Ascent of the Holy Blade Ebook is Here!

The ebook for Ascent of the Holy Blade is now available from Amazon from Wynwidyn Press! I'm very excited about this! Without further adieu here is the link. Ascent of the Holy Blade eBook

Happy Reading

-EW-

A Couple of Things

     Just a few of things I want to talk about. First, the republishing of my first novel, Ascent of the Holy Blade is nearly complete and I am very excited about it. Wynwidyn Press has done an incredible job with the new cover and editing the book. They had me flesh out characters and the environment and polish several areas- I am so much happier with this version of my book. So we are getting closer to a release date and a product I can can feel pride in this time.

     Secondly it's November and that means NaNoWriMo- the writing of a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. I am participating for the second time and am using it to help motivate me to finish Hand of the Black Blade, the second book in the Blades of Allura series. I've started off a little slower than I had hoped but with the cold coming I have been working on winterizing the house.

     Lastly, I would like to say a quick note of praise to the author that has influenced me the most- R. A. Salvatore. Back around 1990 I found a copy of the Crystal Shard, and it had a cover done by Larry Elmore, my all time favorite fantasy artist-so I decided to give it a shot. Man was I glad I did. The series is mostly known for its hero-Drizzt Du'Orden, but for me all of the characters were equally interesting. For the last two and a half decades Mr. Salvatore has entertained me with larger than life action scenes and characters I cared about, from dark elves and rowdy dwarves to inquisitive clerics and a couple rogues (the Highwayman and the Crimson Shadow). I would definitely recommend all of his books and series for those that like their tales fast paced.

Happy Reading

-EW-

In a Rut

Like the title say, I've hit a rut with my writing ever since I finished The Last Day. I've tried sitting down and writing new stuff, transferring from paper to computer, even sketching some-hoping I break out and be able to finish something.

I wish I could blame it on my muse, but he's constantly flinging ideas at me that are, sadly, just hitting me in the face and then sliding off to lie wasting on the floor. I think I'm mostly depressed. The last couple of years have seen my family get hit by a four severe medical situations that escalated in severity as they progressed, peaking with my oldest son being diagnosed with brain cancer. We are in our six month of remission, but now my oldest daughter is sick and we are waiting for test results over the next two weeks and praying it isn't something severe.

It's always something here. My wife jokes we are cursed and if you look back at our eighteen years together- it has been one rocky sum' bitch. Anyway I'm just fumbling through my thoughts, trying to figure out why I can't finish Galen and Mellay's tale or explore one of the many other stories begging to be told from the realm of Allura. Hopefully this fog of darkness lifts soon and I can find my way back to my computer and accomplish something.

Anyway...

Happy Reading

-EW-

Sneek Peek

     Here's a sneak peek at the new (tentative) cover for Ascent of the Holy Blade. I definately like this cover over the one my previous publisher came up with. My old cover from the now defunct Two Moon Press is on the left and the new one from Wynwidyn Press is on the right.

Old Cover

New Cover

      Also I have just about finished up the last part to the Last Day and will have it posted by Sunday night. Then it will be time to really bear down and finish the second novel in the Blades of Allura series, Hand of the Black Blade. (chapter sample available here on my blog)

Happy Reading

-EW-

Justin's Blog: Akio Part two Chapter one (roughdraft)

Justin's Blog: Akio Part two Chapter one (roughdraft): Chapter one                 “A-ah, m-my head. Where am I?”             Akio begins to awake.             “H-how did I get here? How wi...



       A chapter sample from a friend's novel. Enjoy!

Running Late

I'm running behind on posting the second part of The Last Battle, but I think I'm back on track and should have it posted by the end of the month.

Between work, holidays, and keeping up with my five kids and wife, it is amazing how the time slips by and I find myself either to tired to write or just brain dead. I wake up every morning thinking I'll get some writing done and poof  the day is over and I haven't picked up a pen or touched my keyboard. I actually get more writing done on breaks at work than I do at home. But I've had a pretty good week and both of my projects are progressing smoothly and steadily. Some of the lack of writing has came from the re-publishing of my first novel Ascent of the Holy Blade, which has really bogged down. It's both frustrating and a blessing as I am flat-ass broke.

Anyways I should have Part 2 posted soon and maybe another chapter from Hand of the Black Blade. 

Happy Reading

-EW-

Broke Through!

Woot! I finally broke through that damn writer's block I had. The last four days have been very productive in that regard. Been hammering out pages on the second novel and finishing up part one of The Last Battle.

Hopefully I will have something posted story wise soon. Going to try to wedge in some editing time between prepping for graduation for my son and my youngest son's baseball games.

 

Happy Reading

 

-EW-

Running Behind

     Unfortunately I am running behind on the story I promised. My editor for my novel finished up and I had some obligations there pop up and between real life and a small case of writer's block, I just wasn't able to deliver.

     I think I am in a lull between real life events and I am slowly chipping away at that damn block. Hopefully I will have something posted soon. On the plus side Ascent of the Holy Blade has wrapped up editing and has moved into layout and cover design with progress on its sequel is moving forward steadily.

-EW-

New Series Coming!

 By next weekend I will post the beginning of a new series that tells the story of the last Christians as they face the Last Battle. It will be a fantastical version of the days before and including the battle, done in chapters that I plan to release once a month.

     The idea for this story has been bouncing around in my head for well over ten years and since it doesn't want to fade away, I might as well share it. Even though the theme is heavily religious it is only loosely based on the biblical last days. A version more along the lines of if Robert Jordan or R. A. Salvatore had written Revelations. Purely for fun.

     Ascent of the Holy Blade is slowly creeping forward to its re-release and progress on Hand of the Blake Blade has been coming along at a steady pace.

Happy Reading

-EW- 

Chapter 1 (excerpt from "Hand of the Black Blade")

The following is the rough draft of Chapter One from the second book in the Blades of Allura series. The book is titled Hand of the Black Blade and will be a darker tale than Ascent of the Holy Blade. I hope you enjoy it.

Happy Reading

-EW-

Chapter 1

20 years prior to Blackfur’s defeat at Stoneheart

            A savage wind howled, terrorizing the band of sturdy fur-wrapped travelers with its icy breath as they made their way through the well-worn pass that served as the single trade route through the Blackstone Mountains.  Although the sun and the meager warmth it had provided had been swallowed by the towering walls of Merchant’s Pass hours ago, the stalwart travelers pressed on with typical dwarven stubbornness, knowing that King Bulhok Bluntpick’s welcoming stronghold was only a few leagues away.

