frothing waters, surged through Rehan, the waves stopping only at the tips of his fingers. Grasping his rapier with white clammy hands and white knuckles, Rehan watched Sasab, Captain of Rehan’s contingent: The Royal Dune Beast Contingent, give out the orders. The Captain moved his hands rapidly making the silent commands to his troops. Moving at a rapid pace, his scarred hands whistled in the humid night air. He spelled simply, “charge when I give the signal.” It was the simplest plan yet, Rehan had no clue why his Captain would forsake planning on their last battle. Even so, in between tremors racking his body, Rehan nodded and so did the fifty-eight other Shenoks, their anxiety amplified dramatically. Many fidgeted with their pommels.

Sounds of iron pots banging, twisted goblin weapons and armor clattering, and the smell of rancid rotting flesh reached him. Switching his airwaves, Rehan breathed out of his mouth. He almost gagged.

At least Esis had not sent the Skulls. Rehan shivered at the thought of those things. Just the thought of the Skulls chilled his spine. Since his younger years, Rehan had had a horrific phobia of the Skulls, probably because they were the ones who had killed his father.

Rehan could hear those worms talking, those desecraters babbling mindless gibberish. Words like “ras’cuf” and “fotshegs'erasras” reached Rehan’s ears. What they meant, no man in the army knew. Rehan irately hissed as he thought of the throngs of things those beings had taken away from him. With the soldiers, death and sorrow abounded wherever they stepped foot. The desecraters had brought diseases to the healthy city of Cepune and swiftly poisoned the citizens. The Hesclurh, the king of the Illusion Sands, was devastated when he heard that his heir had died from the sickness. When his only son died, he relapsed into a state of immense panic. Without hesitation, the king quickly chose another heir and that heir was Rehan, the son of a recently killed Lord Majles, the deceased lord of South Haven, a small city in the southernmost part of the Central Illusion Sands.

Currently, Rehan was grieving as his close friend, his tutor that he had known since childhood, caught the disease. Even now, the nemose tutor was suffering on a cot, sweating out his energy and last remaining life.

Rehan was a pacifist when it came to death. If it was not his duty, Rehan would prefer to be tracing an animal in the forest to study its habits, but, sadly, it was his duty. Since his Rite of Passage ceremony at thirteen, Rehan was pressed to join the army. He hated the idea of killing but, nevertheless, no mercy was given to him. Now, two years later, he had no problem with slicing the throat of an enemy. He was fine with killing only two things, Skulls, and goblins. He hated both of them with a passion only barely comprehendible and fought them on a regular basis. The only thing that pushed him to kill them was their hatred towards him and their hostility against his citizens. If he did not kill them, they would kill him and his kin. Rehan wondered how these beasts could call themselves servants of Light when they followed Esis Ra’bok, Deceiver.

As the time of the attack drew closer, Rehan’s headband gathered sweat and was now sopped, and wreaking of body odor. His aquiline nose sniffed in the repulsive scent and he cringed, his mouth twisting into a passive snarl. He quickly took it off his wet brown hair and soaked it in sand to remove the scent. Waiting was worse than fighting. Everyone was fidgety and some were quavering. Three days without sleep tends to alter a person’s regular behavior and change their worldview. Harassingly, Rehan had a hard time keeping his mind strait.

Unexpectedly, the signal was given and, even before the hand moved in its last motion, a demonic and horrifying war cry from the Shenoks split the peaceful atmosphere in two. The charge had begun.

Neck glowing with gold light and burning with a fear educing pain, Rehan charged forward, his lungs empting as he moved closer to the camp. His neck was something he had grown accustomed to a long time ago. At this point, Rehan had yet to discover what it was. No one but him knew about it and he always had it covered.

All of the anger Rehan had ever collected against these beasts was released here. This was the last charge, if they lost this their country and lives would be forfeit. The amount of passion poured into this charge was enormous.

With the approaching attack, the massive unsymmetrical and unorganized goblin camp burst into life as the goblins grabbed their perverted halberds, ebony spears, rusty maces, and evil axes in a burst of surprise. Ranks were slowly formed upon the command of the goblin leader, a skull-wearing goblin with painted, rusty armor.

The charge of the Cepune army continued and, finally, the human army slammed upon the goblins, scattering like water on rock. Groups of men split up and seeped into the camp killing as they went. The goblin’s numbers were depleting hastily; they were slaughtered without any leniency. Even Rehan, a compassionate person, was slicing and dicing any goblin he found.

Rehan had observed long ago that goblins weren’t the strongest or smartest race. He had put a lot of thought into army strategies and governmental affairs in the past two years and he had realized that only the amount in numbers of the goblins was what classified them as a threat. But then again, Emperor Ra’bok had not just employed goblins. He had legions of men, dwarves, gnomes, dragons, and elves fighting on his side also.

Rehan quickly approached a goblin foot soldier. Roaring in anger, the goblin pulled his black, dully-shimmering blade over his head and slammed it down towards Rehan. Protecting himself, Rehan shot his sword up and blocked the blow sending the twisted blade bouncing completely in another direction. Surprised, the hunched-backed goblin soldier totted backwards. Cringing, Rehan swung his rapier and, in a single furious blow, decapitated him. The head flew off and the eyes on the bodiless head lulled and went white as the mouth twitched into a snarl. Rehan turned around and located another goblin. Everything was a blur.

Fluidity began spawning in Rehan’s limbs as he killed goblins one after another. At least six dozen goblins were slain by the army and lay dead after only half-an-hour of fighting, festering and steeping in oozing and stinking purple goblin blood. Rehan was actually a very acceptable fighter in battles.

