by DB King
Logan laid eyes on the shaman, who watched the battle unfold like a mere spectator, his arms still folded over his chest.
Logan knew his next target.
He closed his eyes and focused his power, feeling that animal strength in his bones, the rage of the wolf taking hold. He ran toward the shaman, his daggers ready for the kill. An orc saw what he was doing and positioned himself between Logan and his prey. Logan shoved his daggers into their sheaths before he approached the orc.
And when he was close enough, his hands shot out, one grabbing the orc at the shoulder and the other wrapping around the top of his arm. With a mighty howl, Logan tore the arm from its socket, the muscles and skin pulling apart.
He tossed the arm aside and juked around the stunned orc. He pulled his daggers free again, and once he was close enough to the shaman, he let out another battle cry and leaped into the air, his legs curled behind him and his arms pulled back, the daggers aimed at his enemy’s heart.
But Logan didn’t get his chance. The shaman slowly raised his hand. Logan stopped, frozen in mid-air. At first, he wasn’t sure what was happening. He flicked his eyes down and saw that he was still above the ground.
He couldn’t move. He struggled, but not a single muscle in his body cooperated.
The shaman smiled, the sounds of battle fading. The orc approached Logan, stepping slowly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Logan tried to break free, but it didn’t do him any good—he was held in place by magic more powerful than any man.
The shaman looked Logan up and down with curious, intelligent eyes. Logan tried to form his lips into a curse, but he wasn’t even capable of that.
The shaman stepped back and spoke.
“You’re the last of your group,” he said, his voice reminding Logan less of an orc and more of some pampered aristocrat from one of the cities. “All the rest are dead.”
Logan tried to speak again, but again, nothing came out.
“Ah,” said the shaman with a nod. He raised his hand again and twisted with his fingertips. Logan’s body stayed frozen, but his mouth could now move.
“You fight like a coward. Let me go and let’s finish this,” Logan said.
The shaman smirked. The orcs, now done with their bloody work, formed a large circle around Logan and the shaman.
“I know honor is big with your type, but I choose not to waste an advantage when I have it,” the shaman replied.
“That’s because you’re a coward,” Logan snarled. “You kill my men afar with magic, and then send your men to do the dirty work.”
The shaman chuckled. “Well, true. But I’m the one still standing. And you’re the one about to die—along with the rest of your people.”
“Spirits take you! It’s not enough you kill our warriors—you plan on killing the womenfolk and children too?”
“That’s the plan. Wouldn’t be much of a war of extermination if we left hundreds of you around to scatter to the wind. No, you’re all right where I want you. Once you’re out of the way, we’ll claim these forests for our own, use them in the way they ought to be used. But you needn’t concern yourself with any of that.”
The shaman cocked his head to the side.
“But what’s your name, boy? I’d like to know the name of the man who fights so fearlessly though he knows he’s defeated.”
Logan narrowed his eyes. “Logan Grimm—son of Jesper the War Wizard. There are more rangers who will stop you. And you have not yet even faced a War Wizard. The Elderwood is home to dozens. And they will bathe the forest in your blood.”
“Take a look at this,” the shaman said, sweeping his hand toward the battle scene behind them. “The other rangers and your wizards will all fall like you have done. Do you think I am alone? Do you think I am the only one of my kind to venture from what you call Shadespear? I am not the only magic user among the forces of the Southern Empire. No, I am but a mere leaf among a veritable forest of trees.”
Logan spat. “You foul creatures from beyond the Shadespear Pass deserve nothing more than daggers through the eyes and axes to the skull.”
Another chuckle. “Well said. Too bad I can’t take that fighting spirit of yours and bottle it up.” The shaman shook his head and sighed. “It’s almost a pity that you will die. But don’t worry—the rest of your people will be joining you soon.”
With that, the shaman swirled his hands in front of him, summoning another great charge of magical energy.
Logan knew it was the end. Knowing he’d be with his men soon, he closed his eyes and smiled as the shaman did his work. The magical energy crackled and roared, then rushed toward Logan.
There was a great heat, and the brief scent of flesh cooking, and then there was nothing.
Logan’s body was burned in the great conflagration, and he had met his final end.
War Wizard 1: Chapter 2
When Logan opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the Hall of Heroes.
He was still in the forest.
“It’s done,” said the shaman. “Gather what weapons that might be useful and move. I wish to reach the town before nightfall. We will be rewarded greatly for clearing the way.”
Logan laid in the blood-soaked soil, his breath frantic as the orcs scavenged weapons from his men.
“Fiends!” he called out. “How dare you ignore me! Stand and fight!”
But not one of the creatures paid him any notice. Instead, they trod on with the shaman.
Logan ran to the nearest orc and tried to swing his fist into the beast. But his hand only passed harmlessly through.
What… What the hells is going on?
He watched as the orcs left, vanishing into the distance and leaving him alone. He stood dumbfounded for a time, trying to figure out what the hells was happening. When he finally gathered the sense to turn and look around, he spotted something that gave him pause.
It was his body.
