“You still will not win, Brytenwalda,” the male monarch called out imperiously. “Her White Majesty has taken the field, and will crush you all in a matter of moments.”
“Yeah, we’ll see how that goes,” I replied, unconcerned, as I heard the familiar sound of Guineve’s fiery blasts behind me. From outside, a scream of surprise and rage tore through the air.
“THE STEWARD OF AVALON? THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE! YOU CANNOT LEAVE YOUR WORLD! YOU ARE BOUND TO AVALON ITSELF!”
“One shouldn’t make so many assumptions, Madame Icon,” Guineve admonished calmly, but somehow with a voice that carried all the way over to us. “They lead to all manner of accidents.”
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE HERE!” the White Witch shouted from the sky, and hurricane-force winds roared through the broken wall’s opening. Guineve just hummed contently and canceled the furious wind with a blast of her own magic.
“Impossible,” Lillothi breathed as she saw the Guardian of Avalon match strength with the Dark Icon of her race. “This is all impossible!”
“Pfft,” Breena blew a raspberry. “For being around Wes? This is just a normal Tuesday. Wait.” She cocked her head. “Is it Tuesday? And if so would it be Tuesday here, or on Avalon?”
“Avalon.” Forgryn’s flaming eyes narrowed as they locked onto me. “He was the one who summoned the world of the Steward to here.” He turned his head to his consort. “We must isolate and destroy him, or our defeat is guaranteed.”
“It will be done,” Lillothi replied, pointing her wand at me. “But do not fail to kill him, or our White Majesty will never forgive our king.”
The monarch scoffed, and as he dashed toward me walls of white crystal suddenly burst from the floor, forcing me to jump away from my team and engage the Hoarfolk king.
The next breath I took, he was right before me, slashing with his long, slender blade.
I jumped and somersaulted over him, but his double-edged sword still caught me in the leg, tearing through the script shielding, Stoneskin spell, and even the hem of my Icon-crafted aketon. I landed with a wince about a dozen yards away and threw Toirneach at him.
The winter fey king knocked my axe contemptuously out of the air with a sweep of his blue blade. The axe thunked into the enchanted crystal and did not immediately return to my hand.
“Script magic?” the winter king sniffed as he cleared the distance between the two of us in a single step, his sword flashing all over me like a rain of icicles. “Ideal magic?” he asked as I parried his first two blows, giving ground. “Swordplay, and axe play?” His weapon scoured a line on my bicep, cutting through the mail and barely piercing my padding underneath. “And even a bit of Blood magic, judging by the portal you created here.” He knocked my sword out of position and drove two quick jabs into my lower torso. “How do you expect to live long enough to excel at any single thing, when you spend your scant number of years trying to learn everything at once?”
I leaped out of his weapon’s reach, adjusted my momentum, summoned my shield, and charged back toward him with my barrier in the way.
“An amateur of all sorts of weapons and magic,” Forgryn continued scoffing as he leaped over my head, narrowly missing my neck as he slashed along my left shoulder. “Fighting against an opponent with untold centuries of practice with his favored weapon.” He landed behind me, and I barely turned to get my shield in the way before he ran me through. He launched another flurry of attacks, and when I brought my shield up high to take them, he swept his foot up and into my stomach, knocking the air out of my body with the force of his deceptively strong attack. Then he stabbed his blue blade straight into my chest.
I felt my entire body grow cold as the flame-eyed king sneered into my face and twisted his long blade. The air crackled around the weapon as an icicle suddenly launched out of it, launching me across our improvised arena and into the farthest wall as the missile currently impaling me lodged itself into the crystal wall. I dropped my shield and began to futilely pull myself clear of the bloody trap.
