by B T Litell
“Um, Joshua, is Vor’Kath supposed to be able to move his hand with this spell?” Michael asked, staring at the false statue.
Joshua and Týr stopped their argument and immediately turned to inspect the statue of Vor’Kath. What had just a moment before been solid was now starting to move. The stone crust around the Shadow Knight started to crumble and fall away, the stone pieces dissipating like pipe smoke as they fell. Bits of the Shadow Knight started breaking free before others. His hands and fingers wriggled as the stone came free. Joshua rushed to the statue immediately and cast a spell pushing a gust of wind at the bolts of lightning, breaking them free from the rest of the Shadow Knight. The bolts of lightning, still encased in stone, broke on the cobblestone ground of the courtyard, disintegrating altogether.
Týr, seeing the statue coming back to life, hurried over and watched as the knife he had buried into Vor’Kath’s side thawed from the stone, as it appeared to happen. Once the knife was free from the stone, Týr removed the blade, inspected it for any damage or remnants of stone then stood at the ready for the next battle that would surely start once the Vor was free from the stone.
As the stone finished peeling away from the Shadow Knight, he wavered on his feet and his sword hand fell to his side. The curved blade of his sword scraped against the stone. He appeared much like Michael had after drinking too many ales in the tavern. Finally, he shook his head and seemed to remember where he was, the sound of battles nearby seeming to jog his memory.
Vor’Kath swung his sword and its wicked edge struck only air in front of Joshua and Michael. Týr, his knives already in hand, started circling around behind the Shadow Knight like a wolf. Michael drew his sword and squared up to Vor’Kath. He imagined what would happen next would be a traditional duel between the two of them. Michael raised his sword and assumed a stance that would be appropriate for a duel. He would be able to move his feet swiftly and strike like a serpent.
Týr, now fully behind the Shadow Knight looked at Michael and nodded slowly. Joshua, off to Michael’s right had two spells ready, one a ball of fire that floated in his hand, the other looked like a ball of clouds roiling in a tumultuous storm, similar to the storm that Queller found herself stuck in off the coast of Drendil what felt like a lifetime ago.
Vor’Kath raised his sword, ready to attack when a portal opened over his head and a giant hand reached out and grasped the Shadow Knight. The hand, meters in size, held the Vor like a small doll and left him incapacitated. Týr, Michael, and Joshua stepped back for they feared what else might emerge from the portal.
“Vor’Kath you have failed me. You have not met your end of our arrangement and I shall not meet mine,” a foul voice echoed through the portal and filled the courtyard with an immense darkness. The hand started to withdraw into the portal, taking the Shadow Knight into the mysterious land beyond the doorway.
“No!” Týr shouted and jumped toward Vor’Kath, grabbing on to one of the fingers of the hand as it disappeared beyond the portal.
The doorway to whatever land had been beyond closed immediately, leaving no sign of Týr or the Shadow Knight. Michael and Joshua stood in the courtyard, looking to where the portal had once been. Týr was gone! As was the Shadow Knight. Several moments passed before either Michael or Joshua spoke, confused about what had transpired.
“We should help the others clear the monsters and goblins from the city,” Michael suggested. It was not a bad suggestion, though neither he nor Joshua moved toward the sounds of fighting, which had drawn closer to the courtyard than it had at any point that night.
Overhead the clouds that had blocked out the stars and covered the city in the impenetrable darkness started to fade, revealing the first hints of morning time as the sky grew a few shades lighter. Sunrise would still be an hour away at the least, but there was a sign that light was coming to this world again. As the clouds peeled back from the city, Michael felt a wave of hope crash over himself. They had done it. The world was saved…
Epilogue
Michael and Joshua stood together in the courtyard on a moveable dais used for ceremonies at the castle, wearing their best uniforms. On the dais was also the royal family, the Master General, and the Supreme Warlock, the leader of the Battlemages. She was the equivalent of the Master General, but specifically for the Battlemage Legion. Michael had been promoted to Captain for his efforts in defending the city and the Kingdom of Drendil. Joshua had also been promoted to Warlock, the equivalent of a Captain in the Battlemages Regiment. A posthumous promotion had been given to Týr, something the King and Master General had both been visibly upset to provide. Despite the promotions, the King had a different idea of what kind of reward would be fitting their service, though he had not told them specifically what that would be. The Master General had tried to protest, saying that meritorious promotion would have been plenty for their efforts. The King had had none of the arguing. It was one of the few times they had been privileged to see an argument between the two.
