Chapter I

The world shook with the cracking of flames and the clatter of steel. It was chaos until the core of the battle where the wraith Meldewan sat on his throne casting devastating spells on the surrounding forces of men. Robed in yellow and coated with golden charms the commanding wizard sat back with ease, laughing as he played his fingers in the air tearing town rows of white cladded soldiers. His elite guard of jarrow who carried him in was lightly armored and able to swiftly rush off to defend against an advancing unit.

“Our swords are sharper than any of your curses, our resolve purer than any of your profane schemes,” Byron, the head commander of the fighting men, broke through Meldewan’s inner line. The wraith’s jarrow lay dead not far off from behind the commander and his three allies, “we’ve come to slay you quickly, wraith, a fate too sweet befitting your haunted legacy.”

Byron was a beacon of silver in battle with the shine of his armor. Though dirt and blood had come to stain him it was only from the collapse of those he slashed through in battle. With him was his most trusted lieutenant Quintin, the feared and mighty Art, and the marksman Hedrick. There four were heroes among their men and now stood before the rising Meldewan.

“You would have been sharper to surrender at the crossing,” Meldewan smiled down on the four heroes much like a vulture above a once escaped rodent now too exhausted to move. “I believe this confrontation to be the more severe mistake.”

        Meldewan’s hand twitched and Byron readied his sword, “Hedrick,” he called out to attack.

        He was Hedrick the Hawk to men and the Cloud Picker to the mythic world. In an open field he could claim whoever he wanted with his beautiful bow. His names were renowned and his swift speed was song of yet neither could help him now. Hedrick drew his bow as Meldewan extended his arm towards him. The arrow was sent and Meldewan pushed his hand out to send it back through Hedrick’s throat.

        The marksman snarled and fell back leaving Byron dazed, “Meldewan,” the commander howled the name with hate and advanced with his remaining allies, “they will burn all that’s left of you when we’re done!”

        Both arms moved and Meldewan casted a spell within a whisper. The three men took their firsts steps up to the wraith but were met by a great and unseen pressure from above. Byron and Quinton fell to their knees with their swords banged into the wooden stairs but Art’s large body could only be hunched down.

        Meldewan wore a more intrigued expression for Art when he renewed his ascent, “I remember you from the raid at Ghain, Skull Smasher.” The wraith eyed Art’s black war hammer quietly, “yes, eight of my mages lost their heads that night. It was a pity you did not await my arrival.”

        Art’s steps were being pushed down by an immense force as he made slow progress but he could not stop himself. He spat with his rough, winded voice, “say your last words now because you aint going to have a head to speak from. Curse me with the last words if you want but it aint going to matter because I’ll wear every scar as a new trophy.”

        “Art, we need to fall back,” Quinton said from his place in pain.

        The hammer was readied in the air against Meldewan’s magic, “I left Ghain to smash your princey boy’s retreat at Nuritan.” He clenched his teeth and slowed, closing in on the wraith, “now I can make up for it here.”

        Never was there an opponent who survived a strike from Art’s hammer nor any who suffered the pain it may have brought. Art was the Skull Smasher and when he swung his steel heads smashed easier than glass off a tower.

        Meldewan clutched his fingers in, “Skull Smasher, you’re bold beyond your own good.”

        A new spiral of pressure fell onto Art and with a brief struggle and single yelp the back of his head exploded, spraying Byron and Quinton, “Art!” the lieutenant yelled. The hefty body of the Skull Smasher tumbled down the steps making Quinton’s eyes water, “Commander, you’ve got to get out of here.”

        “There’s no more freedom here,” Byron said, failing to even lift his sword.

        “How much did you lose with two lives, Commander Byron,” Meldewan asked his subdued adversary.

        Byron did not respond and Quinton yelled again, “Byron! Push back and leave me here.”

        Byron kept quiet unwilling to admit the true sting of how restrained he was. He still had his grip around his hilt but no finger could be lifted. The two men began to feel crushed before the wraith accepting that they had gravely underestimated how dangerous the dark eyed wizard was. Once more Meldewan grew dreadfully pleased and moved his hand towards Quinton.

        “I know not your name, pawn of Byron, but I know your reputation. You were the one who met Sawan in the battle of the Rushing River. It was a critical defeat for you losing half an army in the storm and your family’s ancient sword. That heirloom was enchanted you know. Such wasted power.” Meldewan turned his wrist and Quinton lifted his sword up to his own neck, “How was it you slew Sawan? You drove his own sword through his neck?”