“Tell me, Brytenwalda,” the asininely acrobatic fey said as he cleared the long distance between us in just a handful of steps. “Tell me why you squandered such a powerful body and such powerful equipment.” He slashed at my sword arm in an attempt to make me drop my weapon. It hurt, but I didn’t let go. “Tell me why you squandered all of that to be just good enough to fail when you needed to win the most. Tell me how you qualify as the Lord of Avalon, or the Challenger of Avalon, or even the Brytenwalda of the Woadlands, when right now you are failing at all three?” He pointed his blue sword right at my face, and white frost began whirling around it. Apparently he felt like he had time to hear my last words. Somehow.
“Qualify as man,” I grunted painfully, still struggling with the icicle stuck in my chest. “Not a bug…”
He cocked his head at that, curious.
“Explain,” he commanded, and so I called upon the words of the late, great Heinlein to do just that.
“A human being should be able to change a diaper,” I began, pulling myself inch by inch off the frozen spike, “plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building—” I coughed, but I was halfway off the spike—“write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying.” My head was hanging low and I was panting, but I was almost free. King Forgryn seemed mesmerized by my speech, still not acting yet. “Take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal,” I gasped, finally pulling myself free and collapsing to my knees, unable to raise my head, but still speaking. “Fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.”
I finally raised my head and gave him a bloody grin. “Now shut up and go splat, you overgrown roach.”
I finished speaking, surged to my feet and activated my Battleform.
#
As power wrapped around me like a quilted cloak, King Forgryn swore and leaped away.
I leaped right with him.
My bright, short blade scoured across his own bicep, and the wound sizzled with heat.
“Impossible!” he shouted. “You were beaten! You were on death’s door!”
It was my turn to scoff, as I parried his next attack and riposted, slicing into his leg.
Because there actually was something I had spent a fair bit of my life practicing. In fact, for at least two years of my life I had been practicing this discipline every day. By some counts, I had spent a hundred lives refining this key skill of mine.
That skill, that discipline, was a two-fold technique.
The first fold was to handle extreme levels of pain.
The second fold was to do the first thing, but to do it far better than anyone ever expected me to.
I had not been nearly as wounded as he thought I was.
“Lillothi!” Forgryn called out as I slashed another wound across his torso. “I need help!”
“Too late,” I answered, as Teeth roared forward and activated our Dragonform on top of our Battleform.
Don’t expect much, he sent me. We overdid it back with Cavus. I can give you less than thirty seconds.
That’s too many. I grinned as gold and red scales covered my limbs and armor. A golden talon grew around Claimh Solais, lengthening and augmenting the weapon, while more scales grew over my head to form a dragon-shaped helm and extra jaw. As the winter king leaped away I barreled back into him, impaling him a few inches lower than the spot he impaled me at. As he coughed white blood and tried to swing his weapon at me, I channeled my stored fireball through the weapon and blew him clean off my sword.
He went spiraling and smoking through the air but still managed to land on one knee, his chest a pierced, scorched, and blackened mess. But he was still not nearly as wounded as he should have been, and from what I could tell he possessed a trinket or spell that protected him against fire, and fire specifically or the other Ideals working my blast would not have been able to
harm him. The Hoarfolk king snarled in rage and charged me, shooting a barrage of icicles out of his sword at me.
I calmly stepped several feet closer to the nearest wall. I swung Claimh Solais again, able to discharge a blast of my own this time, and the wave of light disintegrated the icy attack before blasting harmlessly into the air. Then I reached out toward the wall and ripped Toirneach free, glad that I had kept track of where the weapon had been the entire fight. I closed the distance again with a dragon-empowered leap, stabbing out with my sword to catch my opponent’s own weapon, and then before he could react, I slammed my giant tomahawk into his primary shoulder. The weapon crunched through my enemy’s clothes and bone. The very next second I triggered my Outer Current spell, discharging the power of all six of my Ideals through my axe and into the wound. The shoulder popped and cracked until the arm attached to it dropped its weapon and hung loosely down Forgryn’s side. The winter fey sank to his knees, clearly not used to this level of pain.