Logan rushed over to his corpse, dropping to his knees. The body was mangled beyond repair, a huge chunk of its—my—torso blown out, guts dripping into the grass and bones exposed. A steely expression was on Logan’s face—what remained of his face.
He tried to touch his body, but the same thing happened as with the orc—his hands only passed harmlessly through. He rose, no one around but the bodies of his men.
And time passed. The sun set, night falling in the woods. Then the sun rose.
Everything passed before Logan, morning bleeding into afternoon which bled into evening and then night. The sun set again, night falling and then morning breaking through the trees.
He felt disconnected. Something was wrong. He should have gone to the Hall of Heroes with his men where he would join them in eternal combat and feasting and wenching. But instead his soul was trapped in the world of the living, but somehow… not a part of it.
Time passed faster and faster, the days zipping by in the span of minutes. He watched as his body and those of his men began to decompose, scavenger animals taking chunks of flesh, then the critters stripping the bones clean white. Fall came, and when the leaves fell, they covered the bodies.
And like a wraith Logan prowled the woods where he and his men fell. He wandered aimlessly, still wondering what had happened—and what had become of his family, his people.
When winter came, the branches growing bare and fresh, pearl-white snow covering the ground, he gained enough of his senses to contemplate what had happened.
We were fools, Logan thought as night went into day and into night and into day. Forming hunting parties to pick off whatever orcs wandered into our territory. Ridiculous! We should’ve taken the fight to the orcs, pulling them out by the root.
Spring had arrived by this point, the bones of Logan and his men mostly buried.
It would’ve been a terrible war, but it would’ve been a war worth fighting. The rangers of the Elderwood could have joined with the other civilizations to the west to bolster the defenses of the Shadespear Pass. But the time for that had l
ong passed. If the orcs had managed to move an entire army through the Elderwoods, no doubt they’d razed every settlement along the way.
Something happened in spring to confirm his thinking. Orcs arrived by the thousands, and they weren’t alone. Trolls and goblins and demons and the undead—they arrived too. Great machines uprooted trees from the forest floor, devouring them in their huge steel mouths.
What are these fools doing? They can’t just use the forest like this! The balance of the entire region depends on it!
But by summer they’d pulled every tree clean from the forest floor. The Elderwood trees that Logan had known since he was a boy, since his father was a boy, and all the way back, were gone. Autumn came, but no leaves were there to fall.
When winter arrived, Logan could hear the howl of bitter winds across the plains and see the massive storm clouds thick and dark with snow rolling in overhead. They passed, and the snow melted, green grass stretching as far as the eye could see.
In time, the creatures from beyond Shadespear returned, hunting the animals until their carcasses dotted the plains. When the next winter came and went, the green grass was spotty and sparse.
The grass receded every year, the rich soil turning dry and baking in the hot sun overhead until it became rough and coarse like sand. Logan watched as the seasons rushed by, the scene turning from a barren plain to a rolling desert, the sun bright and the dunes rolling and endless.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed—years? Decades? Now and then he had the urge to make his way back to the town, to see what had become of his people. But the feeling always faded, as if his desires and emotions were gone. He felt less like a man and more like part of this place, more akin to the wind or the sun above. He remembered years ago when the desire for revenge had burned bright, when he had wanted nothing more than to hold the head of the shaman in his hand, the spine dangling below. But now? He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. Or if he even wanted anything at all.
For a time, it was beautiful. The former forests became a great plain where huge animals prowled in packs, birds soared overhead. It was calm, peaceful.
But the peace didn’t last. Logan was alone, which meant he was alone with his thoughts. Over and over again, his mind returned to the battle, the fight with the orcs that had seen every one of his companions slain. And it had cost him his life.
It was the strangest thing—the more he thought of the battle, the more he imagined himself able to see it happen, as if his memories were playing out before him. He pictured the battle time and time again, each recollection becoming clearer, more detailed. He hated it, as if he were doomed to watching his failures play out through eternity.
Logan screamed for those he lost, knowing the rest of his people were among them. His father, Jesper, his cousins and his friends and his kin. And when the grief left, rage replaced it. He wanted nothing more than the chance to find the orcs who had killed his fellow rangers. He craved vengeance, wishing for only the opportunity to exact his revenge.
And that feeling was replaced by hopelessness. He knew he wouldn’t get his chance. For a time, he sank to his knees in despair. The seasons passed him by, and in the depths of his anguish, he wished for nothing more than for his spirit to vanish. If he couldn’t be with his companions in the Hall of Heroes, then he wished to simply not exist at all.
But the following spring, Logan rose. He banished the feelings of weakness, embarrassed he had ever let them take hold. The desire for revenge still burned inside, the anger more than he could handle.
An orc. All Logan wanted was a chance to fight one, a chance to release his anger upon the ugly face of one foul-smelling orc. He closed his eyes, a grin tugging one side of his mouth as he imagined shoving the head of his axe into the belly of an orc, then ripping it limb from limb.
He had been content to live in his imagination, to enact hundreds and hundreds of slayings against his hated enemy. But when he heard a snort so clear that it sounded mere feet away, he snapped his eyes open.