        Quinton teared at the sensation of the steel resting on his flesh. He wanted to call out to Byron once more to escape as if his words would grant him this but his tongue failed him. Quinton wanted to beg. He wanted to beg for his life. He was terrified, shamed, and only felt concerned with making a final wish for home aloud and then he cried out, “Damn you, wraith!” He wanted a heroic death with meaning and with words to be echoed for all of time. All Quinton could cry out now was “You forsaken log!”

        Meldewan kept himself from laughing, “Ah, I remember now, of course. You’re from the Pelami family. The Pelami family sword is lost and I personally molted a few of your grandfathers, Pelami.”

        It was not by Meldewan’s magic that Byron felt strangled. The commander felt defeat burning down his neck like the pain across Quinton’s exposed throat. Quinton’s skin cut back and blood trickled down once Meldewan moved the sword into him. Quinton had no bravery left in the face of death and screamed, damning Byron with the sound of failure. Byron let out his own cry in frustration and then all at once the sound of the battle stopped and for a moment Byron’s fading voice was all that anyone heard. Quinton felt his blade stop and opened his eyes to see what had happened.

         The shaking stopped—the world stopped. Men in their white and silver stopped next to their mythic enemies in various browns, greens, and greys. All had turned their sights onto one lone being while all their ears rung and hearts pounded. No one knew exactly what they were looking at. Neither Byron nor Meldewan knew precisely why anyone had ceased their fighting for just him. It was undeniable to the two that the battle and stopped for this one man.

        “Fuck,” the man let loose a careless, thin voice, “don’t stop the party just for me. Keep dancing,” his arms waved a bit and all combatants flinched, “keep dancing, aight?”

        The strange man looked almost normal from the top. His hair was of a darker black, curling without proper direction when its length ended at the top of his neck. From his ears to his chin was standard fuzz but between there and the other end of his head was the most queer binding. From off his ears few bent over in their crowds for a better look at was hiding his eyes. It was as black as his hair and shot a shine off like it was a jewel. They all wondered whether or not he could even see through this odd apparel.

        His coat was blue where the white tears didn’t poke out. What a few began to faintly murmur over was what they assumed was a family crest stitched onto the coat. He licked his lips and started to pace about, halting the few whispers. He nearly stumbled with a wrong step and stood still. Another round of whispers emerged.

        Perhaps what was most captivating about his appearance was the clothing beneath his opened coat. He wore something smooth and black with a long, tilted coloring of reddish-yellow in the middle. With another moment of observation some swore the symbol on his chest of was of another man standing and holding down his head. Off of his green trousers and all their thick pockets was the chain that wobbled a moment after he steadied his stance. What many were not noticing on him was at the bottom of his body. His black and white footwear was each bowed.

         A second flinch struck the soldiers spaced away from the strange man when Meldewan’s voice boomed out to greet him, “Who are you?” The wraith spoke cautiously and any enjoyment that was on his face had been replaced with dire uncertainty.

        The man kept his audience in suspense and blurted out a short lived snicker, “This really is a new score.” He scratched the back of his head, keeping his smile. “This really is out of orbit!” He spoke louder like he was repeating himself.

        Meldewan directed his free hand towards the man, “I asked who you are. Where is your allegiance?”

        “Under God—to the republic for which,” the man jerked and casually belched with sealed lips, “to which is stands.” His head turned away from the wraith, scanning the area.

        Quinton could feel the sword to his neck loosen away. Meldewan bent his head and tightened his back, “Which god and what republic, human?”

        The man turned back to Meldewan. He appeared ready to say something but stopped himself with another snicker. He itched his nose and turned his head to the ground. Silence resumed until he reached into his coat and took out a slick, black, and metal object. It took another moment but the man had steadied his arm towards the wraith. Meldewan’s expression didn’t change to show worriment but rather a pinch more of curiosity—that ended with the following sound that remained with every man and mythic present to remember to their dying days.

        “Eat lead banana man,” the man giggled aloud before pulling the trigger on his device and erupted the mightiest roar Meldewan had ever heard. Man and mythic ducked down or jumped back and in that moment Byron and Quinton felt the pressure melt off of them.

        Meldewan felt something new. He guided his hands to his body without breaking his gaze upon the strange man. He felt something moist pooling out of his stomach and slowly lifted his trembling hands into his range of sight. His hands were covered in blood. Feeling weak he fell back to his throne still maintaining his stare on the strange man.

        “You can,” Meldewan stuttered, Byron stood, and every soldier around looked on to see what had become of the yellow wizard, “all…” Meldewan’s head dropped and dangled. The wraith was dead.

