Sep 16, 2024
Sketch page inspired by my Hades 2 fanfic (Which you can read HERE)
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Honduras
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from Denmark
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from France
Sketch page inspired by my Hades 2 fanfic (Which you can read HERE)
The land of Geyron is in danger. Dark forces are conspiring in the shadows, bringing a war that threatens to destroy everything. As the world teeters on the brink, an ordinary young man in a desert village receives an unexpected warning. Will the land be saved, or will evil triumph? The battle for Geyron is about to begin!The Chronicles of Geyron is created by Garrick Schultz, an eGlobal Creative Publishing Signed Author.
Today, I probably won’t get a binge post out. Thursdays tend to be my “busiest” days with six airing anime I’m keeping up with, so I think it makes sense for this to be my off day. But I do have some pretty awesome news I’d like to share with you regardless:
I’m a published author.
The Chronicles of Geyron is a novel over a decade in the making. I first started writing this thing back when I was like nine years old; I watched Lord of the Rings for the first time and thought, “Man, I’d like to write something like that,” and proceeded to blatantly rip it off. The first draft was just over 70 pages long, and read it to my fifth grade class every day. In the years since then, I’ve been periodically coming back to it, revising it, retooling it, adding to it, until it had grown from an LOTR ripoff into its own thing. And now, after one last revision with an online publishing company, it’s been released on an official platform. The first installment of a planned four-volume fantasy series, featuring action, adventure, swords and sorcery, mysteries to be uncovered, villains to vanquish, hope in the face of despair, and so much more.
If you’ve enjoyed my analysis through the years, if you’re at all interested in seeing my own creative work, please consider checking out The Chronicles of Geyron. It’s no high art, but it’s a project I’ve poured a lot of love and passion into over the years. I hope it’s half as fun for you to read as it was for me to write! And now... time to start work on book 2.
The Chronicles of Geyron, Chapter 28: The Last Night
When last we left off, Laura had been ensnared by the Urt forces as Kalann pressed onward to the source of the evil. Now, Geyron holds its breath before the battle the dawn will bring, as the adventure continues!
(If you’re just tuning in, The Chronicles of Geyron is a fantasy novel I’ve been writing and revising for the better part of a decade. I’ll be posting a chapter a day to this blog, so follow along and let me know what you think! You can follow my updates in chronological order here.)
* * *
Night descended over Wethelnar, but the city remained awake. Crowds of people milled about the streets, carrying baskets overflowing with trinkets from their homes. Soldiers of Sword Flash held flickering candles to keep the dark roads lit. Soft murmurs passed along the people as they shuffled down the street, making their way to the palace.
The queen had ordered the population to evacuate and head for the inner city, where they would be safe from the Urtish assault. Meanwhile, all able-bodied men and women were camped behind the city wall, watching the plains in shifts. Food rations were being carted to the palace, where the queen was waiting to distribute them. And somewhere out in the plains, the Urts marched ever closer.
Sparks watched the procession from the palace’s highest tower, where the great horn stood. The stars were hidden behind thick grey clouds, but the moon’s light still shone through, if only barely. Night wind whipped through his robes, chilling him. He shivered. He wasn’t one for fortune-telling or reading the future, but this night seemed fraught with warning.
Tirius stood by the horn, rubbing his temples. The two of them were keeping high watch; they could see far across the land from atop the tower. But with no visible starlight, noticing movement in the night would be difficult. Sparks sent out a silent prayer that the Urts would wait for morning.
“I don’t like this,” Tirius muttered. “I should be with my people.”
Sparks sighed. He’d volunteered for the post; after all, with his new powers, he could deal serious damage to the Urtish forces from above. But Tirius had been ordered by the queen, to keep him out of harm’s way. It was a wise move, considering that Tirius had no experience with war, but the mayor could be insufferable. “I guess you’re not used to taking orders,” he said.
“I should never have agreed to this.” Tirius wasn’t listening. “We’d be safer back at Sword Flash. What if the Urts double back and we aren’t there to protect them? What if I die here and they lose their mayor?”
“You’re standing on the tallest tower in all of Geyron, killing you will take some time.”
“What if—”
Sparks grabbed Tirius by the shoulders. “Listen to me!” he said sharply. “If Wethelnar falls, Geyron falls with it. This is bigger than your city. Your duty is here. Can you understand that?”