            “I’ll be glad when we get High Merchant Solira and her wares safely back to the Mountain,” Bowvin Slagfist rumbled through his graying beard. The dwarven warrior stroked the bulky head of his two-handed maul absently as eyes the color of chipped flint tried to pierce the blowing snow and growing darkness in a vain attempt to spy hidden enemies.

            “You’re just missing the comforts of your hearth, greybeard.” Quipped the burly dwarf marching next to Bowvin.

            Doegon Deepbellow had replaced Bowvin as First Shield of the Merchant Guard three seasons ago, but the younger dwarf had maintained his friendship with his mentor. The reigning First Shield had been surprised though when Bowvin had shown up the morning the caravan had set out from the Mountain. That was until High Merchant Solira Bluntpick had been revealed as the expedition’s leader. Solira was King Bluntpick’s youngest niece and this was to be her first trading expedition to the port city of Saelin, and the king hoped that the veteran guardsman would insure that his niece would return safe and sound.

            “Who you calling greybeard, pup?” Bowvin feigned hurt at his friend’s jest. “Can’t a dwarf want to enjoy the comforts of the Mountain? Especially after spending several decades defending it?”

            Of course, my friend,” Doegan replied with a good-natured pat to Bowvin’s heavily armored shoulder. “I’ll even buy the first round at Rubie’s Kiss when we get back. It’s much better of a tavern than that hole you…”

            The First Shield never finished his sentence. A black shafted arrow pierced his right eye until its jagged point’s progress was impeded by the nape of Doegon’s steel helm. With a last look of shock directed at his friend, Doegon fell lifeless to the snow blanketed trail. Even in the darkness of night the crimson stain stood out in bright relief on the virgin snow as it spilled from the First Shield’s corpse.

            Momentarily stunned by the sight of his friend’s cooling body, Bowvin stared blankly at his friend. A second arrow streaked by close enough to ricochet harmlessly off his sturdy shoulder pads. Years of training enhanced by well-honed combat skills kicked in and Bowvin squared his sturdy feet and began bellowing commands to the remaining Merchant Guard.

            “Square formation around the High Merchant! Do not let the raiders through, boys!” Flexing his fingers inside their fur-lined gloves, the former First Shield spared a glance at the High Merchant and the gruff dwarf’s heart missed a beat at the fear he saw in those wide brown eyes.

            “Don’t worry, Solira. I’m sure it’s just a pack of trolltaurs. Nothing twenty heavily armed dwarven warriors can’t handle.” Bowvin stated in hopes of reassuring the young woman.

            At that moment a haunting wail echoed off the high walls of the pass, as it died down it was echoed all around the dwarven formation. Ice began to coat Bowvin’s bowels as he recognized the dread sound, the most feared sound a Merchant Guard could hear. Worse even than the fearsome crag wurms- the war cry of the most deadly raiders in the Blackstone Mountains.

            “By the Scales no,” Bowvin whispered. “It can’t be. Not gray orcs.”

            A powerful built creature charged from the snow storm screaming a challenge at Bowvin as it leveled a long-bladed spear at the dwarf’s chest. Easily side-stepping the gray orc’s wild rush, Bowvin brought the hammer side of his maul down on the orc’s block-shaped head.

            “Stand firm Merchant Guards! Gray orcs are attacking! Keep you shields up and watch out for magic users! Above all else keep High Merchant Solira within the square!” Bowvin snapped his thick wrists and flung the remnants of the orc’s dung-plaited hair and gore from the maul.

            Tense moments passed as the only sound was the quickened breathing of anxious dwarves, creaking armor straps, the bray of a nervous pack mule that was quickly silenced, and the stillness of falling snowflakes.

            “Come on you gray skinned bastards,” Bowvin growled. “What are you waiting for?”

            “From the rear! They are attacking from the rear!” A coarse voiced dwarf warned as sounds of battle drifted to the front of the formation.

            Bowvin had little time to worry about the orcs coming from behind their group as the snow briefly subsided and the former First Shield saw a score of the demon spawn charge down the path towards him.

            “Keep the square, my dwarves! We’ll grind these grayskins between hammer and shield!” Bowvin reassured the Merchant’s Guard.

            Shouts of victory mingled with cries of pain as the gray orc wave slammed into the staunch dwarven wall with the fury of a summer thunderstorm. The stoic dwarves weathered the storm of grunting orcs and flashing blades and the few remaining raiders were forced to retreat, but instead of behaving as the defeated mob they were; they made cat calls and jeered and the victorious dwarves.

            “Well done, rockeaters. Well done.” Hissed an oily voice.

            From the shadows stepped a creature strait from the belly of the abyss. Flanking him on each side were two of the gangly gray orc mages. The demon strolled arrogantly towards Bowvin and his square of dwarf warriors glaring over the edge of their steel shields at the loathsome creature. Reptilian eyes watched in amusement from a scaled feline face as the former First Shield wrung his hands in frustration around the haft of his weapon.

            Bowvin watched in helpless horror as the demon approached with the mages trailing behind like faithful hounds. Amusement slid from the demon’s eyes which glittered hungrily when he spotted the shapely fur and leather clad High Merchant encased in the heart of the living shield. A smile of desire slid across the demon’s face that implied no mirth as he changed his direction and began to stalk towards the terrified woman.

            A tear slid down the gruff dwarf’s face as he realized the fate destined for Solira. Gray orcs were formed from the mating of a demon and an unfortunate mortal. He had failed his king, his friend, and most importantly he was going to fail Solira.

            “Kill the males, but bring the woman to me,” the demon ordered. “Take care not to harm her or I’ll flay the flesh from your miserable bones.”

            An angry fire ignited the furnace in Bowvin’s chest. “The abyss be damned,” He muttered in defiance. Thoughts of what would happen to Solira at the hands of these monsters brought renewed strength to the old dwarf’s weary limbs. With a cry he rallied the remaining dwarves to fight on.

            “Come on boys! Let’s show these half-bred bastards what it means to anger a dwarf!” Bowvin raised his massive maul high above his shoulder and with a battle cry to the ancient home of the dwarves and their god, he charged into the encroaching tide of grey skin monsters.

            “For the Mountain! For Ozra!” The shout echoed off of the canyon as the remaining Merchant Guards followed Bowvin’s lead and rushed forward to meet the orc raiders. Even Solira drew a slim deadly dagger and with a feral scream of defiance and fear, pounced upon a gray orc that had slipped past her bodyguards.

            The fury of the former First Shield combined with crushing swings of his maul caused most of the raiders to give the enraged dwarf a wide berth. Those that were foolish enough to stand their ground found themselves smashed into an unrecognizable pulp as Bowvin slowly but steadfastly carved his way to the waiting demon.