        The newest and worst moment of silence rolled by and as the strange man endured more staring his grin died and his arm lowered. The mythics who had followed Meldewan into battle now fled in a fury. A few men joined them but the rest, Byron included, moved to their knees and bowed to the strange man. Seeing all this he doubted he was under any influence and that the limp wizard in his throne was a man he had murdered.  

        With small steps the wraith’s killer made his way passed Byron and stood with his hidden eyes fixed on the bleeding wound he had left. The wind became the only sound and the leaning smoke from afar became the only movement. Byron flickered his vision from the ground to the strange man before he broke the silence.

        “Thank you for saving my life,” Byron said tentatively, half sure he would share Meldewan’s end. With no response Byron moved himself to face the strange man, “I am Commander Byron of the Divinity Force. My men undoubtedly share my gratitude for this great service.”

        The strange man made an odd smile and licked it away, “A great service?”

        Byron stood, “If not for you my friend and I would be dead.” Byron checked Quinton and saw he was knelt down in shock—still inside his own battle. The commander’s voice sunk to a more grave tone, “pardon my assumption but…” he took an extra moment to breathe in, “are you a god?”

        This snapped the strange man back to reality or at least the reality he was accepting to be in now. A nostalgic voice yelled at him in the back of his mind to give the proper response. The strange man gave a strange yet earnest smile. He turned to Byron and let out a laugh that the commander awkwardly mimicked.

        “Yeah, maybe.”

        The worst answer Byron least expected hit him, “May I ask your name?”

        “You may.”

        Heads were popping up from the kneeled crowd of men. Byron felt he was being mocked but he welcomed this. Although still skeptical he felt there was another man in front of him.

        “What is your name?”

        “Spencer,” the strange man said, “I’m Spencer.”

        “Spencer,” Byron repeated, testing to see if he said it right, “on behalf of all men I extend to you my deepest appreciation.”

        Spencer shot Meldewan’s body a nod, “I saw a bad guy and acted.”

        “Yes, you did,” Byron stepped forward and rested his sword to Meldewan’s head, “I am now asking you to stand aside. You can never tell with wraiths.”

        As asked Spencer took his step back and slice by slice Byron removed Meldewan’s head. Spencer took a second step back once the wraith’s blood was let loose. Finished, Byron stabbed his sword into the wooden planks and let his sword stand front and center. Byron gripped the wraith’s dark hair and positioned himself for his soldiers to see.

        Byron spoke loud and assuredly, “Our savior is Spencer!” He raised the wraith’s head above him, “Meldewan is slain!”

        Just as the soldiers would remember the sound of Spencer’s shot he would forever remember the sound of their cheers. They yelled and jumped, dropping weapons and embracing one another in groups. A few stormed off fueled by one emotion or another and another few rushed to meet Spencer and praise him directly. Byron kept Meldewan’s head held high and grabbed Spencer’s arm to compliment it in the air.

        “Commander,” a knight called from the bottom of the steps, “shall we pursue?”

        Byron lowered his arms, “No. We should not mistake vulnerability for weakness.” Byron pushed Meldewan’s head into the arms of solider thanking Spencer, “Return that to camp. I want it sent to Asurar.”

        The solider took the head in momentary disgust before leaving with his own crowd to catch a look. Byron removed his helmet for Spencer to see his flushed face. He was a middle aged man with freely hung hair. Scars were present but did not define his matured face. His thin, hazel beard was saturated with sweat and blood. Spencer saw a face of war and despite it the face carried an accomplished view.  

        “Sir Vilhelm?” The commander inspected the knight below him to verify who he was speaking to.

        “Yes, commander,” the knight replied.

        “I saw you take down an orc to his knees when our first line was broken. You fought well.”

        “Thank you, commander.”

        “Celebrate with the others,” Byron took up his sword and sheathed it, “you have earned your leisure. We do not want to pressure the enemy too severely unless we want to renew their ferocity through desperation. They will flee across the river and disburse in the Third World. Today we are fortunate.”

        Sir Vilhelm looked to the body of Art, “Our losses are still terrible.”

        Byron waved over a few men to tend to Art’s body, “Help Sir Vilhelm set Art aside. I want him buried on this spot. We’ll have Hedrick sent home to his family. It is true our losses have been terrible,” Byron patted Spencer on his shoulder, “but I do not doubt they could have been far worse.”

        Spencer watched Sir Vilhelm have Art’s body tended to. The group who carried him to the side struggled to handle his weight and required two sheets of cloth to cover both ends of him. Hedrick was placed by and covered beside him with the group each taking one of his arrows as a souvenir.