Tirius shoved Sparks off him and stumbled back. “Don’t touch me!” he snarled.
Gritting his teeth, Sparks turned away. “Fine. Just stay focused.”
“I will.”
Sparks let out a long breath. Tirius was a politician. He’d lived in Sword Flash all his life. He wasn’t used to this kind of stress. Best not to worry about it, he decided.
The plains were still. Sparks watched them silently, clenching his staff tight. Within the next day, Geyron’s future may well be decided. How long had it been since he left Pailan? A few weeks? It felt like ages. His quiet life in a desert village seemed almost comical now. Now the fate of the land rested on his shoulders.
Well, not exactly true. Kalann and Laura, wherever they were, would have to deliver the finishing blow.
Keep strong, my friends. The end isn’t far now.
* * *
Standing on the city wall, watching the silent plains for some sign of movement, Evartan noted that it was cold in the north.
Evartan had lived most his life in Geyron’s southern reaches, where the temperature only dropped to pleasantly chilly. Up in Wethelnar, it was a different story. The night winds blowing down from the mountains seeped through every pore in his skin and chilled him to the core. He prayed the sun would thaw his bones.
Once again, he cast his gaze across the hills, wondering where his brother was. When the armies of Sword Flash had arrived at Wethelnar, the battle plan was devised. Wethenlar’s guard would face the Urts at the city. Sword Flash, meanwhile, would carve their force in half. The first half would join the battle at Wethelnar. The second would wait in the plains overnight with the refugees from the Lerian. Once the invasion passed by, they would circle around to draw the dragon’s attention. Makuran had volunteered to join them—alone.
When Evartan protested, Makuran whispered to him, “I cannot stay here. Not now.” His brother was still isolated from the torture he went through. If he needed time to find his balance again, Evartan couldn’t force it into him.
Not for the first time, he wondered if he was ready for the coming battle. Age was fast catching up to him, though he hated to admit it, and his old joints were stiff in the cold. He rubbed his hands together, desperately trying to warm up. His tendons felt frayed, stretched. Even with the fate of the world on the line, his body was still its usual weary self.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. A soldier. “Time to change watch,” he said.
Sighing, Evartan drew his gaze away from the plains. He wasn’t going to see Makuran in the darkness; besides, Sword Flash’s army was camped out of sight, closer to the Lerian. Better to get some rest while he still had the chance. “Thank you,” he croaked.
As he made for the stairs, the soldier caught his arm. “Keep strong,” he said. “This war’s not over yet.” So saying, he let go and turned his attention to the hilly plains.
Evartan stared at him for a second, then turned and began descending the marble staircase. He hadn’t felt this tired in a long time.
* * *
The palace was alive with people. Wailing children, wizened elders, crippled warriors, expecting mothers, all clustered throughout the stately chambers. The library had been set up as a mass bedroom, while the kitchen was stacked with rations and sealed off by the queen. The great hall became an infirmary, where the physicians and healers waited for the casualties of battle to start flowing in. Guards waited by the doors as more and more people stumbled across the threshold. For all the confusion, though, the conversation was eerily muted, as if someone had pressed a muffler down over the populace.
Selia stood just outside the infirmary, guiding the old and weak to a place to rest. All the best beds went to the hospital; everyone else would have to make do with the older, rattier ones. It was lucky the great hall was so grand; Selia suspected they’d need as much room as they could muster when the battle started.
The old man Selia was helping along stumbled, and she caught him before he fell. “Easy. You must be exhausted.”
The man snorted. “Exhausted? I should be fighting.”
“Right now, the best thing you can do is rest.” Selia walked him over to a mattress beside the wall, a good distance away from everyone else. Hopefully, he could get some peace and quiet.
“My sons are out there,” he murmured, lying back on the mattress. “I must join them.” He was already nodding off.
“Get some rest,” Selia said, forcing a smile. “Maybe you can join them when you’re awake.”
He mumbled something incoherent and closed his eyes. Soon, he was fast asleep.
Selia wiped her brow. She’d be better here than on the front lines, she knew that. But her nerves were starting to creep up on her. By the end of the day, the room would be full of moaning soldiers with broken bones, bloody gashes, crushed skulls, and the stench of death. Assuming they weren’t overrun, of course. So much pain was about to come pouring out.