            Bowvin had nearly reached the sneering demon, who had watched the dwarf’s approach with his scaled arms folded arrogantly across his lean chest, when one of the lanky bodyguards stepped into the warrior’s path. The gray orc called upon the elven half of his blood and began to mutter an arcane whisper while his thin fingers executed an intricate dance.  A black orb began to form between the mage’s nimble fingers; orange lightening arced out from the fel orb as the orc finished his spell and thrust his hands towards Bowvin.

            With a grunt, Bowvin threw himself out of the deadly missile’s path, but the orb passed close enough to cause the former First Shield’s beard to stick out wildly as lightening tendrils snaked out to graze the dwarf’s bushy cheeks. Using the momentum of his impromptu roll, Bowvin came to his feet next to the surprised spell-caster and brought maul up over his head to deliver a two-handed chop. The gray orc raised its arms in a pitiful attempt to ward off the blow, but bone and muscle were a poor defense against dwarven forged weapons. The maul blasted through both arms to connect solidly with the raider’s sloped forehead. The force of the heavy blow snapped the orc’s head back at an unnatural angle.

            His battle instincts screamed in warning that raised the goose-bumps on the dwarf’s neck, and Bowvin knew after many decades of fighting for his King and people that his instincts were rarely wrong. Letting go of his weapon with one hand, the clever warrior grabbed the slumping mage and twisted violently to his right. The dead orc’s body served as an improvised shield as the remaining mage had joined the fight and was slinging a volley of lava colored darts towards Bowvin.

            Dropping his improvised shield, Bowvin bound over the still smoldering corpse and with a roar the dwarf warrior charged the orc. The mage hurriedly chanted the acidic words to a new spell while his fingers twisted out arcane symbols in the hope of releasing a spell at the enraged dwarf barreling towards him. Sickly green flames tinted black at the tips began to form around the spellcaster’s hands, but he was a second too late.

            Bowvin swung his maul in a wide, sweeping arc that caught the mage in the chest and tore through leather armor into the soft flesh beneath it. The massive hammer struck the broken mage with enough force to collapse the poor orc around the head of the maul and tear him from his feet. The powerful dwarf flexed the thick, corded muscles of his wide forearms and changed the angle of his swing to smash both the head of the maul and the gray orc into the gravel of the mountain pass.

            Billowing clouds of frozen breath swirled around Bowvin’s plaited, grey and silver beard as his thick chest heaved from exertion and adrenaline. With an indifferent kick of his steel capped boots into the head of the downed orc to insure it was out of the fight, Bowvin scanned the battlefield for his nemesis. Spotting the demon a short distance away with his arms folded confidently across his chest, refueled the fire in the dwarf’s proud heart and with a battle cry  upon his lips, Bowvin charged the demon-lord.

            “Ozra aid me!” he cried as his maul’s solid head trailed behind him calling forth sparks as it bounced off the rocky path as he rushed forward. Reaching his foe, Bowvin used his momentum to launch his weapon in a fierce uppercut intending to wipe the demon’s smug look off his face.

            The demon smiled tauntingly at the enraged dwarf as he casually side-stepped the warrior’s powerful swing. Growling in frustration, Bowvin used the momentum granted by his heavy weapon to set his stout body spinning and creating a whirlwind assault of steel. Wiry and with the speed and grace of a cat, the demon dodged and ducked under the deadly swings before slipping within the dwarf’s pumping arms. With a strength beyond his slender body, the demon’s right had snapped around Bowvin’s thick neck and lifted the former First Shield several inches off the ground while the talons on his left set poised inches from the dwarf’s stout gut. In desperation Bowvin dropped his weapon and pried in vain with both hands in a fruitless attempt to break the demon’s vise-like grasp.

            “I just want you to know before you die, that I will take good care of your female companion.” The demon purred as he moved his feral face inches from Bowvin’s furious one. “After all, it just wouldn’t do to have something bad happen to the mother of my future offspring.  A malicious glint shone in the demon’s cold eyes and a wicked smile curled up around cruelly pointed teeth as he pressed the points of his talons against Bowvin’s stomach.

            Bowvin felt a lance of sorrow pierce his heart a split second before the demon’s razor sharp claws tore through his chainmail hauberk into his guts as easily as if it was made from silk and not finely forged dwarven steel. The tough old dwarf only gave a small grunt when the demon ripped his hand free, tearing a large opening and spilling Bowvin’s crimson and mauve innards across the rough ground. A second grunt escaped when the demon released his hold and the dwarf warrior slumped weakly to the floor of the gravelly pass, and as his vision began to fade, Bowvin saw the sight he had dreaded most. A shocked and frightened Solira being paraded between the gray orcs as two of the hulking marauders dragged her before the waiting demon.

            “I am sorry, Solira,” Bowvin gasped through the pain and blood-flecked lips. With a final shudder, the mighty First Shield’s shaggy head sagged and his defeated soul fled his dying, broken body.

            If the High Merchant heard her bodyguard’s whispered apology, she gave no outward sign as the victorious orcs presented their master with their trophy. At the sight of the leering creature gloating over her, comprehension of her upcoming fate pierced the fog of shock and Solira began to fight her against her captors. She kicked, clawed, twisted and bit the orcs holding her but only succeeded in encouraging the gathered monsters into catcalling and laughing at her feeble endeavors.

            Well, well, what do we have here?” the demon asked while he traced the soft curves of Solira’s trembling body with a bloody fingertip. “You know, I have always found it amusing that for a race whose males have to be the hairiest and ugliest bastards I have ever seen: the females are incredible works of beauty. The flawless ivory skin combined with voluptuous curves that would make even the staunchest Nabukian eunuch regret his choice of careers, and I think that is why I believe I enjoy the company of dwarven woman over all the other mortal races.”

            The demon sighed in guiltless pleasure as he sniffed the air longingly around the wide-eyed High Merchant. “Consider yourself blessed, dwarf,” he said while puffing out his bare chest and standing at his full height of seven feet, towering over the terrified Solira. “I, Zarrix Light’s Bane, claim you as my consort. You will bear me many gray orc sons before I release your body, but know that I will always keep you soul.”

            Zarrix smiled evilly as his black serpentine tongue arced out and obscenely traced the lines of Solira’s quivering neck till he reached her earlobe. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he hissed into her ear. “In time you might too.”

            With a low lust-filled growl escaping his throat, Zarrix tore Solira’s layers of clothing from her as easily as if they were made from paper and mercilessly forced himself upon the horrified woman. It was close the night’s zenith when the demon’s roars of pleasure mixed with Solira’s cries of terror finally stopped echoing off the canyon walls.

