Shane Porteous - The Battle of Ebulon - A Shared Anthology

With a roar borne of impatience, the Orc attacked. He lashed out with his whip. Brant held his breath, but his brother stepped nimbly aside and brought his own sword down in atop the whip, chopping through the twisted, thorn-ridden cords, rendering the weapon useless. The Orc hissed angrily and tossed the mangled weapon aside. He attacked again, hammering a blow at Ky’s head, and then another at his legs. The wicked blade rang and hummed as Ky blocked and danced away again and again.

The duel continued, with neither combatant gaining ground. Ky had not yet gone on the offensive, and Brant watched in concern as his brother used a completely different fighting style than he ever had before.

Ky began to falter. It was imperceptible at first, but he was starting to make small mistakes. They manifested in a tiny mis-step here, an almost slip as he blocked yet another violent blow. The Orc’s lips pulled back in a wicked sneer of triumph as Ky stumbled and almost fell, dropping to one knee. The creature pressed its advantage instantly, stepping closer and slicing his blade upwards. Blood blossomed in a bright streak across Ky’s chest. He gasped and then lunged forward, too close for the Orc to get any purchase with his own weapon, and plunged his own sword into the creature’s chest. The Orc’s eyes bulged and he wheezed as Ky’s blade, driven to the hilt, ended his challenge. The Orc swayed, fell to his knees, and gurgled as Ky withdrew his sword and raised the blade high.

“For Ebulon!”

The remaining Orcs dropped their weapons and fled, howling, into the forest. Brant raced to Ky’s side, concerned, tearing the cloth from the sleeve of his shirt and offering it to his brother as a make-shift bandage.

“Ky!”

“I’m fine, Brant, it’s just a scratch.”

Brant eyed him dubiously, but Ky remained steady, his expression sincere. He accepted the cloth, however, and pressed it to his wound gratefully.

“I had to let him think he was winning so that he would make a mistake. Really, I’m fine.”

A strange sound made them both turn. The doors to the buildings and homes Brant had noticed at the outset of the battle were opening and people were emerging slowly, their eyes haunted and wary. The people looked around in disbelief as they wandered out onto the battlefield.

A woman came running up to Brant and Ky, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she said, clasping Ky’s hand in her own. “We had given up all hope.”

“You are welcome, dear Lady,” Ky’s voice was gentle.

“I only hope things are going as well in other parts of the city,” a man added, coming up to speak with them. “Our warriors have been falling back for weeks; they abandoned this section of Ebulon as undefendable days ago. We were hiding in our homes, waiting for those monsters to find us…” a look of horror passed through the man’s eyes. “You have saved us. We cannot thank you enough.”

More villagers reached them now and everyone wanted to express their gratitude. Brant and Ky spoke with many of them as they returned to their people to check and see who had made it through the battle. In all they had lost a staggering number of good men. A half-dozen dragons had fallen to vile Orc javelins, and more had been brought down by ropes and beheaded. Brant and Ky mourned each loss quietly.

“It’s time,” a new voice said, coming up behind Brant and Ky as they searched the battlefield for their wounded.

The man who had spoken was different from the villagers. He was not dressed in armor and furs, and did not have that haunted look on his face. He was tall, with pale blond hair and ice-blue eyes. He wore garments not at all suited for the snowy conditions. His lips were twisted in an irritated scowl and he gestured impatiently at Ky.

“It’s time,” he repeated.

Ky nodded.

“Ky, what… who is this?” Brant asked.

Ky gave a glimmer of a smile. “That gift I mentioned earlier? It’s only temporary. This is Joshua… he’s from another realm, but he’s here to help me get back to where I belong.”

“But… you said you weren’t hurt that badly,” Brant protested.

“My leaving now is not due to a hurt I sustained this day.”

“Then…”

“This is how it must be,” Ky saluted, fist over heart, and fell to one knee. “I could not do this in life, little brother, but I am truly grateful for the chance to set that right. Hail, King Brant.”

The lump was back in Brant’s throat, and he found he could not speak. He reached down and raised his brother back to his feet.

“It’s alright,” Ky put a steady hand on Brant’s shoulder. “The Minstrel is wise. He saw this as a chance to right a wrong of his own. For myself, I hope that in some small way more than one great wrong has been atoned for this day. I am at peace, Brother, you should be, too.” He turned to Joshua. “Lead on, good man.”

Brant’s eyes were bright with unshed tears as he watched them begin to walk away, their images shimmering and fading. Before they disappeared entirely he heard the man, Joshua, say haughtily, “You’re going to owe me for this, you know.”

Ky’s laughter rang out heartily, sounding far too full of life. “You did not arrange this deal; I owe you nothing. This was all the Minstrel’s doing.”

Joshua glared hatefully in trapped frustration and Brant could not contain a chuckle. He knew the feeling all too well.

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The veil broke to the cacophony of war.

The child knight Al-Aaron stumbled through. The ghost of Malius followed close behind him.

The screams of missiles and the dying assaulted him. The blood of the dead painted the stone and wood ramparts in shades of red.

A rolling dark shadow filled the horizon, as dark as the Dragon itself. It was a horde, a legion a hundredfold. Its cry boiled and thundered. Its eyes burned in multitude.

The sun of this world was setting.

And in the growing darkness, the world’s cry set the stone and the wood to tremble, until the cries of the dying couldn’t be heard anymore.

The angels had told him to come here. The ghost of Malius who haunted him had followed him.

Al-Aaron held Baeryth out before him. The quickening light of torches and the burning casualties of war danced across its steel, beneath the soft gaze of gossamer that bound it, the cloth aglow with the reminder of angels, a sign of his promise to never to shed the blood of man.

Even here.

The angels had said they didn’t need a hero, but a teacher. And he was to be theirs.

The ghost of Malius, arriving as always after the angels were gone, had only smiled, as the portal opened before them, the gateway to this other world.

A harried knight strode up to him among the hail of stones and arrows. His chainmail hung rent open across a bandaged wound.

A smirk cracked open his broken jaw.

“Welcome to the defense of Ebulon, my lord.”

His hand made a pass across the burning citadel and city beneath them.

“You’re just in time.”

“For what?” Al-Aaron heard himself say.

The reflection of the man’s bloodied visage held across Baeryth’s length and the shield of gossamer that feigned to protect it - a virgin symbol of a promise broken long ago, that the knights of his order now hoped to reclaim.