She recalled her conversation with Tenno in the Lerian. How did the young rebel put it? No use crying. That was it. Blood would flow and people would die, and there was nothing to do but breathe out, plunge in headfirst, and help however you could. You can help, she told herself. Every person you save counts.
How did she get here? It seemed too surreal to be true; she was standing in Geyron’ palace with a war brewing just over the horizon. What happened to the silent woman living her life unnoticed in some far-off desert village?
That woman was dead. She’d died the moment Selia decided to leave Pailan behind and travel to Druid’s Hollow. Now Geyron’s destiny was marching down upon her.
And spirits help me, I will see it through.
* * *
Faro was having trouble sleeping. Maybe it was the lack of a sheet to keep him warm in the cool night air. Maybe it was the towering presence of the city’s wall looming over him. Maybe it was the knot in his stomach as he thought of Selia and everyone else hiding at the palace. Or maybe it was just the stringy boar he had for dinner giving him indigestion. Either way, it was not a peaceful night for him.
He got up and stretched, wincing as his shoulders cracked. He was with the soldiers of Wethelnar behind the city wall. They were spread out along its length in makeshift camps, taking turns watching the plains for signs of the incoming horde. Faro’s shift had come and gone, so the rest of the night was free. Of course, he’d rather be sleeping, but that didn’t seem to be an option. How, then, to pass the time?
As if in answer, a familiar figure came up beside him. “You’re going to be some Urt’s dinner if you don’t get some rest,” Tenno said.
Faro cracked a smile. “You won’t fare much better”
“I’ve had sleepless nights in the past. I’m used to them.”
Faro sat back down. “Maybe you can help me out, then.”
Tenno knelt down beside him. “Then get up. You start relaxing too hard, and you’re out.”
Wincing, Faro got back to his feet. “Alright,” he said. “So, keep active?”
“As much as possible. But don’t overdo it. Too much activity and it wears you down. Just walk around a bit. Swing your arms.” Tenno demonstrated. “Keep your body moving, but only just enough. And find things to focus your attention.”
Faro started pacing about. “You ready for tomorrow?”
“I don’t think anyone is.”
Faro nodded. He realized that he knew very little about her. Between the battle at Darkwood, her capture, and his relief at seeing Selia again, they hadn’t had much time to talk. “So,” he asked. “how was working with the trees?”
Tenno grinned. “You should see them in action. They’re your kind of people.”
“I imagine they are.” He looked back at the wall. “I hope they can stop the dragons before they get here.”
Tenno was silent for a bit. Then, she said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You and Selia. You’re completely different people. How do you get along so well?”
Faro shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about that much before. “I guess we… balance out, or something?”
“Maybe.” Tenno glanced at the palace. “She’s pretty incredible.”
“She is.”
Silence. Faro glanced at the sky. Still the dead of night. By the morning, the battle would certainly come. Whether he was more nervous or excited, he couldn’t tell. “Well,” he said, “thanks for the advice. If you see me passed out on the street, wake me up, okay?”
Tenno smirked. “Sure thing, night owl.” Rolling her shoulders back, she walked off into the night.
Faro watched her go, then took a deep breath started pacing again. Day could not come fast enough.
* * *
Makuran blinked his eyes open. The grass was cool and damp under him. The chirping of crickets was starting to fade, and a few lone birds were twittering in the distance. The sky was a pale violet, a streak of pink on the horizon. Dawn was approaching.
He stretched in the grass, savoring the final moments of fading night. All around him, the armies of Sword Flash were stirring as well. They were camped about a half-mile north from the Lerian’s northern tip, some two miles south of Wethelnar. A string of rolling hills hid them from view in the west, where the Urts would be marching up. And back at the Lerian, the hidden trees waited.
Makuran got to his feet, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. It had been a long night, but he felt refreshed. Something about sleeping under open sky gave him a sense of rejuvenation after his long struggle. And the warriors of Sword Flash were friendly enough. He almost felt normal again.
But it wasn’t enough. Makuran still remembered Tirius’ distrust of him, the guard’s hostility at Wethelnar, how he struggled to look his brother in the eye. How long would it last? The rest of his life? Makuran wished he had an answer.