            Feeling refreshingly spent in some ways and invigorated in others, Zarrix slid off the prone woman and stretched his long muscles and breathed deeply of the sharp mountain air. The early snowstorm had abated and now Allura’s night sky filled the canyon with a surreal light. The Demon Lord viewed the star filled canopy with a mixture of awe and loathing. Zarrix, along with a handful of his brothers, had managed to escape from the Infernal Realms with its pressing darkness and the vastness of Allura’s night sky accented with the multitudes of celestial points of light always stirred mixed motions in the demon.

            With a dismissive grunt Zarrix turned his gaze from the stars above him back to the woman before him; the dwarven merchant had curled into a fetal position with her arms pulled up around her knees and held tightly against her bruised chest in a poor attempt to cover her nakedness and shame. Granite colored eyes stared off vacantly to nowhere as if to avoid the desecration going on around her as the gray orcs finished ransacking the wagons and bodies of her companions before tossing them off the trail’s edge into the oblivion below.

            While casting a lecherous gaze upon the prone woman before him, Zarrix noticed a blue tint creeping into Solira’s pale skin as the harsh winter winds clawed hungrily at her nakedness. The demon lord scoured the area for one of his warriors till he spotted two of the gray orcs arguing over the heavy maul of the dwarf he had killed.

            “You two, find my new consort something to cover up with. I’d hate to lose my trophy before I can fully enjoy her.” Zarrix smiled wickedly while the orcs snickered at their master’s lewd joke, each casting a covetous glance at the naked dwarf.

            “Remember one thing, Corr, Slava,” Zarrix stared at one of the orcs and then the other and jabbing a pointed talon into their thick chests to make sure he had their undivided attention. “The female is mine and if anyone touches or harms her; they will find a painful death at my hands.”

            The two orcs bowed hastily before rushing off to scavenge the wreckage for some sort of clothes or blankets for the dwarven woman. Zarrix watched the scampering orcs while absently scratching at a itch in his groin, before replacing his loincloth made of leathered human flesh and studded with splintered bones. Despite the frigid temperatures of the high mountains the demon, like all his kind, was unaffected by the physical conditions of Allura and only wore the loincloth as it made dealing with the creatures of this realm more convienent. 

            A strangled cry of surprise pulled the demon’s attention away from the shivering Solira as he tried to pierce the darkness and locate the source of the disruption. Although his gray orcs were considered some of Allura’s fiercest warriors, they still suffered the same handicap as all mortals in the blackness of night and scowled fiercely as they fruitlessly scanned the darkness for their enemies. A second and third scream split the night and caused the orcs to feel the tightening grasp of panic and the warriors bunched up in a defensive knot, weapons held at the ready as much to frighten their attackers as to fight off the unease gripping them as they sought their hidden foes.

            Born of utter darkness, Zarrix could see perfectly whether it was day or night and he finally spotted what he was looking for. A slender figure bundled in furs and wielding a bow slipped from behind a boulder and released the bowstring.  With frightening speed an arm’s length shaft sped with unerring accuracy into Slava’s sloped forehead, killing the orc instantly. The demon lord called out a warning as the dwelvinkin knocked a second arrow and took aim, but had to dodge nimbly aside as the mountain elf adjusted his aim and let fly at Zarrix. He managed to move from the arrow’s path, but not completely and the razor sharp sliced a small line across his shoulder.

            “Damn it!” Zarrix cursed as a third arrow whistled tauntingly past his ear. “Cracked Skull warriors to me! Dwelvinkin are in the rocks with bows!”

            The call of a mountain lion rent the night air and was quickly answered by a second and third cry alerting the orcs that the elves had them surrounded. Several soft snaps signaling the release of drawn bows was the only warning the orcs had before the mountain elves launched their assault. With half of the demon’s raiders lying dead or dying, their slate colored bodies riddled with arrows; the dwelvinkin dropped their bows and pulled fang-bladed axes from leather frogs at their hips. With a wordless challenging roar the elves rushed the stunned orcs.

            Superior numbers and cold ruthlessness that matched even the savage orcs gave the elves the edge as they tore through the remaining orcs. Those that didn’t fall to the crescent edged axes of the dwelvinkin fled back into the darkness of the mountains. Soon Zarrix found himself and his prize surrounded by grim faced elven warriors, each having a steel arrowhead or gleaming axe pointed at the lanky demon. Green eyes that ranged from the hue of new spring grass to the deep green of fresh pine needles glared out from lean faces framed in sparse beards colored in the red and orange of a dying sunset as the elven warriors cautiously tightened their steel-edged ring.

            “Solira Bluntpick, can you hear me?” The leader of the rescue party asked as he edged closer to Solira’s still form, jade eyes danced warily between the dwarven woman’s naked body to the demon crouched protectively behind her. “High Merchant, are you okay? Can you answer me?” A soft whimper was Solira’s only response.

            Zarrix did not like the odds before him, not one bit. Although a demon lord with no small amount of powers available to him, the large number of elves Zarrix now faced were beyond his ability to handle on his own. With a growl of frustration Zarrix spared his concubine a last longing look before standing his full height to tower over the shorter dwelvinkin. The demon lord stared balefully with half-closed reptilian eyes at the circle of elves surrounding him.

            “What brings you pointy-ears out on a night like this to ruin my fun?” While he talked, Zarrix focused inwardly on gathering his power. “Shouldn’t you be off hugging a tree or eating mushrooms?”

            “I’m not that kind of elf,” snapped a dwelvinkin near the leader’s side, a wide strip of rawhide pulled the speaker’s hair back to reveal a series of scars that crisscrossed the elf’s weathered face. “You have something we want and I prefer to have to go through you to get it.” The dour elf made a menacing step towards the now grinning demon.

            “Enough, Olkin.” The leader placed a hand on the elf’s chest. “Give us Solira, demon, and we will grant you a swift death, I swear it.”

            “How noble of you, mountain elf.” Zarrix sneered. “You can have the woman, she’s already provided me with what I needed.” The demon ran his forked tongue over his lips tauntingly right before he kicked Solira heavily in the side with a clawed foot. With a broken cry she was lifted off the ground and sent hurtling into the dwelvinkin. Those closest to the mewling dwarf went to Solira’s aid while the others made to rush Zarrix.

            “Kill the demon! Kill him for the High Merchant’s honor!” The dwelvinkin leader ordered, leading the charge with his own axes held high.