Suddenly, a muffle call of help rang out from inside a nearby tent as Rehan slit the throat of a goblin mace soldier. As the mace soldier’s body convulsed and fell, Rehan deserted it and dashed towards the voice. He entered the tent and spotted the caller, his gore-coated Captain lying on the floor. Over him was a grey warty goblin, war hammer over head. Sasab wasn’t dead yet. Quick as a cobra, Rehan drew a throwing knife from his belt and tossed it at the goblin. The blade struck the unsuspecting soldier in the back educing a muffled thwamp! He groaned and tottered around. His decaying teeth were crunched together in a stifled growl. The goblin rushed at Rehan as the goblin swung his war hammer down at the boy. Rehan rolled out of the way and sliced the goblin’s leg. Grimacing, the goblin fell to his knees, his veins standing out on his neck. Then, with a quick bloody slash at the face from Rehan, the goblin died, toppling over lifeless.

Captain Sasab was breathing heavily as he stood up. Before Rehan came, the Captain had thought he was going to die; anyone could read it on his face. With a deeply grateful expression, the man staggered over to Rehan and shook his hand as he unsteadily clasped Rehan’s elbow.

Rehan felt him shaking.

Grinning with radiating gratitude, Sasab spoke gratefully, “Hesclurh Deserthawk will hear about this, young prince.” Then he dashed away out of the tent, sword glowing like a metal arm of moonlight, panic seemingly disappeared.

Without an ounce of hesitation, Rehan followed. He had only made three steps on the warm, blood-covered earth when he was startled by the loud, dull, deep sound of a dozen goblin battle horns. Looking north towards the Mirage River, he observed, on the sandy shore, three groups of a hundred goblins, all wielding long awry spears of black and ebony. They were reciting a war chant. The words, “Derastgoy tshe gekesras! Derastgoy tshe gekesras!” repeated over and over.  They had barely any organization, the chant was all that kept them together. The docked ships told Rehan that they had just unloaded off their ships. Rehan shrunk back; they were approaching without delay.

“Retreat to Cepune!” A voice called out, “Retreat to Cepune! We are outnumbered!” Rehan joined in the call and the remaining men took their leave. All the Cepune soldiers, including Rehan, were dashing frantically out of the encampment; only an estimated three goblins were left alive from their raid. Finally, after three days of toil, they were victorious.

Leaving shooting range, the remaining men, about twenty, let out a cry of victory and Sasab blew on his Dune Beast horn letting loose the sound of a shofar. He repeated it in the melody of victory. Their quest was completed and the army was headed back to Cepune for the continuation of their mission.

THIS IS THE INTRODUCTION FOR CHAPTER ONE! IT GOES ON AFTER THIS. THIS ISN'T THE END OF THE CHAPTER

An inferno of blazing fire burned in the far north and the tar black smoke drifted across all of Ursadona, covering it in eternal shadow.

Maybe singularly, Soren Chosen knew this. To his deep grief, he knew also that he was venturing towards that inferno. Like anyone, he did not want to head into his death, but the almighty Aphiel had spoken through the Council of Elders and, as usual, Aphiel gave him no alternative.

Soren knew it was the end but didn’t argue against it. He knew he was heading to his bereavement. He knew that, no matter the power of good, shadow would overtake his soul and pull him out of the physical. This was his end, and for some queer reason, it was Aphiel’s plan for his life. But what good, if any at all, could come of it? But, nonetheless, now, as he was commanded, he would head north to Aridia.

Salty tears fell from his tarnished penny eyes as he packed his old leather bags with traveling equipment, such as clothing, food, and more, and sheathed his trusty elven-make sword. Like usual, he was not frightened, just forlorn for what could have been.

REMEMBER: THIS IS A ROUGH DRAFT.

Damori had been searching for Adarnas for hours. Finally, he found him sobbing and hunched over in a corner. After minutes of waiting, Damori approached him, “Sir,” he said, “The ships have been spotted. Should we send our navy out to meet them?”

The king straightened. “Yes” he sighed. Adarnas thought for a moment then informed, “and load the ships with berserkers.”

The Captain looked worried, “Their ships are in the thousands. The men would be sent to their deaths.”

With a pinch of sarcasm, Adarnas said, “That’s why they are berserkers.” A bloodlust was smoking in his soul. Urgency to kill every follower of Esis reigned in his essence,

Grinning, the Captain nodded. “Yes sir.” He left, heading to the docks to command the Maritime Captain with his newly found orders: to fill the ships with berserkers: drugged and drunk soldiers that went into battle with a bloodlust of a lunatic. This would be the first time in the past millennia when those soldiers had been sent out.

Once Damori had reached the docks on the edge of the Marrsaer Ocean, he tried to find the Naval Captain. It took a brief moment but he finally located the man for whom he was searching, “Maritime Captain,” he said, “board all the ships with berserkers. We have only a short time before the goblins are upon us. These are the king’s orders.”

The captain nodded and marched off with his newly found orders.

The goblins were now descending on the Rebel Army. Men shook in their armor as the ships approached.

 “Stand your ground men! Stand your ground!” Damori commanded his battery of men. Time had passed and now, Damori stood on the sandy shore of the Marrsaer Ocean with his soldiers. Adarnas was nowhere to be seen. The goblins were approaching on their ships as the two suns slowly crept down on the horizon. Any elf could have read by the bloody color of the two suns: Ra, and Aeris, that, by morning, blood would be spilled. A mast-bristling wall of ships closed in. They stretched indefinitely over both horizons.

“Stand—your—ground!” he commanded again.

The men’s faces showed the sordid taste of fear; most of them were tremulous with an unspeakable horror: the fear of permanent annihilation and being forgotten for time ever after.

The goblins, only several yards away, were leaving their twisted, black, grounded ships. Without warning, three goblin bowmen jumped off a ledge and fired their poisoned darts into a score of men. Three groans came from the army and three struck swordsmen slowly fell to their instant death.

Those scums were breaking the rules of war! Now then, the battle had begun! “Volley!” Damori commanded irately.

Behind him, a dozen crossbowman fired their flimsy wooden bows. The arrows whistled through the air, smiting eight goblins in mid-jump. The deceased goblin’s fellow warriors growled with anger as they bared their nastily misshapen and filed teeth. They shuffled around, fidgety and craving the gore of war.

