The Battle of Ebulon (23 page)

“Thank you,
Minstrel!”

***

The battle raged through
the day and into the misty hours of twilight. As the sky darkened
and the clouds parted to reveal a rising moon, Brant and Ky found
themselves standing in the middle of the battlefield, surrounded by
dead or dying Orcs and warriors alike, the good and evil sharing
the same tomb. The army of Tellurae Aquaous held through the
brutal, bloody day, despite staggering losses. The enemy hounded
them mercilessly, galvanized into action by their hideous leader
who had laid low so many good men and dragons. Now he turned is
eyes to Brant and Ky, who accepted the challenge readily and fought
through the enemy ranks to match his blade with their own. Evidence
of his skill lay all across the blood-soaked ground. Both Brant and
Ky recognized the shields, swords, banners, and faces that were not
trampled in the mud at this great Orc’s feet.

“This is my battle,
little brother,” Ky said. “Watch my back.”

Brant wanted to argue,
but the look in Ky’s eyes halted his protests. Instead, he nodded
and gripped his sword a bit more tightly.

“Monster!” Ky’s voice
rang out across the battlefield. “Turn your hate to me!”

The Orc gnashed its
sharp, blood-stained teeth and strode forward to destroy
Ky.

The two faced each other
cautiously. They circled one another, and a hush fell across the
meadow. The Orc was a full head and shoulders taller than Ky, its
massive arms and legs bulging with strength and contempt. Ky exuded
confidence in every gesture. The Orc swung his great, jagged sword
casually through the air, the blade whistling a deadly tune as it
sliced back and forth. Ky held his ground, waiting.

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.

This Entry Point features
a character or characters from:

Minstrel's
Song series by
Jenelle Leanne
Schmidt

“
King's Warrior" and "Second Son."

Now
available.

Website:
http://jenelleschmidt.com

Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/JenelleLeanneSchmidt

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3636.Jenelle_Leanne_Schmidt

Entry Point 10
- by Tom Barczak

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.

“
I do not know
that I can help you.”

The man stalled,
confused.

“
What is your
name, knight?” Al-Aaron asked.

“
Doernyth.
First Prince of Haardit. I am the last of my city, the only one to
make it here alive.” He shook his head.

“
I was sent
here by an angel.”

Doernyth shrugged. “Why
are you here if not to help us?”

“
I am sworn to
never shed the blood of man. My sword is only a symbol.”

The cry of the horde
broke across the city wall.

“
Ladders!” One
of the defenders screamed.

“
We are a
spiritual order.” Al-Aaron continued.

Doernyth shrugged again.
“Great for a priest, boy. Pretty bad for a knight.”

Doernyth pulled a
medallion from beneath his mail, over his head and placed it on
Al-Aaron.

The ghost of Malius, his
hands outstretched, his face upturned, passed through them both,
through the blood and the war.

“
You can man
the postern gate,” Doernyth said. “They need you there.” He
signaled to the gatehouse. “And besides, you’re in luck. The horde
which attacks us isn’t men.”

***

From the gatehouse,
through the narrow door leading to the surround, a cry came from
the dark, closer than all the other cries of war. “Let him through.
He wears Doernyth’s medallion.”

“
One of the
hero’s then, are you?” the first voice answered. A broken face,
full of scars, some old, some new, peered at him from just beyond
the vestige light of burning things.

“
My name is
Al-Aaron. I am a Servian knight.”

“
Follow me
then knight.”

The cries of beasts
heralded across the surrounds like trumpet calls. Dying sounds.
Slaughter sounds. The defenders here sending them back, whatever
they were, to wherever they came.

Dark shadows more beast
than men with gripping poles with savage sword and splitting axe
and snout and beak and fang. Their eyes burned yellow. Their blood
flowed black.

The blood of the men on
the battlements flowed red.

But the men
held.

At least he wasn’t too
late.

For whatever reason he
was here.

The cries of women and
children came from the citadel.

That was if a boy could
do anything at all to help them. No. Not a boy, a Servian
knight.

Naptha balls of fire
streaked overhead. They exploded against the citadel in
answer.

He followed the broken
face through the narrow door and down sharp winding steps to a
small passage the size of a tomb. A dozen faces of boys and old men
stared back at him. Bravery was a cloak over the fear in their
eyes.

“Here you go,
hero.”

The broken faced man
stared at him, his eyes rimmed red. He seized his arm. He thrust
his mouth against his ear. Sweat and blood and spit and tears.
“Please let them die well.”

Cries of beasts, cries of
war, trumpeted beyond the small postern gate in answer.

***

A pallid haired boy who
couldn’t have seen more than fourteen summers, no more than he had,
drew up to him.