“How…” he began to ask, but then his eyes went wide. “Bond… dragon… traitor-pri—”
“Nope,” I answered. As he sank downward I had already let go of Toirneach to begin scribing words in front of his chest. Widen. Pierce. Empower. I kept it simple and used English this time for the script spells. “No last words for you,” I finished speaking, piercing him with my glowing blade and discharging my stored lightning bolt.
The Hoarfolk were weak against heat. Even a non-gamer would draw that conclusion. And naturally the Hoarfolk had come up with ways to protect themselves against fire magic. But they didn’t bother with lightning magic for two reasons. The first being the fact that the Ideal of Lightning is actually a very rarely comprehended Ideal. It takes much more energy and resources to proof oneself against it, and Lightning mages are almost non-existent. I haven’t met a single one outside my own team.
The second reason is that almost no one realizes just how much hotter lightning is than fire.
The king of the Winter Court had time to let out one final scream before his body blew completely apart. My spell had been enhanced by my Battleform, my Dragonform, and Claimh Solais. Apparently the sword worked much like a fairy wand. Which was another reason to use it more often in the future. Meanwhile, I would use the hole my super-enhanced lightning bolt had blown in the wall to exit the impromptu dueling ground, stopping briefly to pick up the dead king’s long blade.
When I stepped through the crystal wall, I found that the battle had all but ended. The Testifiers and Val had made short work of the court’s remaining honor guard, while my warriors below had completely routed the Hoarfolk knights, especially since our portal had remained open and the rest of my original Gaelguard had been able to filter in. A final glance showed Merada and Breena standing over Queen Lillothi. Breena was in her glowing, full-sized Dawn Fairy form, holding a smoking wand still pointed at the Hoarfolk queen, as the Woad Princess drove her spear into the ice fey’s chest.
“I owe ye this a hundred times over,” the huntress spat as she twisted the glowing weapon through Lillothi’s torso. “But I’ll settle for killing ye, and making sure ye never hurt one of me people ever again.” She twisted one more time, and the Hoarfolk queen went limp. Her crystal jewelry crumbled, and her burning eyes extinguished into empty pits.
A giant crack suddenly rumbled along the entire palace, stretching along walls, curling through the ceiling, running back down the ground. I heard Caill Fuar shriek in rage and anguish over the destruction of her capitol. She was the last combatant standing, her white robe smoking as she continued to duel Guineve in magical combat.
“My Tumult!” she shrieked. “My kingdom! My people!”
“I would have let you keep the last two,” I answered, walking toward her as scales began to fall from my body.
Ten seconds left, Teeth cautioned.
“But then you went after my own people. My own treasure. My own hoard.”
“No!” she howled, ice whipping through the room. “I do not accept this! I do not deserve this!”
White flames blasted out from Guineve, and this time the Dark Icon caught fire. She ignored it, turning toward me and rushing over. As Guineve continued burning her the White Witch turned her body into a misty vapor, aiming to rush past me while swiping one long nailed hand at my face.
Five seconds, Teeth advised.
I sidestepped and swung the sword of light through Fuar’s offending hand, severing the smoky appendage. I caught it in my other claw and stuffed the mist into my mouth, fulfilling another promise I had made earlier to the Dark Icon.
Once again, it tasted like kale, only kale with freezer burn. Fuar shrieked again and turned toward me, but Guineve let out a blast of misty fire this time, driving the broken remains of the Dark Icon out and into the winter sky, leaving the once-powerful being as nothing but a broken vestige.
And just like that, the final threat of the Woadlands was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE: KINGMEET
I walked toward the stony mound.
Is this truly necessary? I asked Merada through the mindlink. She nodded at me, and I tried not gawk over how beautiful she looked in her deep green gown.
I know ye have much left to do, Merada answered sadly. And I’ll miss ye when ye finally leave. But this be important.
I didn’t mean any offense, I answered. I just wanted them to know that I would have taken a simple pledge of allegiance from them.
And it would have been insufficient, Merada said firmly. These Icons have never pledged fealty to any being, Malcolm. Not even Stell. They don’t wish to repeat the wrongs they did to her.