He wished he could explain better to Evartan why he needed to face this threat by himself. But he barely understood it himself. Was it for some twisted sense of redemption? Maybe he just wanted to prove his worth to the queen. All he knew for sure was that he needed to stand without his friends in the coming battle.
A young man clad in mottled leather armor approached him, carrying a basket. “Breakfast,” he said briskly. He reached into the basket and tossed Makuran a rusty brown loaf of bread.
Makuran caught it. “Thank you.”
“Eat quickly.” The man was already walking away. “You’ll need your strength.”
Makuran watched him go, then bit into the bread. It was dry and yeasty, but it would carry him through well enough.
Suddenly, a scout cried out from atop the hills. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
The captain was on his feet in an instant. “Into formation!” he barked. “Now!”
The camp exploded in activity. Soldiers hurriedly pulled the last of their armor on and rushed up to the great swell where the hills rose up. Firepits were extinguished, pockets emptied, and weapons drawn. The army crouched behind the swell of the hills, hidden from sight.
Makuran rushed to join them, blood roaring through his veins. This was it, then. By the time the sun had set again, Geyron’s fate would be decided. And to think that a few weeks ago, Makuran might’ve been on the other side.
Not anymore. No more hiding, no more cowardice, no more cringing from a world repulsed by him. He would fight— and if redemption meant dying, so be it.
It was time to save Geyron.
The Chronicles of Geyron, Chapter 1: The Mysterious Letter
And with the prologue officially out of the way, it’s time to get into the story proper. Let the journey begin!
(If you’re just tuning in, The Chronicles of Geyron is a fantasy novel I’ve been writing and revising for the better part of a decade. I’ll be posting a chapter a day to this blog, so follow along and let me know what you think! You can follow my updates in chronological order here.)
* * *
Evartan hurried through the desert of Aridus. Normally, he would have avoided the desert at all costs, especially as a thunderstorm raged overhead. But fortune has granted him an opportunity, and he wasn’t about to waste it.
He glanced behind him. There was no sign of his pursuer, but he was certain the dark elf was on his trail. He’d just have to make sure he accomplished his mission before he caught up.
Grimacing, he turned his gaze back and kept running.
* * *
It was a bleak and stormy night in the desert village of Pailan. Thunder rocked the sky and rain carved away at the houses of mud. The uncommon rainstorm made the ground like quicksand. Everyone was inside, waiting for the morning, when, hopefully, the storm would break.
Pailan was concealed inside a deep canyon, a fissure carved by an ancient river that had long since dried up. The crevasse was so wide that the entire village fit into it and still allowed room for vast expanses sand and soil on both sides. It was one of the most isolated communities in Geyron, far away from the politics and chaos of the great cities, safe and secure in its own little world.
That wasn’t going to last much longer.
Evartan staggered over the ridge, panting for breath. He paused and looked around, making sure the elf had not followed him, then set down the cliffside toward the rain-soaked village.
* * *
Kalann Sefu had experienced many bad days in his life; it was the cost of living in such a harsh environment. This one, however, felt a bit like a personal insult. He had made plans for the day. He had wanted to explore the desert outside the canyon and seek out plots of land where the village could build houses, expanding to accommodate its slowly growing population. Then, of course, the rain had gone and ruined it. So here he was, lying on his bed, wide awake in the middle of the night, listening to the muffled drumming of rain on the roof, feeling the urge to kick something.
Sighing, Kalann brushed his messy black hair out of his eyes. He hated rain. True, it replenished the water supply, which could always use some upkeep, but it was so annoying. And wet.
Hopefully, it would clear up in the morning. After all, not many rainstorms of such power reached so far into the desert of Aridus.
He glanced around his home. Like all the houses in the village of Pailan, his house had only one floor, with a cellar beneath. Like all the others, it was loosely divided into three rooms: a kitchen, a lounge, and Kalann’s bedroom, each separated by an open doorway covered with a rough curtain. Like all the others, the wooden door to the house was in the lounge, the central room. The exact same design, just one of so many identical copies tucked together in the shadow of the canyon walls. It was so incredibly boring. That was why he’d decided to be an architect as he grew up: if his world wouldn’t become more interesting on its own, then perhaps he could give it a push.