One goblin garbed in black leather, clearly the leader, stepped forward before the halted group, and yelled, “Tsherase derasecgutegras shuse gesosted too sofnr! Tofnirsht me derastgoy tshe gerasirastufnce!” the goblin paused and, turning towards the Dunwalen army, thrust his weapon outwards and yelled, “Cshugre hog Esis, oug gus’eg!” The whole mass charged in disarray, screaming.

Damori commanded the pikes to descend.

Goblins colliding with the pikes and men, war-cries were heard. The men fought relentlessly. Fear had melted into hate and hate was melting into power. The army, furious with the trespassing goblins, fought with an adroitness that Damori had never witnessed, not in all his life. It was to their advantage but it would make a little mark against the tens of thousands of goblins approaching.

“Augh!” Damori screamed as he stabbed a goblin infantryman in the gut. The goblin’s blood-steeped innards spilled out along with a couple gallons of thick goblin blood. Moaning, it collapsed, inert.

“Sir—Sir,” a gore covered soldier cried out to the Captain in mid swing, “where is King Goldblood?”

Despondency fell upon Damori’s face, “He will come… patience, patience.”

Rich red blood splattered over the cold dirt floor and a human warrior toppled over, lifeless. The attacking goblin, wielding the bloodstained shaft, roared in delight. The men feared that this was a harbinger to the destruction of Dunwalen.

From the smoldering land of the north, a lifeless and belligerent goblin song drifted over the sea carried by the sea breezes. Translated, it said this.

“Tshe Gekessiofn shuras keefn rasshutteged,”
The Rebellion has been shattered,

“U sirsht rasshuss ofnce uruifn rasshifne ifn u dugck mogsd,”

A light shall once again shine in a dark world,

“Raso kerifnras tshe fnext ure,”

So begins the next age,

“tshe ure oh tshe Mship ufnd Shuffeg,”

The age of the Whip and Hammer,

With that, the toxin of fear had finally overcome the men. One by one, the men died or fled for their lives like cowards. Like a life sieve, war was sifting out the cowards from the loyalists.

“Hyah!” Adarnas screamed as his golden mail-clad legs smacked the side of his horse. Adarnas rode alone, out of his massive evacuated castle to the shoreline where the miniscule remnants of his once mighty army fought. It was clear to him; he knew he rode to his death. He had acknowledged his impending death since he had gotten word of the forthcoming armies. Only one thing gave solace to his burdened soul: his heir, his eldest son, was safe in the hands of his most trusted advisor. The man had whisked his son away at the last moment.

Snapping out of his thoughtful mood, Adarnas drew his sword to lacerate the head of the first goblin he approached.

Headless, the goblin fell, twitching.

Jumping off his steed, Adarnas joined in the battle. Fighting relentlessly, the king, the Captain, and the few remaining men fought with their honor. Patriotism now replaced the fear. Pride floated on the wind like the aroma of flowers. The weaklings were gone; all that remained were the loyalists. They all knew it was only a matter of minutes before they were killed and a flood of goblins charged forward to overtake the castle. Nevertheless, Adarnas, and his men, would never lose hope.

An arrow whizzed by Adarnas’s head and slammed into Damori. Damori gasped abruptly and his hands flew to the protruding shaft. Surprise shot onto his face for a moment but then was quickly dubbed over with raw pain. Stumbling back, the Damori’s mouth started bleeding a constant stream of pure red blood. He knew it; this was the end. As the poison on the tip of the dart started to take effect, Damori fell to the ground. All light started dimming and the whites suddenly became intensely brighter. For the last remaining seconds of his life, the Captain, with a final reassuring look, said his farewells to his king. Then, with a burst of white color, he died and his soul departed into the afterlife.

Adarnas watched his friend slowly pass into the void. Infuriated, the king turned around, screaming with anger. His teeth were clamped together so hard that they were chipping. Looking forward, he saw a horrific sight. The goblins had formed ranks and the crossbowmen were loading their bows. Everything became slow as he finally realized his life was ending also. With a sudden roar of releases, the bows fired upon Adarnas and his few remaining men. Three shafts struck him, all in the chest letting out eruptions of blood. He could feel the toxins in his blood and suddenly lost control of his muscles. Like Damori, his vision started fading into white. Falling and seeing nothing but white, he uttered his last words, “Fair well, my son.” Then, the world disappeared in a burst of light and he was no more.

PROLOGUE

THE AGE OF WHIP AND HAMMER

                The frigid north winds, carrying the scent of fiery sulfur, blew across the Bregoa Ausa like a whisper. The winds of the north carried the scent of smoldering Aridia. That land, depending on who was speaking, had many names, A Light in a Dark World, the Deceiver’s Spine, or Slopeside Utopia. The Rebellion did not believe a tinge of the Deceiver’s lies. No matter what the world told them, they knew shadow lay there, budding in influence and potency, soon threatening to take the last bit of remaining Light.

The frigid north winds caused Linaea Chosen to shiver. Her spine stung with a cold sensation, the sensation of the Lifestream coursing through her veins. Her consciousness had been dreaming. As her head rose from its slumber, dreams… visions… memories from the night passed filled her newly refreshed waking mind. She examined the surrounding landscape of stained water, evil and withering river plants, and a massive black volcano smoking off in the distance. How could anyone believe such a lie? Just a decade ago, the Deceiver explained off the reason he chose to dwell in such a foul place. He said, “Power is the Black Mountain! The Black Mountain is power! Thus, we dwell on, around, and with power!” His lies were applauded with insane clapping. The people actually believed him.

The wind blew by, carrying the muffled song of nature perverted by the sounds of whips, hammers, goblic growls, and, worst of all, the aberrant moaning of living corpses. The sun was blocked out by the ever-writhing clouds of smoke from the Black Mount, causing eternal twilight to fall on the fjord of the Bregoa Ausa.

