The Battle of Ebulon (33 page)

This entry
point is an original story written specifically for this anthology.
It also marks the writer’s first published work of
fiction.

Epilogue

The room was
silent, which wasn’t a good thing. With no audible distraction he
was left with his own thoughts, each felt like a demon summoned
from a terrible place. Those demons worked together to rip and tear
at his mind, soul and heart. He was conflicted in every way
imaginable. His city, his beloved Ebulon was under attack from the
largest confederation of Orcs ever assembled. There was no absolute
ruler amongst the attackers, no one king that could be killed which
would send the Orcs running like the beasts they were. Most of
Ebulon’s allies had been wiped from the world before the attack had
began, leaving King Yadi no other choice but to call for aid across
all worlds. Ever since the dawn of his world, his lineage had known
about the unique connection this world had to every other.
The shadow of all worlds
;
his father had used this phrase to explain it to him when he was a
young child.

He had known the dangers
of calling for aid from foreign worlds. When walking through
darkness you can call for help, but couldn’t completely control who
heard such a plea. Hero was a loose term, there were Orcs that were
considered heroes in their own ranks. But this consequence wasn’t
amongst the demonic ranks that plagued his thoughts. He shouldn’t
have been in his tower, he should have been out amongst his people,
wielding his sword and fighting this wretched enemy. He could feel
the weight of his crown within his hands; he had taken it off and
then put it back on more times than he could count. He didn’t feel
like a king sitting in this room, he felt like a coward. The weight
of the crown in his hands was metaphorically flawless for it
represented the weight of rule. He had had to beg for aid, a king
should never be on his knees. But if it meant the survival of his
kingdom he would bow to anyone, except the Orcs. He had been within
his tower for almost two days, anxious and nervous the entire time.
When he had heard the Orc drums he had been prepared to fight
alongside his countrymen. He knew that the Orcs would attack every
entry point of his city, that there was no way he could defend them
one by one. But he had planned on being there, side by side his
brave troops as they defended an entry point.

It had been drilled into
his mind that in order to save his city, perfect strategy would be
needed. As much as he desired the aid of foreign heroes he couldn’t
count on them. Yet how quickly his strategy changed. With his own
eyes he had been met with 50 warriors from another world, each
strong and ready to defend a land that was not their own. He gladly
would’ve fought alongside them until he was informed to hurry back
to the Tower. There was once a time when his word would’ve been
enough to keep his people loyal. But their fear and panic of utter
destruction had rattled their minds. He had little choice but to do
what was asked of him and returned to the Tower. He was shocked by
what was waiting for him there, the severed head of Grock the King
Killer. He had to touch its filthy skin before accepting the truth
that a foreign warrior had killed the wicked fiend. He would have
been honored to meet such a powerful soldier.

But his advisors convinced
him, against his own desires to stay within the tower. Their words
had made complete sense, that it was he and he alone that could
call for aid from the other worlds. It was a power that only his
bloodline possessed. He would need to call for more aid if the
other world warriors were not enough to save his kingdom. He
understood this completely, for parts of his city had already been
abandoned, people fleeing in the hopes that the Orcs wouldn’t
pursue them after Ebulon fell. Of course he made sure that all of
his advisors and mages didn’t leak this information to anyone, that
officially people had been evacuated by order of the king. Like a
spear to the chest, the idea that he couldn’t keep his people safe
was overwhelming. He didn’t care if the City walls were broken, the
houses ransacked, the food reserves burned. Walls could be rebuilt,
crops could be planted again. But the people of Ebulon couldn’t be
brought back from the dead, even his wizards didn’t possess such
power.

Earlier on in the day he
had been anxious to see how his kingdom was faring. Even from his
great Tower not all of the entry points into his city could be
seen. He had no idea what was happening in certain parts of his
kingdom. What he had managed to see, through a window of his throne
room was encouraging. Aldoren of the Elf Nation had brought his
finest troops to aid the city. He was grateful his old ally had
answered his call, considering that the relationship between men
and elves hadn’t always been pleasant. If his Kingdom survived he
would find a way to one day repay Aldoren. More impressive than
Aldoren was the appearance of the dragon Attor. At first Yadi
feared the beast had taken advantage of the Orc attack and had come
to claim its pound of flesh from the city. He was as confused as he
was relieved when he saw it attacking the Orcs. Even more
fascinating than Attor was the beast that rode it, of all things a
snow leopard had ridden upon the Dragon’s back. He didn’t know how
or why, but that snow leopard was the reason Attor was aiding the
city. It was a riddle he feared never having a chance to
solve.

He soon had left the
window, unable to control his emotions, so many had come to aid his
kingdom, while he had sat by and watched. He knew he was in a
morbid mood when he began carrying the head of Grock with him when
he left his great hall. Even by Orc standards the damn thing
smelled terrible, but it was the ultimate symbol of what was
happening outside the tower. Heroes who could gain nothing but
injury and death had come to help his kingdom for no other reason
than him calling for aid. He knew why he should’ve stayed in the
tower but he felt sick to his soul about it.

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.