Throughout the courtyard were ranks of soldiers and Battlemages, their metal armor glinted in the sunlight. The soldiers all stood rigidly, their arms at their sides and their feet together. As he gazed into the sea of armor, Michael saw the hardened faces of soldiers. Soldiers who had lost their comrades during the battle for the city. Soldiers who also deserved so much for their efforts. Hundreds of lives had been lost defending the city, a price that no one had wanted to pay.
On the dais was a bench where Michael and Joshua sat with the Supreme Warlock, the Master General, the Queen and the Prince. The King stood at the front of the dais and addressed the sea of armor-clad soldiers. Instead of his regular long sword the King wore a rapier at his left hip, its scabbard highly decorated. The sword was obviously more ceremonial than anything else. Perhaps this was the most ceremonial sword the King owned, which would also make it one of the least useful swords in his personal armory. What does he have planned for us? Michael wondered to himself.
“You all fought valiantly to protect our city and our kingdom. You are all very deserving of every award that can be bestowed upon you all, and those awards will come in due time. Today I would like to recognize the two who led the defense of the city in my absence. As the King I should have been here, and I cannot express my condolence enough for those we lost. Captain, Warlock, please step forward,” the King called out, his voice easily reached the back of the courtyard.
Michael and Joshua stepped forward and clapped their fist to their chest as they approached the King. He returned the salute and directed each of them to kneel as he drew the rapier from its gold-encrusted scabbard. The fine, thin blade of the sword shone radiantly in the mid-afternoon sunlight. The King took his sword and touched the point of the blade of Joshua’s right then left shoulder in quick succession.
“I name you Sir Joshua the Ravenous, Knight-Captain of the Royal Order of Drendil. Rise, Sir Joshua,” the King proclaimed.
Joshua rose and clasped arms with the King then was brought in for a deep embrace, a proud smile beaming on his face. While the King embraced him, he whispered in Joshua’s ear, though Michael could not make out what was said. Joshua, after being released from the King, stepped back and stood behind Michael. The King side-stepped so he was standing before Michael, and the rapier flashed from his right shoulder to the left. As the sword touched Michael’s left shoulder it rested there briefly as the King made another proclamation.
“I name you Sir Michael the Valiant, Knight-Captain of the Royal Order of Drendil. Rise, Sir Michael,” the King’s voice rang out clearly from the dais to the far edges of the courtyard. Just as with Joshua, Michael and the King clasped arms then embraced. Once again, the King whispered to his newest Knight, “You have done a great service to Drendil. I know this land is not your home, but please accept an estate in the city that shall be yours and your family’s for generations. You have more than earned it, Sir Michael.”
The courtyard resounded with the sound of applause and cheers as th
e soldiers clapped their armor-clad hands together. The Queen stood, holding the Prince, who had grown up to just above her knee, with her left hand and approached Michael and Joshua. She embraced both and gave them each a kiss on the left cheek. As the applause from the soldiers continued, the Master General and the Supreme Warlock both clasped hands with the new Knights, showing their acceptance of them within the order.
***
Michael had received the key to his new estate. It was a comfortable house on a plot of land that would be suitable for him, and his family should he ever have one. A serf waited inside the estate for him; the servant bowed deeply as Sir Michael walked through the doorway, introducing himself.
“Good evening, Sir Michael. I am George, your personal Squire. I shall attend any needs that you have. Congratulations on the achievement of Knighthood today, Sir.”