Fair enough, I thought as I stepped onto the tall stone outcrop. I was garbed in my repaired armor and clothing, with a long green cape attached to my back. My green mail gleamed with polish over my tabard and padding. I wore both of my strongest weapons, Toirneach and Claimh Solais, strapped to my belt.
Far down below me were the chieftains, heroes and elders of all three Woadlands races. Many below had gone through unspeakable tragedies alongside their people. But at the end of the Tumult, when the last of the captives were finally rescued and their territory had finally been recovered, their losses proved to be far less than the blessings they gained upon their combined victories over their Tumult and Trial. Even conquering the Horde and the Malus Order proved to have provided them benefits. They looked flush with health and power, some of them sparkling with new magic, others adorned with treasures recovered from the Hoarfolk’s vaults. The plunder alone was enough to spark a new golden age for the Woadlands, not counting everything else they had acquired. Such a reversal of fortune should have been impossible, by Earth standards. But then the Universal Laws echoed through my mind.
All is not lost.
Failure is non-permanent.
Greater things are yet to come.
I shook my head to regain focus, looking up. Floating around me were the four Icons of this world, garbed and glowing with power. They took up position some feet away from me, all bowing once before beginning the ceremony.
“Hail Wes Malcolm!” the Stag Lord shouted. “Challenger of Avalon!”
“Hail! Hail!” the masses repeated below me.
“Hail Wes Malcolm!” Great Pan shouted. “The recognized Lord of Avalon itself!”
“Hail! Hail!” came the chorus.
“Hail Wes Malcolm!” Lady Titania shouted. “Savior of the Woadlands!”
“Hail! Hail!”
“Hail Wes Malcolm,” Mother Glade called out in a clear, commanding voice. “Worthy High King, of the Woadlands themselves!”
“Hail! Hail!”
Merada stepped next to me, unclasping her hands from behind her back. Now I could see that she had been holding an armband, made of two twisted metals, burnished gold and silvery arsenic bronze. It looked much like the torcs ancient Celtic peoples once wore on Earth, save that it fastened over my bicep instead of my neck.
“And hail Wes Malcolm,” Merada said softly. “Champion
of the Steward of Avalon,” she began speaking even softer, to where only I could hear her, “and conqueror of this part of her heart.”
She wasn’t supposed to say that last line, and I knew it. But she smiled with her usual, reckless confidence, and fastened the armband around my bicep, giving me a brave look that said she wasn’t sorry and that she wasn’t taking back her words. Power surged through me as the armlet fastened upon me, traveling to my core, to Breaker, and to Toirneach.
The force of her feelings melded with the impact of the honor I had just been bestowed. It combined with the burden of all the responsibilities heaped upon me, and with my exhaustion and all my memories of pain and failure. It combined finally with the voices of three frightened old creatures that shouted “Unclean! Unworthy! Unholy!” over and over, and pressed down upon me with all of their exalted arrogance.
The weight tried to wrap up and smother my heart, my hopes, and my dreams. It even crept up to the forefront of my mind, until it was the only thing my soul could see standing over me.
But just because it covered my vision, didn’t make it my limit or my end.
This burdensome mass was not my sky.
It was not my heaven.
It was not my god.
With a defiant inner roar, and a fierce, accepting smile at the woman who had just professed her love to me, I wrapped both knuckles, both talons around the constricting mass… heaved…
And pushed.
End of Book 3.
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AFTERWORD
Hello everyone! I hope you enjoyed my book and I really appreciate you reading up to this point. This is my third published work, so I would love for you to leave feedback on a review on Amazon, especially if you liked it. Reviews are the lifeblood of indie authors like me, helping our books get the exposure readers need to find them. If they can’t find out books, they can’t buy them, and then we authors starve and die, instead of continue writing. Is my writing still good enough to where I should keep going? Please leave a review and let me know what you think!
Woad Children (Challenger's Call Book 3) Page 56