            Zarrix glared balefully through slitted eyes at the oncoming elves; slowly the demon raised his hands till they were parallel to the frozen ground. Scaled palms opened to reveal glowing orbs of purple and green flames in each palm, rapidly rising into the air and growing into devilish balls the size of small boulders.

            “I’d love to stay and chat, pointy-ears, but I have pressing engagements elsewhere,” Zarrix quipped with a wicked grin and with a deft twist and snap of his wrists, the demon threw the flaming orbs towards his feet. The flaming orbs exploded and spread into a wall of twisting flames that surrounded Zarrix, providing a protective barrier between him and the dwelvinkin.

            “Get him!” the green-eyed leader yelled, an arm held in front of his face to shield against the fiery blaze. “Don’t let him escape!”

            Mocking laughter assaulted the mountain elves as they tried without success to penetrate the circle of flames. The dwelvinkin stalked around the barrier searching for an opening, answering the demon’s laughter with the whistle of thrown spears and the twang of bowstrings, but the missiles would burst into flames as they passed through the dancing flames.

            Growing bored with harassing the elves and know that the flames would soon dissipate, Zarrix spread his jagged, leathery wings. With a last gloating laugh, launched himself high into the sheltering blackness of the night sky.

            “Jester’s luck!” The leader cursed as he slammed his axes back into their loops on his belt, thick leather loops creaking loudly in protest. Emerald eyes glittered in anger as he watched the demon soar safely away.

            “Pack Master Narik, the high merchant seems to be physically unharmed and we have covered her as best we could.” Olkin, Narik’s second in command informed his leader. “Slakik and Tralin found some furs to wrap Solira in and have volunteered to carry her back to Peddler’s Palace.” The dour elf seemed indifferent to the deep gash made by an orcish blade that now had the elf’s scarlet hair wetted a deep crimson with his blood as it hung heavily against his angular face.

            With a last regretful look in the direction the demon fled, Narik turned his attention back to his second and the reason he and his pack had braved the snowy mountain trails during the treacherous storm and moonless night. High Merchant Solira Bluntpick was safe, if not necessarily sound, and it was the responsibility of his warriors to get the dwarven woman back to the Mountain and the aid of her own people.

            “Very good, Olkin. We need to get…by Trealyn’s tits you look terrible!” Narik exclaimed once he was able to get a good look at his second. He began to reach in his pouch for a bandage but quickly came to the decision that this was beyond his abilities to tend to.

“Bezzik! Bezzik, to me and bring your kit!” The pack master bellowed into the night, calling for his pack’s newly assigned shaman and more importantly his healing arts.

“It is nothing, pack master,” Olkin tried to dissuade Narik’s concern with a wave of his hand. “I slipped on a patch of ice and the damned grayskin managed to score a minor hit before my axes removed his head.”

“Be that as it may, you’ve lost a lot of blood and your color is bad so I want Bezzik to check you over before we start the run back to the Mountain.” Narik’s slender face swiveled as he surveyed the area looking for the shaman while the dour-faced Olkin tried to steady himself in a world that was beginning to spin.

“Where’s that blasted shaman at,” the Pack Master growled. “Bezzik! Get your scrawny arse over here now!”

A few tense moments passed until a lanky dwelvinkin emerged from the darkness, the heavy leather robes of his profession billowing wildly around him as he raced to the Pack Master’s call. Narik watched in detached amusement as Bezzik’s vast assortment of pouches arced wildly around him as the young shaman staggered to breathless halt.

As Narik waited for Bezzik to catch his breath, the hardened warrior stroked the crimson bristles of his thick beard while he studied the young shaman with a shrewd eye. Bezzik was young for a pack shaman, but after Narik’s old healer had been slain by a crag wurm the youth had been the only shaman available to join Narik’s pack. Barely past his sixteenth winter, Bezzik had been blessed by Trealyn and had shown an affinity for the nature goddess’s healing magic that had allowed him early training as one of the dwelvinkins’ shamans.

Initially Narik and his pack had voiced their displeasure at having such a wet-behind-the-ears youth assigned to their pack, but after seeing the shaman in action had changed their opinion. After being ambushed by a pack of trolltaurs, Bezzik had braved a hail of poisoned arrows to rescue five of his fallen pack mates and in return had earned the acceptance of his brothers.

“Wha..what’s the…” the shaman tried to ask as he gulped in air.

“Olkin and a grayskin had a disagreement on which one was uglier. The orc was a sore loser and tried to add a new scar to our friend’s vast collection. See what you can do to fix the wound though I fear it will take more than Trealyn’s blessing to fix Olkin’s looks.” Narik explained with a grin towards his scowling second. “Tell me how the pack faired while you work.”

“Hold still, Olkin. You’re ugly enough without adding this mess to it.” Bezzik snapped when the second jerked away from his probing fingers. “Two of our brothers have returned to Trealyn’s embrace and another sits on Ozra’s scales awaiting judgment, but the grayskins will count their dead at a full score. All in all a successful hunt.” The shaman watched in distaste as when Olkin spat at the mention of the dead orcs.

“Would’ve been better if we would have gutted that damn demon,” Olkin growled then clenched his fists fiercely as Bezzik tied off his last stich. “Would’ve been a great hunt if we had brought the bastard’s head back to the den as a trophy.”

“It’s in the past now, Olkin. The Balancer’s Scales may have tipped against us in the matter of the demon-lord, but our hunt was to find the High Merchant and bring her home, not to slay a demon and his pets. In this, Ozra has blessed us and allowed to wet our blades and find Solira.” Narik gave the scowling Olkin a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before placing a curled ram’s horn to his lips and blew a long, haunting blast.

The pack quickly responded to the horn’s call and the pack leader was soon surrounded by his grim-faced warriors. Narik scanned the gathering trying to locate the High Merchant and was relieved to see her cocooned tightly in a web of furs with only her pug nose and wide eyes showing. Solira seemed to be asleep nestled between the two deadly dwelvinkin while Tralin and Slakik managed to somehow to keep a watchful eye on their charge, pack master, and the darkness around them, their free hand close to a fang-bladed axe.

“We have the High Merchant and the gray orcs have fled back into the mountains, but now time is our foe.” Narik said as he made sure to make eye contact with his pack. “She has taken grievous wounds from her ordeal and exposure to weather and whether or not she will survive depend on us returning her to Peddler’s Palace. Make ready to leave at the count of one hundred. Any questions?”

With no challenges forthcoming, Narik turned to his young shaman. “Start the count, Bezzik.”

“Yes, pack master,” Bezzik bowed his head in acknowledgment and began to silently till each mark of ten which he loudly called out.