“Thank you, George. You don’t have to call me Sir constantly. Michael is fine.”
“Sir Michael, you should get some rest. I have readied a bath for you, as well, if you wanted to wash up. Shall I help you to remove your armor?”
“A bath sounds wonderful. And I can manage removing my armor, thank you, George. If you are wanting to help me with something, I have a few of my belongings in the Captains’ barracks building that you could fetch for me,” Michael replied already thinking about the hot water of the bath and how nice that would be after such a long journey.
“Yes, Sir. I will retrieve your belongings right away. Please, make yourself at home. This is your estate, after all,” George commented.
George bowed deeply once more before he left the house. Michael explored and found his bedroom, much bigger than any of his barracks rooms had been. He had a study with empty bookshelves that begged to be filled. Some books had already been provided, likely by George or someone else. Tactical guides for battles, a book with detailed maps of the surrounding area, and a thick, leather-bound book with pictures and descriptions of various fauna found in the wilderness of Drendil, including some of the monsters that had been fought during the Battle of Shemont. The beast that looked like a horse and eagle had been forced together apparently was called a hippogryph. A rare monster not found in Drendil until the night of the battle. Hippogryph, Michael thought to himself, I wonder who comes up with the names for these beasts. Something he may likely never find out.
Across the hall from the study was the bathing room. A mirror had been hung above the chimney, where a welcome fire burned. The nights were growing cold, and as it was already evening time, Michael could feel a touch of the night chill setting in. In the middle of the floor was a large bathtub, made of metal that was formed to look like a large, oblong bowl. Steam rose from the water in the tub and bubbles were already floating atop the water. Michael found an armor rack in his bedroom and removed his armor and the linen clothing that went under the plate and chainmail armor.
He sank into the tub, large enough for him to stretch out his legs and still be mostly under the water. The water’s temperature was perfect. Warm but slightly on the side of hot. Just enough that Michael noticed his skin began to turn pink, but not hot enough to hurt. He leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. He breathed in the warm air in the bathing room and felt himself drifting to sleep. It was the first time in many years that he found himself sleeping without a haunting nightmare or any dream of things that would come…
…To be continued…
About the Author
B. T. Litell grew up in a small town in the middle of the Great State of Ohio, where farmland was no more than 10 minutes away. After graduating high school, he enlisted in the U S Navy where he spent the next few years of his life learning the science of cryptography, computer networking, and cyber security. After he left the Navy, he attended college where he furthered his knowledge of cyber security while teaching for the military. By day, he is a cyber security analyst and by night he furiously types away at his keyboard while drinking what some may call an unhealthy quantity of coffee. He lives with his loving wife and their rambunctious dog.
Excerpt from Downfall
(Coming soon)
Far overhead the sky roiled, a furious, splotchy mixture of red and orange streaks. No clouds could be seen in the sky. If there were any clouds high above, they were the same color and texture as the rest of the sky. Perhaps, there were only clouds and it was the sky that was hidden behind their dense, overbearing strangeness. This sky was far from the one that had been seen overhead for nearly three decades. That sky had been blue, welcoming, and open. Sometimes there would be clouds and foul weather, but at least it was never oppressive like this.
A massive expanse of nothingness stretched as far as could be seen. Out to the horizon there was nothing to be seen. No mountains, no hills, nothing that possibly marred the brutality of this world. In the middle of the vast nothingness, a battle was underway. Two figures fought vigorously, one dressed in plate-and-mail armor with a red tabard fought valiantly and aggressively against a shadow. After a quick exchange between the two, their swords flashing, the man in the armor was pushed backwards and slid a meter before coming to a stop. He stayed on the ground for a few seconds.
