Shane Porteous - The Battle of Ebulon - A Shared Anthology

Subconsciously his mind had directed him to this room, a place that very few people ever saw. The room of royal memory where the walls were covered in the history of his lineage. Great men and women, all once kings and queens of Ebulon marvelous deeds were etched all through the room. He had been in this room many times in his life and had read all the histories. Out of all the great deeds his ancestors accomplished, not one was similar to his current situation. They didn’t hide in the tower while others selflessly risked their lives, fighting for a land that was not their home. Warriors had come from other worlds before a handful of times in history. Each time the king or queen of that era had stood alongside them fighting as equals.

The demonic legion of thought made his head feel heavy and so he lowered it. With the crown still in his hands his gaze was drawn to the severed head of Grock. He had been consumed by his own thoughts too much to leave the head outside and so it sat on the floor, staring at him with its dead eyes. At first the severed head had comforted him, it had told him that there were foreign warriors strong enough to defend his kingdom. Now the severed head felt like it was taunting him, he didn’t hear any deathly voices or strange visions. But his own guilt seemed to bring the head to life once more. Even in death the hatred in its eyes hadn’t vanished, Yadi felt like it was taunting him. That even from beyond the grave Grock would cackle a ghostly laugh as the kingdom burned all around him and he was left with nothing but ashes to rule.

It was then he felt the cold sting of blood on his finger. Looking away from the head he could see that he had been holding the crown so tightly that one of its tips had slightly pierced his finger. He watched as the blood dripped onto the crown, in the otherwise silence the drops sounded like distant thunder, hauntingly reminding him of the beat of an Orc Drum. As the blood stained the once flawless crown he took it as an Omen. Normally he was a rational man and didn’t see Omens wherever he looked, but this was the excuse he needed.

His hands stopped shaking as he placed the crown back upon his head. He glanced over to the severed head as he silently told it that Ebulon would never fall, not while he was alive. He took a long glance around the room to the etchings of his bloodline; today he would earn his own etchings amongst them.

Grasping Grock’s head by the hair he held it like a piece of garbage as he stood up and left the room of royal memory. Entering one of the many pathways of his Tower, he could hear within the echo of his footsteps, the power of his own stride. Strength was quickly replacing the confusion that had once made him weak. From the edges of his vision he could see handmaids and other servants, going about their daily duties. All of them were in a form of denial. They couldn’t face the enemy at the gates, the possibility of destruction. But King Yadi wouldn’t be living in denial, not anymore.

He made his way to his own personal armory taking no notice of the sharp gazes of the tower guards as he passed them. The first thing he did was put on the royal cloak. Made from the black silk of Kiroawa worms, it was thought ageless. Every single king of the city had once worn this cloak into battle. This wasn’t the first time he had worn it, but today more than any other day he could feel the strength of his ancestors, a collection of bravery and power that seemed to warm his soul. He had several swords to chose from, weapons forged by the finest makers. But it was the golden bladed sword of his father he chose to accompany him. His father was considered the greatest King of Ebulon who had ever lived, he would need the strength and steel of his father’s memory today. He quickly put on his finest armor, steel that had saved him from the axes and swords of countless Orcs. Now prepared he glanced to the head of Grock. He would hold the head in one hand as he wielded his sword in the other upon the battlefield, it was about time that the Orcs feared Ebulon.

With his sword by his side and the royal cloak upon his shoulders he walked with purpose to the lowest level of the Tower. He could feel the gazes of so many as he went, he could feel the burden of their fear. He would show them that there was nothing to be afraid of. Upon the first level of the tower many of his advisors had gathered. They had been strategizing for the last two days while others fought and died outside the tower. Yadi heard their salute and greetings but paid no attention to it. Realizing what the king was doing one of the advisors rushed to catch him.

“My King,” he pleaded placing himself in front of his lord. “You can’t leave the tower you are needed here.”

“Out of my way Atfan,” The king demanded as his hand grasped his sword. “Or I shall cut you down!”

Seeing the power in his king’s eyes Atfan reluctantly stepped aside as Yadi reached the entrance to the Tower. He could hear his heart beat as sweat covered his hands, his lips felt dry, yet he was not afraid. With his hand still on the sword he commanded the doors be opened. His sword was already halfway out of its sheave before the doors were completely opened. He was ready to enter the fray, to kill as many Orcs as he could with his golden sword. If he were to die today than at least it would be defending his kingdom, not hiding from his enemies.

As soon as the doors were opened he stepped outside, his gaze narrowed and stung by the wrath of the sun. Using Grock’s head to block the sun he looked around the courtyard. It was as silent as it was empty. Raising his head but keeping his eyes shaded he listened intently but could hear only silence. Where was the clashing of steel, the screams of the defeated? The smell of death was thick in the air, yet everything was eerily calm.

He motioned to speak but went silent as dark shadows appeared in the courtyard. As they formed two lines on either side of him Yadi showed no fear. The shadows took their true forms, they were mages of the kingdom. Before the battle had begun he had ordered each of them to be as ghosts watching over each entry point. He also told them not to show themselves to anyone and come to this courtyard only when the enemy was defeated. He knew there were 15 entrances into his kingdom and so he quickly counted them twice just to be sure. There were fifteen Mages on either side of him and instantly he knew the battle was over, his kingdom had survived.

He lowered the head of Grock as he felt his knees weaken. Emotions within were overwhelming. Somehow he remained hard of expression as the mages spoke of what had occurred. He was told tales of Angels, of foreign kings bringing their armies to Ebulon. Yet through all of these stories his gaze was directed back to the sky, there was not a single cloud within them. A sight almost never seen in the dead of winter. He walked forward, his stride not as strong as it once was. Even though they stood only meters from him the voices of the mages were distant to his ear. He heard more stories of warriors who could summon dragons, a healer whose skill surpassed all the surgeons of Ebulon. He heard a story of a possessed statue and a vague description of something too terrifying to speak of.

He walked further, the entire time his gaze still skyward. Even talk of exploding corn, talking animals and the hall of heroes being vandalized couldn’t stop his stride. When he had heard all the stories of great warriors and the air became silent he had reached the end of the line of mages.

Suddenly he fell to his knees, his sword before him as he dropped the head of Grock. The mages moved to help until they understood what was happening. He hadn’t fallen from injury but from gratitude. The demonic legion of thoughts left his head and for the first time in over two days he felt he could breathe freely once more. He could feel a tear form and slowly fall from his right eye. He did nothing to hide it; he would not be the last king of Ebulon, something that terrified him beyond words. Closing his eyes he called upon his powers, giving thanks to the heroes, in all their shapes and forms for saving his beloved kingdom.