Satisfied with the speed the pack was forming up, Narik stalked over to the bundled High Merchant. “Don’t worry, Solira. You are among friends now. Your uncle sent us to find you, and I promise we will soon have you safely before a roaring hearth with a warm flagon of mead ready to wash the horrors of the night from your mind.”  The pack master wondered if Solira was even aware of what was happening around her as she trembled slightly within her furs.

“One hundred!” Bezzik’s youthful voice echoed through the pass.

Cupping his hands tightly around his mouth, Narik howled a challenge to the night daring it to stop the run of his deadly pack. “Time to run, brothers!”

Without a backwards glance, the pack master began a loping run towards the west where safety and Peddler’s Palace awaited them. Silently as the wolves they revered, the pack flowed behind Narik, steel teeth flashing in the moon light.



Later this week...

By the end of this week I will post a draft of the first chapter in the second book of The Blades of Allura series. It will introduce a new enemy and new race of elves that inhabit the kingdom of Allura.

Happy Reading

    -EW- 

The Purpose

     I would like to take some time and talk about the purpose of this blog. I started AWS to chronicle my experiences in getting self-published, and while it has done that, it has also become a way for readers to sample my writing style and stories without investing any money. I like this and will continue to write about my journey, but I am also going to post short stories or chapters of larger tales on a quarterly basis. Feel free to leave comments, critiques, or suggestions on my stories.
     
     There will be a lot of free time ahead for me as my son starts his second half of his cancer treatment plan. With my wife staying with him most of the week while he gets proton radiation treatments, I plan to make good use of the quiet time and get a big chunk of Hand of the Black Blade done and a short story for the second quarter of 2014 posted.

      For the short story I have a few ideas bubbling around in my noggin. Idea one pertains to a fallen paladin set in the same time and world as The Call of Duty. Idea two revolves around a longer tale broken into chapters about the last day of earth before Christ leads His army of angels against the gathered forces of Satan and the last community of Christians caught in the middle. Or I have a couple of World of Warcraft fanfics wanting their tale told. That's my plan anyway, but we never know the curves that will come at us from the mist-shrouded future.

Happy Reading

 

-EW-

Homecoming (World of Warcraft fanfic)

Author's Note: This tale takes place at the beginning of the Wrath of the Lich expansion. 

          The bow of the Dolphin’s Kiss rammed through the surging waves on its way to Auberdine, the salty spray mixing with the cold gray rain that was falling and drenching all on the ship’s slippery deck. The superstitious crew cursed the dark weather and made wards against evil whenever they would glance in the direction of the cloaked figure standing motionless at the prow.

             A northern wind had carried the chill of Northrend to the southern continents compounding the crew’s, but the hooded stranger paid no heed to the cold. More correct to say he reveled in it, drew from it to strengthen his already unequal powers.

           It had been three months since Gathos Silverleaf had heard the Lich King’s icy whispers commanding him to sow death and terror among the people of Azeroth. Although he and his brethren had freed themselves from Arthas’s tyrannical grasp not a night passes that the night elf death knight doesn’t hear the terror filled screams of the innocents he had slaughtered in the name of the Scourge.

            With a carrying the weight of a thousand souls, Gathos watched as the lights of Auberdine appeared through the sleet and raining, fearing the welcome he would receive but anxious to be back in the place he once called home.

            As the captain barked orders and the crew readied the fleet ship for disembarking, Gathos paid them little mind. The death knight called upon his innate abilities and froze the air into a path leading from the deck of the ship to Auberdine’s long pier. Shouldering the large pack that contained his telltale armor, Gathos strode from the deck of Dolphin’s Kiss.

            Suddenly increasing in intensity, the northern wind swirled around the elf, blowing the bulky cloak out wide and revealing an ornate runeblade strapped to his broad back. The cruel wind howled momentarily as if mocking Gathos’s attempts at hiding his lichborn identity.

            There was a sharp intake of breath as every man and women aboard the ship’s deck stopped what they were doing to stare at the exposed death knight. To them it was if Death incarnate was walking amongst them and by the grace of the Light narrowly avoided its eternal embrace.

            With nothing more than a slight bowing of his head at the stunned crew, Gathos readjusted his heavy pack and marched steadily down the long dock to the seaside inn. Eyes the color of frost reflecting the full moon stared with determination at the Last Haven Tavern, hoping the one he was to meet was waiting there for him.

            In his hollow soul Gathos knew that for the sin’s he had committed that the good people of Azeroth could never forgive and in his cold heart he knew that he did not deserve to be. The best the death knight could hope for was tolerance.

            Stepping through the large opening that served as one of three entrances to the busy inn, Gathos smile at a cherished memory that crept from the frozen halls of his mind. He and his brother, Solnu, had whittled away many pints of ale and summer evenings as they pondered the magical barriers that kept the inn free of even the harshest elements. No matter the weather outside, the inn was dry in the blowing rain, cool in the heat of the summer and warm against winter’s cruel bite.

            Solnu, his brother’s name caused an ache in his chest. The death knight hadn’t seen his twin in the two years since he was taken by the Scourge and born again as one of their mighty champions. Gathos’s last memory of his twin was when three of their comrades had dragged his brother kicking and screaming from the battlefield where Gathos had fallen.

            “Brother!” a familiar voice interrupted Gathos’s reverie and was shortly followed by a strong hand being placed on his shoulder and another firmly gripping his own gloved hand. “By Elune, Gathos, your freezing.”

            The dark fog of his memories melted to reveal a rugged face framed by lanky, thistle-green green hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, but the smile gave away the speakers identity. Gathos couldn’t count the number of times he had seen that lopsided grin right before he and his twin did something incredibly stupid or mischievous.

            “It is good to see you again, Solnu,” Gathos had been afraid that his brother wouldn’t show up to meet with the undead creature he had become. “I had feared you wouldn’t be here when I arrived. The fear, ignorance, and open hostility directed to those of us freed of Arthas’s grasp has dogged me at every step of my journey.”

            Solnu’s smile faltered briefly as the weight of his brother’s burden touched his heart, but it quickly sprang back and he patted Gathos warmly on the back. “It is truly good to see you again, brother. Now, Let’s get a seat and a pint or two to toast your homecoming and for us each to tell our tales.”

            Guiding Gathos to a table in a darkened corner of the inn, Solnu called over his shoulder to the buxom barkeep. “Two mugs of Thunderbrew’s best, Silla. We’re celebrating my brother finally coming home!” He flashed Silla his winning smile before focusing once more on navigating the maze of chairs and tables.