        “You’re still bleeding,” Bryon helped Quinton to his feet.

        “I’ll recover,” Quinton’s sights were stuck onto Spencer when Byron walked him down the steps.

        “You always do,” Byron guided Quinton to a ready lot of knights, “before you return to your quarters I want Lord Pelami taken to the Flock. Take the wizard’s body as well. I want him and his charms burned.”

        Spencer met with Byron where he had first caught the wizard’s attention, “Commander?” Spencer watched the knights poke at Meldewan’s body before dragging it off, “Who the fuck was that man?”

        “He was not a man.”

        “Then what?” Spencer asked.

        

        “The most powerful wizard of our generation,” Byron finally sensed the unsettlement controlling Spencer, “follow me. I’ll situate you in my quarters.”

        Escorting Spencer over the hills of broken bodies and smolder and passed the movements of rejoicing men, Byron shouted his orders all the way to his blue camp. Spencer thought Byron’s tent must have been the largest of its kind as it fit a long table with several tall chairs. Opposite of the entrance was another way out. The tent was meant to be a busy hive for its commander.

        “This will be a quiet place to talk?” Spencer grabbed at his bowed head feeling it throb and ache.

        “I’ll keep it quiet for a time,” Byron moved to a bronze bowl near the table and dunked his head inside it. Water splashed up and he traced his hands over his hair behind his head. “The top men of the Divinity Force will gather here tonight. They’ll thank you personally and I’ll have my discussion with them about how you saved our world.”

        “Saved the world?” Spencer asked amused.

        “At least two—maybe three in time.”

        “This isn’t a hallucination after all?” Spencer asked less amused.

        “Who said it was?”

        Spencer found his way to the commander’s bed and sat down, “An idiot could tell me the dark ages are over and magic is not real.”

        “The two are real and much linked,” Byron began to pour wine into a goblet.

        “They’re not real outside of hallucinations,” Spencer was quick to retort, “I have had my wicked trips in the past and that’s what I thought all this was. I know I’m hammered. I feel it. It feels like my skulls ready to fucking snap. But I’m not that drunk because this shit isn’t whiskey. This is a dream, isn’t it?”

        “A dream come true perhaps. Meldewan is—” Spencer knocked the wine out of Byron’s hand when he came to offer it.

        “Fuck that,” Spencer moved his hair out of his face, “I need water.”

        “Water you shall have,” Byron returned with a cup of water which Spencer drunk down to the last drop. “Lie down and rest. I will wake you when the others arrive.”

        The pillow Spencer placed his head down onto was hard with straw but surprisingly comfortable. The singing and bants of relieved, loud men kept the outside ringing with a swarming noise. Whatever fabric the tent walls were made of the sounds outside came muffled but no less quiet than from their source. It was Spencer’s own mind that softened them away with his sinking conscious.

        “I could pass out here,” Spencer said.

        Byron shooed a soldier at his tent’s entrance away after speaking to them, “Rest will do you well.”

        Spencer rubbed the inside of his coat and felt the weapon that killed the most powerful wizard of the generation, “Brian? Why did you remove the wizard’s head?”

        “To assure the death of a wraith you must separate their spine and brain,” the commander set his sword onto the table.

        “Does that mean,” Spencer placed his finger on the trigger, “you were the one who killed him?”

        “Given the circumstances I am not certain. It was standard precaution. Do not worry for I shall credit you as you were the one to stop him.”

        Letting go of the trigger Spencer surrendered confusion to confliction, “Sounds good,” he lied. “I think I’ll fall asleep and wake up in the real world now. It’s been fun, Brian.”

        “Byron,” Byron said, “and I’m not whole hardheartedly sure from whence you came but I’m sure—very sure—that I’m not standing in a dream.”

        “Then let me sleep so we can both find out. You don’t need to stand around and watch me do it.”

        “It’s funny you should say that,” Byron said faintly, “I have this strange fear about me that if I look away from you for long you will fade away.”

        “No,” Spencer shook his head, readjusting himself in the bed, “that’s retarded.”

        Byron waved off another solider at the entrance of his tent, “I will conduct a few matters quietly from here. Go ahead and sleep. You should be rested when you meet some of the lives you saved from death and defeat.”

        “If I wake up here,” Spencer felt like he was wasting his breath speaking. “I’m thinking that all dreams are as real as this. I’m thinking when you wake up you forget them all even if you felt like you were there for a year. I bet I have this same thought every night and forget about it every morning.”

        Byron shook his head, “Well that would be how you put it—retarded.”

Spencer couldn’t help but smile. He rolled over on his side and waited to see what would happen.