An orc stood before him.
But there was something different about this orc. The orc stood still, his chest rising and falling. And more than that, it was translucent. Through it, Logan could see the days coming and going, animals rushing past.
Why it was there, he couldn’t say. He approached it apprehensively, waiting for it to strike. But it never did.
“I have no idea what brought you to my realm, beast,” he said. “But you won’t be here for long.”
He stepped to the creature and plunged his fist into the belly of the orc, screaming as he did. The orc remained still as Logan’s hands ripped open the thick muscles of his stomach. Once he was in, Logan pulled back his blood-covered hand and grabbed the orc by the shoulders. With all his strength, he ripped one arm from the orc and then the other.
The orc, however, remained standing, oblivious to the destruction of his body.
“Begone, beast,” he said.
At Logan’s words, the orc vanished.
He considered what had just happened. It didn’t take him long to put it together. He’d focused on the orc in his mind, and there it had appeared.
I’m trapped in this realm, this strange in-between world, he thought. But I seem to have some control over it.
Logan decided to try something new. He closed his eyes and pictured two orcs. And sure enough, when he opened his eyes, they were there, side by side.
Another thought occurred to him. He imagined holding an axe, a simple weapon like he’d wielded on his last day alive.
And that too appeared.
Logan didn’t need to spend time thinking about what he wanted next. He stepped up to the orcs, raised the axe, and plunged it into the forehead of the one on the left. The blade connected, the light in the orc’s eyes went out, and it dropped in a heap. Logan yanked out the axe and readied himself, slashing across the throat of the second orc. Blood spurted out and then the orc fell.
Logan grinned. He imagined more orcs, dozens. They all appeared, and he went to his bloody work, slaying one after another and another. The orcs died one-by-one as he used his axe to enact the revenge he’d pictured for so long.
And there was more, Logan realized. His body, not being a real body, never grew tired. He used this to his advantage, seasons passing by in which he did nothing but slay one orc after another until his revenge was slaked.
But when the next winter arrived, he found himself bored. After all, what was an enemy who couldn’t fight back? Where was the fun in that, the challenge?
Logan pictured an orc, but this time, he imagined it with intelligence—what intelligence could be expected from an orc, that is. He heard a roar and opened his eyes just in time to see a murderous orc rushing him, pure hate in the beast’s eyes and a mean-looking spear in his hands.
This is more like it, Logan thought.
The orc approached, and Logan stepped aside as the orc’s spear plunged through the air where he’d only just stood. Logan rushed in with a powerful swing, slicing the orc’s left calf, dropping the beast into a clumsy heap. The orc down, he finished it off with a quick cleave into the back of the orc’s neck, the beast’s spine snapping like string under the blade.
Next Logan pictured three orcs. But instead of an axe, he pictured a longsword in his grasp. It appeared, the simple blade of a human foot soldier. And the orcs appeared as well.
It was more of a challenge this time—exactly what Logan wanted. But he was able to dispatch one orc then another then another with a series of well-placed swings and stabs. He tossed aside the longsword and imagined a great battleaxe, the head golden, the weapon beautiful enough to be the pride of any blacksmith. He imagined a silver breastplate on his body, and that appeared too.
And he made one more change to his battle simulation: he allowed himself to feel pain. He figured that he couldn’t actually die, but feeling pain would be good enough of a motivation to hone his skills.
If I’m going to be stuck in some
sort of spirit limbo, he decided. I can at least train myself to be the best damn warrior this world has ever seen.
The goal brought a wicked grin to his face, and gave him purpose. He closed his eyes and summoned two more orcs. Just like the others, these orcs flew toward him as they roared, their blades raised in the air and expressions of murder on their ugly faces.
One got in a little quicker than Logan had anticipated, the orc jabbing a short sword into his arm, pain singing out. He gritted his teeth.
Well, now I know that works, Logan thought as he regained his footing.
Logan went to work, fighting through the pain and taking down both orcs. And when they were dead and gone, he felt stronger. He willed the wound away, feeling as if he’d gained experience as a fighter in a way he couldn’t in the real world.
He was ready to push this strange, spiritual simulation to its limits. He tried all sorts of scenarios. He wielded every kind of weapon he could imagine, from swords to axes to spears to bows. And he fought hard with each, learning their weaknesses and understanding their strengths. He gave himself different disadvantages—one useless limb, a broken blade, even blindness—using all to push his skills as a fighter to their limits. Now and then an orc would get the better of him, landing a blow that would’ve killed him in the real world. But instead of sending him out of the spirit realm, it only restarted the scenario.
And Logan liked it that way. Whatever scenario he imagined would only end when he won. There were no shortcuts to victory.
When Logan felt confident in his abilities in combat, another idea occurred to him—he would become a general.
He closed his eyes and imagined himself high above the ground, a perfect top-down perspective. He imagined two opposing armies, one comprised of a hundred orcs, the other of a hundred Elderwood Rangers. He found it difficult to picture individual faces, so he simply gave them all the face he knew best—his own.