Over on the lounge table, Kalann could see parchment scrolls laid out in a cluttered mess, weighted down by rocks to keep them open. His diagrams. He felt a faint twinge of pride. He’d spent years working on new building designs, tweaking and refining them, coming back every time he thought he was finished and finding new ways to improve them. They barely resembled the first, incredibly rough drafts he’d drawn up when he was barely ten years old. Now all he had to do was actually build them, and perhaps then his life would stop feeling so… stagnant.
Assuming the rain ever let up, of course.
He sighed. His train of thought had brought him right back to the accursed rain. I’ve got to hand it to you, Kalann, he thought dryly, you are a master at finding ways to make yourself miserable.
At that moment, over the pounding of the rain, Kalann heard three sharp knocks at the door.
He blinked. Who was that? Who would be out at a time like this? “Hello?” he called.
No answer.
Sighing, Kalann sat up and hoisted himself out of bed. If whoever it was couldn’t wait for the rain to let up, they must really need to talk to him. He stumbled over to the door, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and opened it.
The rush of wind and rain hit him like a breaking wave, and he blinked furiously in the spray. The storm’s roar sent a dull ache pulsing in his eardrums. He spat, trying to clear the taste of ozone and water out of his mouth. “Who’s there?” he called, barely hearing himself in the storm.
No one at the door. Nothing but sheets and sheets of rain as far as he could see.
Kalann stared, confused. He was certain he’d heard someone knocking. That settles it, this storm is officially driving me insane. Nature, I’m putting this on your tab.
He turned to head back inside. Then, he paused. Something had caught his eye. It was a yellowed, folded paper, laying on the ground, tucked against the front of his door.
Intrigued, Kalann raised his gaze again. But whatever footprints there might have been had been quickly swept away by the storm. The letter might have just materialized on his doorstep for all he could tell.
He took the message inside, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of the storm were muffled once more.
* * *
Evartan watched from the shadows as Kalann took the note inside. The wind whipped his cloak into a frenzy, and the cold rain soaked him down to his old, stiff bones. But it didn’t matter now. The message was sent. He had done what he needed to do.
Wrapping his cloak even closer around him, he turned and hurried off into the night to the canyon wall he had climbed down. It was time to prepare for war.
* * *
Kalann sat down at the lounge table, brushing his diagrams to the side. He opened the musty letter and began to read. The handwriting was cramped and shaky, but he could still make the words out.
Kalann Sefu, it is time that the land was warned. A shadow is sweeping over Geyron. An evil force is rising. You must be prepared.
I cannot explain everything in this letter, as I would simply leave you with too many questions. But time is running out. Your village must prepare for war such as it has never seen before. Fortune granting, I will speak with you again shortly. Be ready.
Stillness. Kalann stared at the letter in his hands. It felt like his entire being, all his senses, were being consumed by it. For all he knew, the storm might have vanished above him, leaving nothing behind but a silent night.
A shadow sweeping Geyron. An evil force rising. A mysterious messenger who somehow knew his name. Was it a prank? It had to be. But then, what prankster would go to all this trouble under such miserable conditions? No one in Pailan came to mind.
Your village must prepare for war such as it has never seen before.
A beat of sweat dripped down Kalann’s brow. Some inner sense seemed to tell him that this was no joke. Pailan—and possibly all of Geyron—was in danger.
Kalann’s mind started racing. What was the danger? Why did the letter’s author not explain more? How did he know Kalann’s name? For that matter, why deliver this message to him? What could a desert architect possibly do to help?
A crack of thunder yanked him out of his thoughts. He was still in his little mud house in the middle of a canyon. The storm was still raging overhead. Everything was exactly the same as it had been.
Kalann breathed deeply. His vision was growing hazy; fatigue was finally beginning to set in. First thing tomorrow, he thought, I tell Hother about this. If there’s even the slightest chance it’s true, we need to be ready.
He drifted back to his bed, collapsed, and fell asleep.
* * *
Kaston lashed his horse’s reins, spitting furiously against the rain. The desert whipped by him, a sludge of spattering mud. If it hadn’t been for that wretched human’s gambit, he could be back at the castle right now instead of forcing himself through this madness. This time, I’ll catch him, he hissed silently. His days of running end now.
He reined his horse to a stop. He was getting nowhere in this weather. Evartan had been wise to carry this scheme out on such a foul day. If nothing else, Kaston had a twisted admiration for his intelligence.