            Gathos wondered how far Solnu’s smile would have slipped at the grim scowl Silla shot the death knight behind his back. With a shrug the undead elf allowed his brother to lead him to a quiet corner of the inn away from the inn’s other patrons’ lingering looks.

            A quiet grunt escaped his lips as Gathos slipped the heavy pack from his shoulder and dumped it unceremoniously at the foot of his chair. The indifference shown to the bundle of armor was replaced with the tenderness of a mother watching over her newborn child as Gathos slid the ornately hilted bastard sword from its hanger on his wide back. With the softness of a lover’s touch, the death knight traced the archaic runes etched on the length of the wide blade.

            Solnu’s smile turned uneasy as he watched his trace the outer edges of the exotic weapon. “What’s it like, Gathos? Does it hurt?”

            “No. Not really,” Gathos answered, gently leaning the sword against the wall where it would be easily accessible if needed. “I’m mostly cold.” The elf blew out a frosted breath to accent his point.

            “Always cold? Can’t a fire or hot drink bring you comfort?” Solnu asked, revulsion etched plainly on his face. There was nothing worse than being cold and unable to warm up to the experienced hunter.

            “The only thing capable of breaking my chill is the fresh spilt blood of others,” Gathos answered truthfully while raising his frost colored eyes to meet his brother’s golden disbelieving stare. “A perversion I have not allowed myself to partake in for many weeks.”

            The two brothers locked gazes for several moments, Solnu trying to make sense of the death knight before him and Gathos at peace with whatever decision his brother decided on. The intensity of the moment was broken when a shapely lavender arm passed between the twins as Silla set the foam topped mugs on the tabletop with a disapproving clunk.

            When Gathos moved his hand to the pouch at his hip so he could fish out coins to pay Silla; the barkeep shook her blueberry locks.

            “On the house this one time, Gathos” she said stiffly. “For what once was, but drink quickly and leave before you chase all my customers away.” She gave the brothers a last lingering look before spinning on her heel and make her way back behind the bar.

            A wolfish grin split Solnu’s beard as he watched the shapely elf woman’s swaying backside and Gathos couldn’t contain his own smile at his brother’s typical behavior around the beautiful Silla. Solnu noticed his brother smiling at him and the wolfish grin turned into a sheepish smile.

            “How are things going in that area?” Gathos asked remembering his brother’s fruitless pursuit of Silla’s attentions years ago. “Did you two finally venture past the friend phase?”

            “Well, every time I try to approach her with that very line of thought she always replies ‘I’d rather kiss a kobold then be seen with a rogue like you’ to which I reply…”

            “That’s ok then, because I’m a hunter!” the two brothers finished together before bursting into deep peals of laughter. From behind the bar Silla momentarily stopped polishing the spotless countertop to stare at the twins which only caused them to laugh even harder. With a hopeless shake of her head she turned her attention back to the countertop.

            “So you still haven’t won her over with that cheesy line after all these years?” Gathos asked, his ribs aching from the unaccustomed exertion of mirth.

            “Unfortunately, no,” Solnu replied as he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “But I think she’s warming up to me though.”

            “Really?” Gathos tried to hide the surprise in his voice. Solnu had been pursuing the elusive Silla for the better part of a decade to no avail.

            “Truly, she only slapped my hand away last night when I pinched her arse in passing.” Solnu said with a straight face.

            “That’s an improvement?” asked a doubting Gathos.

            “Yep, normally she gives me a black eye and throws me out of the inn.” The twins broke into another fit of laughter which caused Silla to glare daggers at the brothers till they futilely tried to contain their mirth.

             Once the laughter died away an uncomfortable silence settled between the brothers which they tried to hide in the depths of their mugs. Unable to stand the unease, Solnu cautiously broke the silence.

            “I looked for you after we pushed the Scourge back. For six days I searched for your body, I even had Whisper try to pick up your scent. I guess that was when I gave up hope of finding you, dead or alive. If Whisper couldn’t find you then you just weren’t there. Damn wolf howled for a week straight for you. You would’ve thought he was your pet and not mine.” Solnu finished with a small chuckle.

            A smile curled at the corners of Gathos’s eyes as he remembered the snow-furred wolf. He had fed Whisper scraps of rabbit or squirrel when Solnu wasn’t looking in an attempt to befriend the great beast. It had worked and often Whisper would stay with Gathos and his family when Solnu would take his lion or giant wasp on training hunts.

            “The Scourge doesn’t waste fresh meat,” Gathos replied a bitter edge to his voice. “Arthas’s val’kyr scoured the battlefield for anyone that would be capable of serving the Lich King.”

            Solnu misunderstood the bitterness in his brother’s voice and hastily began to apologize. “I’m sorry, Gathos. I really did try to find you.”

            “It isn’t your fault, brother,” Gathos explained. “If you would have stayed then we both would’ve become a part of that bastard’s foul army.”

            “Still…”

            A thundering crash brought the two brothers to their feet. Gathos had only thought he knew what emptiness and pain were, but the sight before him made the ministrations of the Lich King’s minions seem pleasant by comparison. The hollowness and pain that threatened to consume him now raged like a blizzard as it tore at his soul.

            At the bar stood Cylinna, his wife. Never had her slender curves called to his hands as they did at that moment nor did her silver-white ringlets that framed her oval face call out to him to bury his face in their lushness so he could smell the apple blossom scent of her as it did now. But Cylinna wasn’t his any longer; the world had moved on in his absence. She was just one more thing the Lich King had taken from him.

            “Gathos…no,” Cylinna’s voice trembled as she brought her shaking hands to her mouth.

            “Silla, would you please take my wife outside,” asked the burly warrior standing at Cylinna’s side. “I will follow momentarily.”

            Gathos remembered the elf from the past. Darot Splitblade, a childhood friend of the twins who had competed with Gathos for Cylinna’s affections. Despite Gathos and Cylinna becoming lovers, he and Darot had remained close friends and there was no one he could think of to better care for his family, but that fact couldn’t squelch the fire that was beginning to burn in the pit of the death knight’s heart.

            Gathos studied Darot as the elf strode purposely towards the twins, but where he expected to see triumph or gloating in his friend’s face, Gathos only saw sorrow.

         “Kill him...strike him down…feast on his soul! The old voice whispered in Gathos’s mind. “Make him pay for what he has taken from you!”

           Unconsciously Gathos began to reach for the hilt of his runeblade. With a grunt the death knight fought of the unholy impulse, but not before Darot noticed the slight movement.

            Sorrow evaporated and was replaced by fear. Darot had never been Gathos’s equal with a blade and he knew with the death knight’s powers to aid Gathos it would be no contest. Despite that, Darot rallied his courage to stand firm before the sitting elf.