The arid, sandy ground, with dark red soil, similar in color to the sky far overhead, and marked with large, jagged rocks, felt rough after the force of the throw that Týr had taken from Vor’Kath. This had been far from an easy battle for either party involved. For what had felt like several hours, they had been sparring, and Týr was exhausted. He could feel the fatigue so much more right now as he laid on the ground and felt the wind, harsh as it was, dance across his face. The warmth of the harsh wind felt cool on his sweat-drenched face.
This was a weird place. There were plants, but they were all dried up and looked as if they had died long ago. No buildings could be seen from where they had been put in the massive expanse of sand, dirt, rocks, and dead plants. A giant hand, which had been mostly enveloped in shadows, had dropped them in this place and then vanished. Týr had no idea where this place was, or if he would ever return to Drendil. Not that there was anything left in Drendil for him. Especially…two years after Svenka had been killed. Has it really been that long since that day? Týr thought to himself as he started to stir in the dirt. It had been hard to keep track of the time. So many days, especially in the army, seemed to meld together. And many days had felt bleak without his family. He was truly alone in the universe. Sure, he had Michael and Joshua, but they were too soft. Too concerned about things that were only possibilities at this point. Neither of them had wanted Vor’Kath to die because there was a possibility that he would be able to resurrect himself by some mystical power granted to him from some shadow being that he believed was only a myth. That being said, Týr was out for blood, he admitted to himself. And that meant that he might behave a touch more recklessly than he should at times. This monster had spilled his sister’s blood, and he would kill the bastard for that if it took every ounce of strength he had left. Every breath left in his lungs.
On his side, laying in the dirt and physically struggling to stand back up, Týr found some comfort in his exhaustion. Vor’Kath was also tired. It had been a long, arduous fight for them both, but Týr wouldn’t let himself give up. At least, not until he had killed the monster responsible for murdering his sister. Svenka would have wanted nothing less. He was fueled by his anger but made sure not to get too aggressive with his fighting. That would lead to carelessness, recklessness, ruin. Or worse. Despite his hatred for Vor’Kath, he knew that was why Svenka had died. She had grown careless and pushed too hard in her short, tragic fight with the Shadow Knight. She had had an opening, though, and he couldn’t fault her for trying to injure him with something that valuable. He certainly had been looking for any opening he could get in this fight. Any advantage. Anything to help.
Vor’Kath, a few paces away, stood hunched over, propping himself up with his hands on his knees, and panting heavily. Even now, he kept his hood up, which hid his face, despite the cowl
only being deep enough to where it should have only hidden part of his face. This illusion had to be a spell or an effect of the dark robes he wore that never seemed to shift or wrinkle, no matter how fast or often the Vor moved. Týr could hear the Vor panting, even from the ground.
“Will you give up now? Or is your intelligence too lacking to know when to admit defeat?” Vor’Kath taunted between breaths.
“I will only relent when you have breathed your last,” Týr declared as he got back to his feet and retrieved his sword from the sand where it had landed.
Týr spun his sword and tightened his fingers around the hilt of his knife. At the same time, Vor’Kath stuck out his left hand and his sword appeared, summoned by Magic. Týr still found it odd that he fought left-handed but decided this wasn’t the time to try and talk the Vor out of fighting in such a strange way. The blade was curved slightly with one sharpened edge, was fast and had grown harder to dodge. The blade was darker than Drendil’s midnight sky without the moon shining bright in the sky. Something about the sword was concerning beyond the fact that it was certainly of unnatural origin. Everything stopped dead, as if time itself stopped moving, as Týr sized up his opponent, and he assumed the same happened to him as well.
Before Týr could move toward Vor’Kath, the ground trembled. Sand shifted on the ground as something approached. Something big but, so far, unseen. Something that was likely to be a threat to either of them, more than likely to Týr than to his opponent, he assumed. As he contemplated this, Týr saw a large worm-like creature emerge from the sand a couple kilometers behind his nemesis. The bit of the worm that had emerged from the ground was clearly dozens of meters long, and likely ten across. Large, external mandibles and teeth showed at the front of the beast as it writhed above the surface of this strange world.