Discarding her surrounding environment and trembling with excitement, Elf-kind Linaea located a long piece of parchment from her sack. Spreading it onto the hard, rock-like ground, she quickly scratched these words in the squiggly runes of the Tree Elves,

With his hand, we will rise again,

With his hand, we will destroy the deceiver,

With his hand, we will deliver,

As the heir rises again,

On the back of a beast he will emerge,

With the power of Aphiel he will conquer,

Shields will be shattered, swords will be bent,

As the heir rises again,

From the bloodline of gold, he will rule,

From the bloodline of gold, the Deceiver will scatter,

From the bloodline of gold, we will rescue,

As the heir rises again,

                With that written, she sighed with an ethereal contentment. A peace, like a blanket of warmth, fell upon her. Now she knew that, someday, the shrouding darkness would be dispelled and Light would once again shine for all to see. She knew that the millions of deceived Elves, men, dwarves, nemose, and goblins, would all be delivered from the clever lies of the Deceiver. She laid back down, and fell back into her trance, not to awaken for another week, her pale face covered in eternal twilight.

¯  ¯  ¯

A frozen wind blew through the forest awakening the sleeping trees by rattling their little leafy fingers as the priest rode, baby cradled in his arms. As his heart pounded its crimson liquid through his arms with a surprising ferocity, the priest’s orange irises expanded due to the lack of light. Monotonously, the horse’s hooves created some clip-clopping sounds that carried themselves far into the tar-black shadow and bounced off the impending trees.

Usually a thirty-day’s ride, South Haven was a forty-day’s ride due to the small, living, breathing cargo the priest carried: a three-day-old human infant. However, the priest knew he would only make it to his destination if the goblins did not pursue. If they did, his trip, and mission, was undeniably doomed.

Standing motionless, the trees seemed as massive, bark-armored guards of the forest, protecting it from harm. Some even rumored that once they were Ent guards sometime in the long forgotten past. They were guards of the past sleeping until the Lifestream awoke them. They stretched far into the atmosphere; their tops were invisible to anything below and covered in a forest haze of moon-blue radiance.

As the first seed planted in spring, the Aetta Maura was believed to be the first woodland planted by the gods. Being the forest closest to the sea, the men had right to believe it. The trees of the wood stretched from the still, salt-water of the Star Gulf all the way to the ancient, foaming Spall Gulf. Many different races dwelt within that beast of a wooded wilderness. Cleared patches of forest filled with cities and bustling woodsmen spotted the forest.

Winter was near, if not upon the land, and the ground was hard and icy. The horse defectively struggled to hold its footing as a chilling arctic mist covered the forest floor, making a thick layer of clear, thin ice. Most creatures and races were in hibernation; only the ice dragons, the coldest of all dragons, dared to venture out in this weather. And even they were chilled to the core by the very feel of the icy weather.

The horse whinnied abruptly. The sound carried itself deep into the trees for only the nymphs and dryads, the mythological creatures of old legends, to enjoy. Due to his immense hatred of long journeys, the priest let out a perturbed groan. Uncomfortable does not even begin to describe the sensations he felt. However, the weather did not bother him. He was a nemose and felt no temperature. That was in his blood. What bothered him was the distance! A couple hours were all the old man could take before, inadvertently; he started to nod off into a deep slumber. A slumber only generated by extreme unavoidable exhaustion started to fall upon him. The maiden of sleep and dreams easily wooed him into her lazy grasp and all of physical world fell into utter oblivion as he nodded, hunched over his horse and hunched over his mission. The baby stayed silent on his lap as he nodded over it.

Hours passed and the baby let out a sudden cry of pain. The shrill sound immediately aroused the priest from his doze. Alert, the priest observed an unsullied and clear light shining on the newborn’s neck. Hastily, without an ounce of delay, he uncovered the long, thin, baby hair over the gold light, if his worst fears were truly happening he had to confirm. And there, he saw a mark, a tattoo, a pale-gold drop of blood letting off a throbbing luminescent light. His heart jumped into his mouth. A sign of impeding evil.

Frenzied, the priest spurred on his horse, educing blood on the constantly jerking sides of the animal. The blood, due to the cold and windy conditions, quickly crusted and froze over on the horse’s sides. Luckily, the priest, because of the weather’s condition, had the sense enough to make sure the baby was well covered. The baby was safely covered, wrapped in a coarse blanket, and the priest quickly alerted himself to the surrounding forest.

Ice froze onto his eyelashes, clouding his vision.

Minutes passed and all of the sudden, a loud cough-like crackle filled the forest with its reverberating waves of noise. Behind him, he spotted a daunting black robed figure on horseback. The robed being made the queer coughing sound again, spurred on his horse, and screamed with a horrifically raspy voice, “In the Name of Emperor Esis! Give the boy up! We have you surrounded!” Its voice was clearly malevolent. Two massive yellow eyes burned underneath his hood.

To his utter horror, the priest beheld two more sword-wielding, tall, and lean black riders ahead of him. Frightened, the horse sped up and its traction on the forest floor slowly started to elude the animal. Quickly, with a jerky leap, the priest jumped off the doomed horse. The excess weight gone, the whinnying creature regained its foothold on the icy floor and fled into the surrounding forest whinnying loudly and, after minutes, disappearing into the forest mist.

All of the riders halted in their tracks and their leader yelled, “Now then, will you give us the boy or not?”

The nemose snarled. “Keep your mouths closed you villains!”  He commanded with a biting ire. His voice seemed old and gruff, but not too old. The priest seemed as if he was wise, but not feeble. Strength that many called “a passion for patriotism” was audible in his voice. This nemose was clearly on a mission. There was no way he would hand over the boy to these traitors.

The tall and daunting black leader dismounted his horse, fuming with an inhuman anger. He, or it, charged at the nemose priest with a serrated blade over its head.