            ‘I’m sorry Gathos,” he began while his friend watched him with emotionless eyes. “I waited two years before approaching Cylinna after she received the news of your fall. Even then she just agreed to our marriage a month ago. Had I known…”

            Gathos raised his hand to stop Darot’s rambling.” Think nothing more on the subject, Darot. I care nothing for mortal desires or for things in my past.” Gathos lied and casually leaned back in his chair. “But know that if you fail to keep her or my son safe from harm; there is no pit deep enough to hide you from my wrath.” Frosted eyes flared briefly with unholy light to drive his point home. 

            “Of course, Gathos. I promise.” Darot swore and turned to leave but stopped half way through. “That reminds me. You should see how much Nulan has grown. Yesterday I took him hunting…”

            “Get out!” Gathos roared, slamming his fist on to the table with enough force to cause he and Solnu’s mugs to teeter precariously. Ever nimble, Solnu quickly rescued his mug before it could spill.

            In his hurry to get away, Darot tripped over a chair and crashed heavily to the floor, but in his fear to flee Gathos didn’t both regaining his feet and scrabbled crab-like from the inn.

            “I thought you didn’t care,” Solnu teased, his golden orbs grinning over his mug at the scowling Gathos.

            “Shut up,” Gathos growled.

            “Just saying…yeow!” yelped Solnu when his mug froze and shattered in his grasp, spattering him with shards of pottery and ale.

            The brothers sat in silence, Gathos trying to control his mounting rage and Solnu wiping ale foam from his face and pulling chunks of clay from his beard.

            “How is he?” Gathos asked after calming down.

            “Who?” a distracted Solnu asked while trying to get Silla’s attention so he could order another drink.

           “My son, you ogre brained buffoon,” Gathos snapped.

           “Oh, oh yeah,” Solnu mimed drinking from a mug to Silla who responded with a rude gesture and a flip of her hair. “He isn’t the same care free boy that you remember. He has a darkness in him now and often goes off on his own. Nulan would have died several times if Whisper and I hadn’t followed and watched over him. Darot’s been trying to reach out to the boy but…” Solnu finished with a shrug.

           Gathos tried to imagine the lively and curious son he had left behind to the withdrawn child Solnu was trying to describe. He couldn’t believe how badly things had taken a turn for the worse. “Thank you for watching over Nulan; I’ll talk to Cylinna after she calms down to see what she would have me do.”

            There was a clattering of weapons and the jingle of buckles as a small force of Auberdine’s protectors entered the inn. Six heavily armed sentinels spread out around the entrances to the inn, their tri-bladed glaives held at the ready. Their leader scanned the bar intently seeking her target, her silver eyes piercing into the darkest corners of the inn.

            “Gathos Silverleaf!” barked a brusque female voice. Come forward and give yourself over to the authority of the sentinels!”

            Spotting the brothers, the captain stomped over to stand before their table. “Death knight, your kind aren’t welcome in Auberdine.” The captain’s eyes flashed dangerously while her fingers tapped the pommel of the fine longsword belted at her rounded hip, while she spared a wicked grin for Gathos. “Feel free to resist, abomination.”

            “I think you have your undead confused, Dreadia.” Solnu quipped with cold mirth. “Whisper come.” The hunter finished with two short whistles and set his longbow warningly on the table.

            A massive white wolf shouldered his way between the two sentinels guarding the south entrance, his angular head coming to the chests of the guards as he passed. Silently he padded across the floor to the brothers and after licking Gathos warmly on the hand, lay down beside his master.

            Gathos placed his hand on Solnu’s quivering one clenched around his bow. “Easy brother, this is not a fight worth doing.”

            With slow deliberate movements, Gathos stood, slung his pack over his shoulder, and slid his runeblade into its hanger on his back. Next to him Solnu stood and the brothers shared a quick embrace.

            “Watch over Cylinna and Nulan for me,” Gathos asked and then ruffled the fur atop Whispers head. "And you watch over my brother.” The wolf gave Gathos’s hand a single lick and issued a low whine.

            “Farewell, brother,” sadness laced Gathos’s words and then he turned and walked from the Last Haven Tavern. Dreadia glared balefully at Solnu then motioned for her warriors to follow the death knight.

            “Farewell, brother,” said Solnu quietly.

            As he walked through the village of his birth and passed the dwellings of friends and family from his youth; the presence of the escort began to chip away at his self-control. His homecoming had not gone as he had hoped. His wife and son were lost to him and no longer could he call the sleepy fishing village home. Only his brother still saw him as the man he was and not the creature he had become, and it would not have been fair to Solnu to ask him to give it all up to join him on his lonely path.

            That last thought burned away the tiny bit of tolerance he had left in him. Eyes blazing with icy blue fury, the death knight spun to face the sentinels. To their credit they stood their ground against his cold gaze.

            “I can find my own way out of town, captain.” Gathos stated with a sneer.  “You and yours can go back to watch whatever dull event dominated your life till my arrival.”

            “Brave words for a murderer outnumbered by six of Elune’s servants.” Dreadia answered haughtily.

            Gathos’s hollow laughter was not the result Dreadia had expected. Nervously she half-drew her sword while checking each of her sentinels for readiness; the doubt she saw there was not comforting.

           “Foolish girl.” Gathos admonished with a smile stuck at the corner of his lips. “While your god floats detached from our world my master reigns supreme here in Azeroth. Before I was freed from the Lich King’s control he saw fit to grant me unequal powers. Now feel what that means!”

    

          It happened so fast Dreadia wasn’t sure she wasn’t dreaming, but the sight before her would be more like a nightmare. In one smooth motion Gathos drew the monstrous sword from its scabbard, spidery runes glowing a brilliant blue; his other hand shot out towards the sentinels. A powerful blast of frigid air struck the grout, felling all but the stunned captain who was staring raptly at the razor sharp edge of Gathos’s runeblade a hair’s breadth from her perspiring brow.

            “You killed,” Dreadia mumbled. “With one attack you killed them all.”

            “They aren’t dead, just very, very cold. Nothing an hour or two before a fire and a mug of spiced cider won’t cure.” Gathos explained. “Now do you understand the folly of pursuing me?”

            Dreadia nodded her head numbly.

            “Good. Not all death knights are evil undead monsters. Some of us are lost souls who just want to go home.” A sadness entered Gathos voice as he spoke to the captain. “Go ahead and get your people inside where it’s warm.”

            Sheathing his blade, Gathos gave the village a last sweeping look before walking off into the wilds of Darkshore.

The End