Speedily the priest pulled out his long sword. The silver blade, atop of an up-spiked hilt of black steel, glimmered in the moonlight. A prickle crept down the priest’s neck.

Holding a queer-looking serrated sword, the leader commanded his two companions to unsheathe their blades. Hearing the words, the two remaining assassins drew their weapons. The blades, being serrated, were scraping the steel hilts as they were pulled, creating a maddening noise. As the blades were unsheathed, the nemose’s ears burned with an annoying sensation and he clamped his teeth together, grinding them. A chip of ivory broke off his big tooth.

“If this is how you chose to die, with the young heir, then so be it!” hissed the leader raising his blade into the sky.

The black-robed being’s sword was unique. The grip and pommel were solid black but the guard was grayish white. The notched blade was an evil looking grey. On top of the atmosphere, the moonlight made the sword seem corpse-like and dead. Rightly so. For this was a Necromancer’s blade.

The three black robed figures made a circle around the orange-eyed nemose priest and started dwindling the loop’s size. Rapidly, they closed in. The priest, although he couldn’t see into their hoods, thought he sensed a malevolent smirk on every one of their faces.

Pulse elevating, the nemose twitched. His mind was spinning with plans as he felt the climbing trip-trap of his heart’s pulse. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and his hand grew clammy rapidly. Emotions, colder than the ice surrounding him, chilled his essence with fear.

Without delay, the monsters approached, yellow eyes beaming and teeth glaring in the moonlight. Underneath their cloaks, they truly were grinning a disturbing and benevolent smirk. Their teeth glimmered in the moonlight. They were rotten and white. Some were gore crusted.

The mood these beasts exerted was one of intense mystery interwoven with a mortal fear. Black magic radiated from their bodies, yet they used it not. Their very footstep would send a shock of fear throughout anyone’s body. Even the insects were scared of them. These beasts were horror, pure horror and as the nemose stood there with his sword in a defensive position, he knew these beasts had power beyond imagining.

With clammy white knuckles, the nemose gripped his sword and with his free hand gripped the crying baby. Fighting… he was used to it. He had been exposed to it plenty of times and was always ready to defend what he believed in. But now wasn’t the time to remember. Remembering is pointless; remembering is for the living, not the dead. His teacher, Reanold, used to tell him. Soon he may be dead.

Then, the attack came. In a frenzy of insane ire, the leader swung his sword down towards the priest, bristling with rage.

The priest, with a quick twitchy movement, blocked it and slashed the monster’s blade upward causing a reverberating clang.

Seeing their chance, the two other monsters joined the battle, attacking the priest. Clearly, he was outnumbered. That piece of insight threw another gas-coated log into the bonfire of fear.

For a vexed man, the priest fought like an elf. Singlehandedly and unaccompanied with help of any kind, the priest disarmed them both and kicked one to the ground. He spun around to block a blow from the grey-blade wielding leader. Blocking the strike, and holding the blade suspended in the air, he kicked the monster in the stomach. His feet shot through the black cloaks! There was nothing inside! This thing is a specter! The nemose realized. A sharp pain sparked in his leg and he saw blue lights dance about on his shin. He groaned as pain shot up his leg. Needles, called a bristle of magic, were being plunged into his skin.

Dropping his sword to take advantage of this moment, the beast grabbed the nemose’s extended leg and twisted it around, spinning the priest, baby in arms, to the soiled ground. Spinning in the air, he focused on the Lifestream, time slowed as he organized a spell. Due to it, a pure white flash of light lit up the forest as the two fell to the ground. The nemose just laid there for a few of heartbeats recovering from the shock. The baby, screaming muffled cries, was lying smashed under the nemose’s body. Instantaneously, the priest got up and, magically, the baby was unharmed. Without the priest’s spell, the baby would have most certainly died. To the priest, he owed his life to the Lifesteam and he always would. Now the Power, the Lifestream of Aphiel, would be intertwined in the baby’s life also.

Limping now, the priest staggered over to the black rider. He swung his whistling foil with furiousness that would frighten even the toughest warrior. Air rushed over his arms struggling to bite into his hide and penetrate his warm body. It did not succeed; it never would.

Unperturbed, the monster effortlessly blocked the attack and kicked the priest down to the ground. The monster’s kicking leg felt like hard ice; it was and wasn’t truly there.

Bleeding a constant stream of black cherry-colored blood from the mouth, a dark and shadowy red, the priest quickly stood up and swung one final time.

Blocking the blow, the beast angrily tried to stab him. The blade whistled like hurricane winds through thrashing trees.

Twisting in order to avoid the stab, the priest let out a desperate cry of pain. It felt like his intestines were being wrung out! Screaming, his anger and edge grew more intense. Ire burned in his soul like blaze in a volcano!

“Now, you die for your rebel king!” The assassin hissed as it pulled its weapon over its black-hooded, twisted, head.

All of the sudden, in the middle of the moment, the nemose priest thought, There is no other option. Then, at a mind-numbing speed, he took off into the forest. His ankle stung, and bled out of the tiny punctures coating his leg in a checkerboard of red and white. It burned to his bone but he pressed on, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Trees flew past him in a blur of color. Jerkily, he sheathed his weapon, his shoulders bent as his right arm pressed the blade into the leather sheath. Straightening his shoulder and putting his eyes ahead, his feet, like the passing trees, were a blur. Surprisingly, he was almost as fast as his horse. He headed towards Cepune; he headed west, baby cradled in his arms.

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The suns were asleep on their cloudy beds in the west and King Adarnas Goldblood showed not a single fiber of emotion. His face was blank as a canvas before the painter’s strokes. Obviously, the king was deep in the quagmire of thought. Annoyingly, his ring tapped his stone throne in an expression of contemplation. Finally, he decided, “Ready the troops.”

It had been six days since Adarnas first heard of the march of the Aridians. He was surprised. He did not think the Deceiver would act so quickly against him. Now, at the beginning of a new age, the Blind Deceived and their leader, Holy Emperor Esis Ra’bok, had decided to re-emerge and rekindle the flame of their seemingly never-ending conquest of the world. Adarnas had finally chosen between fight and flight. He had nowhere to take a county! Now was the last stand, the Battle of the End was beginning and the troops were about to be aroused. Dunwalen of the Triple Alliance would deal one final blow!

Since his long wait for orders was over, Captain Damori’s attractive face twisted into a smile. He nodded somberly. “Yes sir,” he responded. He bowed, and then walked out of the throne room; his metal-tipped boots tapped the stone floor echoing into utter oblivion. His scabbard clinked against his armor.

As Damori left the throne room, King Adarnas struggled with a question. In his mind, he battled with the raging question that had been chafing the back of his mind for years. What man could unite all of the feudal races under one banner and win the hearts of his millions of conquered subjects? Just three years before his coronation, rebellions were burning with an immense ferocity! It just didn't make sense. Only one person had outlived many humans and Elves. He had yet to die. He was the leader of the Divine Empire, the evil alliance threatening to plunge all of Ursadona into shadow and flame, though no one but the Rebels knew it. He posed as a harbinger of victory and success to his people but the Triple Alliance or the Rebels, an alliance of the Stone Dwarves of the Faeng, Elves of the Northsoul, and the humans of the dwindling Dunwalen Empire, knew it was all lies. Many of them were in his inner circle until they finally realized his true colors. Adarnas continued thinking, Adarnas realized that Esis was more than a man; he was one of the gods.

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A chilly rain fell, blanketing the Dunwalen Peninsula in near-freezing water. The sun cast eerie shadows through the thick rain.

Breaking into a run, Damori, the Captain, observed the throne room behind him and the barracks, glowing from the flames inside, only yards ahead. It towered three stories into the sky and two stories into the earth. The design was of solid stone and the Barrack’s land stretched over almost ten acres. Now sprinting, the Captain yelled as his royal lips morphed into a frown, “To arms! To arms!”

The Rebel of Dunwalen was made mostly of men. But due to the ancient alliance, many Tree Elf fighters fought alongside those men. The army was weak; it had not seen a war in over fifteen-hundred years. No one expected anything new to happen! Only within the last five-hundred years had the Dunwalians seen any movement in Aridia, even that movement was quiet and hushed.

As Damori’s calls fell upon the army, most of the men and elves stirred and some who had been sleeping awoke from their sleep. A man called out with a brave voice, “What is it, Captain?”

“The goblins are coming from the sea! Behind them forces of Skulls, and black dwarves are coming from the north! They intend to destroy us!” He pointed a robust finger east, “Now, to arms! I want to hear the clang of armor and the beat of swords! No more questions! To your arms!”

No more questions arose. The army bustled about grabbing weapons and garbing themselves in armor with great alacrity. In seconds, the north legion was prepared. Fifty men stood at attention with a brightly garbed leader at their front. For a rebel army, they were wealthy. The legion marched out of the barracks. The legion captain called out, “North legion ready. We await orders, Master Captain Shadowhorn!”

Knowing he was sending every man in the army to his death, the captain responded heavily, “Guard the northern entrance and post the crossbowman on the battlement!” His voice seemed suddenly wan. Damori sensed the despondency and quickly formed false enthusiasm. Masking his voice well, Damori seemed confident. To his surprise, he observed the men’s faces and concluded: no one suspected a thing. No one knew the amount of enemies that were swarming over the horizon.

“Yes sir,” The legion captain responded. The leader of the north legion then proceeded to spit out orders to his troops. Quickly, he and his troops marched, out of sight, to the northern entrance of the massive stone castle.

The news of the goblin ships on the horizon gave a sense of unease to the soldiers. Although they were reticent about it, the fear floated on the air and passed from man to man as a poisonous toxin, poisoning and smothering their small remaining hope. Anyone who just as much breathed in the fumes of fear would fall to its will and eventually be crushed in its heavy embrace. The light of the Rebel Army was fading and, sadly, no one knew it would never brighten again. The light would soon me smothered, on no account to shine in the world once more. It would take a miracle to resurrect Dunwalen.

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 “What shall we do with him then?!” Joy’s perfect face was warped in anger as she screamed the words irately.

“Do you want him to be taken by the goblins?! Do you even know what they will do to him?!” Adarnas yelled back. The king’s yell was dignified but a sense of despair showed in it. This was clear to Joy, his wife.

Her face seemed surprised but remained twisted with anger, “You mean to kill him! I will not do it!”

Adarnas came very close to Joy’s ear, “Not in front of the nursery maids!” he snarled. His breath smelled like peppermint: his comfort food.

Joy knew that he was afraid, and so was she. She opened her mouth to speak but broke down into tears. Holding her baby with tears pouring down her face, she ran out of the nursery and into the hallway.

Adarnas, at a leisurely pace, pursued. He did not want to cause a panic. If anyone suspected that the king was forlorn, chaos would break out. Adarnas, finding his wife cooing to her baby in a corner, yelled, “I am your husband and your king! You will treat me as your lord! If not, you will face the punishments of insubordination.”

Joy shot him a look of disgust, “Now you are threatening me? You say you are my king! Is that what you are?!” she snarled, “I used to think of you as my lord but now…” her voice faltered then came back, “now I know who you really are: a murderer!”

Adarnas raised his hand and swung it down on her pink cheek. A resounding smack! sounded. She screamed then covered her face with her free hand. Even her scream was pure as white snow.

“I hope you learn some respect,” The king snarled, his face perverted in resentment. Even his elf facial markings were bent into evil looking shapes.

Silently sobbing, Joy ran out of the room; thus, Adarnas was alone.

That encounter would be the last time Adarnas would see his wife. The man knew it well. Anger cooling into forlornness, Adarnas sat down and, for the first time in years, let the tears flow. The beasts had taken away everything from him, his wife, his throne, his wealth, and, worst of all, his firstborn son.

What had angered his wife also angered him. He knew what had to be done. He knew that, for the better of his youngest son, his son needed to be killed. Ursadona, in these dark times, was not the place for an openly declared son-of-a-king.

The whole city of Dunwalen was in an uproar. Guards forsook their positions to join the army. Boys and young men were called from the city to fight. Women sobbed and, in caravans, fled north into the Aetta Maura; most of them would never be seen again.

As if the citizens and city was not enough, the castle was also steeped in chaos. Maids held their composure but almost every other bound member of the castle had committed suicide. Everyone knew well what the Deceived were capable of. However, the Deceived were not even their worst fears. The Skulls were the most horrific part of Esis’s reign. Earlier in time, Zigandish the Necromancer trained Zaumr’auk, a great goblin king, until the Necromancer’s sudden death in circa 95 of the first age. Zaumr’auk had long learned the arts of sprit summoning and, over time, he had gained in skill. It was rumored that, at one point in his life, his summoning went wrong and a group of seven spirits, called Children of the Underworld, had taken over his body. Nevertheless, Zaumr’auk had continued to do experiments on corpses trying to bring life back into them. Then finally, in circa 1100 of the first age, he succeeded in his efforts. He had summoned a spirit back into the corpse of the man. The man was alive and, by dark magic, bound to Zaumr’auk to follow his every wish. But, Zaumr’auk had realized he had made one mistake. The mind may have been working but the body was still dead. Therefore, the dead soldiers felt no pa

A frozen wind blew through the forest awakening the sleeping trees by rattling their little leafy fingers as the priest rode, baby cradled in his arms. As his heart pounded its crimson liquid through his arms with a surprising ferocity, the priest’s orange irises expanded due to the lack of light. Monotonously, the horse’s hooves created some clip-clopping sounds that carried themselves far into the tar-black shadow and bounced off the impending trees.

Usually a thirty-day’s ride, South Haven was a forty-day’s ride due to the small, living, breathing cargo the priest carried: a three-day-old human infant. However, the priest knew he would only make it to his destination if the goblins did not pursue. If they did, his trip, and mission, was undeniably doomed.

Standing motionless, the trees seemed as massive, bark-armored guards of the forest, protecting it from harm. Some even rumored that once they were Ent guards sometime in the long forgotten past. They were guards of the past sleeping until some magic awoke them. They stretched far into the atmosphere; their tops were invisible to anything below and covered in a forest haze of moon-blue radiance.

As the first seed planted in spring, the Aetta Maura was believed to be the first woodland planted by the gods. Being the forest closest to the sea, the men had right to believe it. The trees of the wood stretched from the still, salt-water of the Star Gulf all the way to the ancient, foaming Spall Gulf. Many different races dwelt within that beast of a wooded wilderness. Cleared patches of forest filled with cities and bustling woodsmen spotted the wood.

Winter was near, if not upon the land, and the ground was hard and icy. The horse defectively struggled to hold its footing as a chilling arctic mist covered the forest floor, making a thick layer of clear, thin ice. Most creatures and races were in hibernation; only the ice dragons, the coldest of all dragons, dared to venture out in this weather. And even they were chilled to the core by the very feel of the icy weather.

The horse whinnied abruptly. The sound carried itself deep into the trees for only the nymphs and dryads, the mythological creatures of old legends, to enjoy. Due to his immense hatred of long journeys, the priest let out a perturbed groan. Uncomfortable does not even begin to describe the sensations he felt. But the weather did not bother him. He was a Nemose and felt no temperature. That was in his blood. What bothered him was the distance! A couple hours were all the old man could take before, inadvertently; he started to nod off into a deep slumber. A slumber only generated by extreme unavoidable exhaustion. The maiden of sleep and dreams easily wooed him into her lazy grasp and all of physical world fell into utter oblivion as he nodded, hunched over his horse and hunched over his mission. The baby stayed silent on his lap as he nodded over it.

Hours passed and the baby let out a sudden cry of pain. The shrill sound immediately aroused the priest from his doze. Alert, the priest observed an unsullied and clear light shining on the newborn’s neck. Hastily, without an ounce of delay, he uncovered the long, thin, baby hair over the gold light, if his worst fears were truly happening, he had to confirm. And there, he saw a mark, a tattoo, a pale-gold drop of blood letting off a throbbing luminescent light. His heart jumped into his mouth. Gasping, the priest thought, a sign of impending evil.

Frenzied, the priest spurred on his horse, educing blood on the constantly jerking sides of the animal. The blood, due to the cold and windy conditions, quickly crusted and froze over on the horse’s sides. Luckily the priest, because of the weather’s condition, had the sense enough to make sure the baby was well covered. The baby was safely covered and the priest quickly alerted himself to the surrounding forest.

Ice froze onto his eyelashes.

Minutes passed and all of the sudden, a loud cough-like crackle filled the forest with its reverberating waves of noise. Behind him, he spotted a daunting black robed figure on horseback. The robed being made the queer coughing sound again, spurred on his horse, and screamed with a horrifically raspy voice, “In the Name of Emperor Esis! Give the boy up! We have you surrounded!” Droll dripped from his hood. His voice was clearly malevolent. Two massive yellow eyes burned underneath his hood.

To his utter horror, the priest beheld two more sword-wielding, tall, and lean black riders ahead of him. Frightened, the horse sped up and its traction on the forest floor slowly started to elude the animal. Quickly, with a jerky leap, the priest jumped off the doomed horse. The excess weight gone, the whinnying creature regained its foothold on the icy floor and fled into the surrounding forest whinnying loudly and, after minutes, disappearing into the forest mist.

All of the riders halted in their tracks and their leader yelled, “Now then, will you give us the boy or not?”

The Nemose snarled. “Keep your mouths closed you villains!”  He commanded with a biting ire. His voice seemed old and gruff, but not too old. The man seemed as if he was wise, but not feeble. Strength that some called “passion for patriotism” was audible in his voice. This Nemose was clearly on a mission. There was no way he would hand over the boy to these traitors.

The tall and daunting black leader dismounted his horse, fuming with an inhuman anger. He, or it, charged at the Nemose priest with a serrated blade over its head.

Speedily the priest pulled out his long sword. The silver blade, atop of an up-spiked hilt of black steel, glimmered in the moonlight. Casting a spell, he shrieked, “Brimmrae, slithalun Rungugotual!” The words floated on the foggy air like steam and slowly faded into a repetitive quiet whisper that seemed to never die away. The words were entwined in the Lifestream, now they were part of the Lifestream and began working their purpose. A prickle crept down the priest’s neck.

Holding a queer-looking serrated sword, the leader commanded his two companions to unsheathe their blades. Hearing the words, the two remaining assassins drew their weapons. The blades, being serrated, were scraping the steel hilts as they were pulled creating a maddening noise. As the blades were unsheathed, the Nemose’s ears burned with an annoying sensation and he clamped his teeth together, grinding them.

“If this is how you chose to die, with the young heir, then so be it!” hissed the leader raising his blade into the sky.

The black-robed being’s sword was unique. The grip and pommel were solid black but the guard was grayish white. The notched blade was an evil looking grey. On top of the atmosphere, the moonlight made the sword seem corpse-like and dead. Rightly so. For this was a Necromancer’s blade.

The three black robed figures made a circle around the orange-eyed Nemose priest and started dwindling the loop’s size. Rapidly, they closed in. The priest thought he sensed a malevolent smirk on every one of their faces.

Pulse elevating, the Nemose twitched. His mind was spinning with plans as he felt the climbing trip-trap of his heart’s pulse. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and his hand grew clammy rapidly. Emotions, colder than the ice surrounding him, chilled his essence with fear.

Without delay, the monsters approached, droll dripping from teeth bearing mouths. Underneath their cloaks, they truly were grinning a disturbing and benevolent smirk. Their teeth glimmered in the moonlight. They were rotten and white. Some were gore crusted.

The mood these beasts exerted was one of intense mystery interwoven with a mortal fear. Black magic radiated from their bodies, yet they used it not. Their very footstep would send a shock of fear throughout anyone’s body. Even the insects were scared of them. These beasts were horror, pure horror and as the Nemose stood there with his sword in a defensive position, he knew these beasts had power beyond imagining.

With clammy white knuckles, the Nemose gripped his sword and with his free hand gripped the crying baby. Fighting… he was used to it. He had been exposed to it plenty of times and was always ready to defend what he believed in. But now wasn’t the time to remember. Remembering is pointless; remembering is for the living, not the dead. His teacher used to tell him. Soon, he thought, I may be.

Then, the attack came. In a frenzy of insane ire, the leader swung his sword down towards the priest, bristling with rage.

The priest, with a quick twitchy movement, blocked it and slashed the monster’s blade upward causing a reverberating clang.

Seeing their chance, the two other monsters joined the battle, attacking the priest. Clearly, he was outnumbered. That piece of insight threw another gas-coated log into the bonfire of fear.

For a vexed man, the priest fought like an Elf. Singlehandedly and unaccompanied with help of any kind, the priest disarmed them both and kicked one to the ground. He spun around to block a blow from the grey-blade wielding leader. Blocking the strike, and holding the blade suspended in the air, he kicked the monster in the stomach. His feet shot through the black cloaks! There was nothing inside! This thing is a specter! The Nemose realized. A sharp pain sparked in his leg and he saw blue lights dance about on his shin. He groaned as pain shot up his leg. Needles called a bristle of magic were being plunged into his skin.

Dropping his sword to take advantage of this moment, the beast grabbed the Nemose’s extended leg and twisted it around, spinning the priest, baby in arms, to the soiled ground. Spinning in the air, he muttered a desperate incantation, “Jemam, skulus prov!” Due to the words, a pure white flash of light lit up the forest as the two fell to the ground. The Nemose just laid there for a few of heartbeats recovering from the shock. The baby, screaming muffled cries, was lying smashed under the Nemose’s body. Instantaneously, the priest got up and, magically, the baby was unharmed. Without the priest’s spell, the baby would have most certainly died. To the priest, he owed his life to magic and he always would. Now magic, the magic of the Fellowship, would be intertwined in the baby’s life also.

Limping now, the priest staggered over to the black rider. He swung his whistling foil with furiousness that would frighten even the toughest warrior. Air rushed over his arms struggling to bite into his hide and penetrate his warm body. It did not succeed; it never would.

Unperturbed, the monster effortlessly blocked the attack and kicked the priest down to the ground. The monster’s kicking leg felt like hard ice; it wasn’t truly there.

Bleeding a constant stream of black cherry-colored blood from the mouth, a dark and shadowy red, the priest quickly stood up and swung one final time.

Blocking the blow, the beast angrily tried to stab him. The blade whistled like hurricane winds through thrashing trees.

Twisting in order to avoid the stab, the priest let out a desperate cry of pain. It felt like his intestines were being wrung out! Screaming, his anger and edge grew more intense. Ire burned in his soul like blaze in a volcano!

“Now, you die for your rebel king!” The assassin hissed as it pulled its weapon over its black-hooded, twisted, head.

All of the sudden, in the middle of the moment, the Nemose priest thought, There is no other option. Then, at a mind-numbing speed, he took off into the forest. His ankle stung, and bled out of the tiny punctures coating his leg in a checkerboard of red and white. It burned to his bone but he pressed on, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Trees flew past him in a blur of color. Jerkily, he sheathed his weapon, his shoulders bent as his right arm pressed the blade into the leather sheath. Straightening his shoulder and putting his eyes ahead, his feet, like the passing trees, were a blur. Surprisingly, he was almost as fast as his horse. He headed towards Cepune; he headed west, baby cradled in his arms.

Part three is coming soon!