Pity how little good it will do him in the end.
He raised his hand to the sky and closed his eyes, blocking out the roar of the storm around him. He reached out with his senses. A low hum coursed through him as his magic stretched across the sands, searching.
There. A human presence to the south, moving swiftly, just at the edge of Kaston’s vision.
He smiled and opened his eyes, letting the world back in. Over the past year, he’d kept his eye on Evartan, tangling with him many times to try and kill him. But the warrior had always escaped. And yesterday evening, he’d vanished from Kaston’s senses, as if he’d blinked out of existence. The last time Kaston had sensed him, he’d been heading south, to the desert of Aridus. So he’d pursued the old fool’s trail. And now, finally, he’d found him again.
I don’t know how you escaped my sight the first time, Kaston thought as he kicked his horse to urge it on. But this time, you’re not getting away.
* * *
Evartan got to his feet at the top of the chasm, panting heavily. Getting down to Pailan without breaking his neck had been hard enough but climbing back out had been torture. Spirits give me the strength to see this through to the end.
He looked around, not seeing anything through the sheets of rain. He was certain that his pursuer was close at hand by this point. Reaching inside his cloak, he clutched the small crystal resting there. His lifeline.
The spark was lit. The war was about to begin. Now, he needed to put the village of Pailan far behind him, to keep his brother’s attention off of it as long as he could.
He took off running north, away from the village, struggling not to sink into the muck. Follow me, dark elf. This is our reckoning.
* * *
Kaston lashed his horse’s hindquarters, pressing it to pick up speed. Evartan’s presence was crowing closer by the second; he was almost upon him. Time’s up, fool.
There! A lone figure struggling across the sands, head bowed against the rain. Kaston smiled and drew his blade. After so long, his master would finally have his vengeance!
Suddenly, the figure stopped running and turned to face Kaston as he galloped towards him. His expression was unreadable in the rain as he raised his arm high. Something blue glittered in his hand.
Kaston’s eyes grew wide. “NO!” he roared, slicing his sword in the air. A bolt of black energy crackled through the storm.
Before it could strike Evartan, however, there was a flash of blue light, and he was suddenly blinded. His horse bucked and screamed, throwing him off. He crashed into the mud and gasped as the air was knocked out of him. His ears rang from the impact.
Groaning, he staggered to his feet. Evartan was gone, once again beyond his senses. A Crystal of Passage, he thought bitterly, remembering the blue glint in his hand. A magical reagent that, when broken, could teleport you a far distance away. That must have been how Evartan had escaped him the first time as well. How he’d gotten his hands on a pair such difficult-to-obtain artifacts, Kaston didn’t know. Nor did he care.
There was nothing to do about it now. His horse had bolted, leaving him stranded in the storm. He could no longer sense his target, nor did he know where he might have gone. Evartan had truly escaped this time. The die had been cast.
It was time for the war to begin.
Kaston raised his hand and felt the shadows coalesce around him. Under their power, he set off, rain-soaked and weary, to Darkwood Castle.
Makuran was not going to be pleased.
To Be Continued...
The Chronicles of Geyron: Author’s Introduction
Greetings, one and all! If you’re reading this post, it means you’ve stumbled across the beginning of my attempt to post my entire fantasy novel to Tumblr dot com, one chapter at a time! Why? Because I wrote a goddamn fantasy novel, and I’d love to share it with you all! Starting tomorrow, I will post one chapter to this blog a day, taking you through an epic adventure that I first started imagining all the way back in fourth grade. Interested? Want to follow my regular updates? Click the Read More link to get some more context on how this project came about, and how this whole experiment is gonna work!
So, my parents showed me The Lord of the Rings when I was just around eight or nine years old, and like everyone exposed to Lord of the Rings, I fell head over heels in love with it. What’s not to love about a grand journey as the forces of light and darkness face off, realized with some of the most enduring fantasy worldbuilding in existence? I had just started developing a taste for creative writing myself, and I wanted to write a fantasy adventure of my own after being so inspired. And thus was born The Chronicles of Geyron, a seventy-five page, thirty-five chapter ripoff of J.R.R. Tolkien that pretty much just blatantly copy/pasted his entire story in a fraction of the run time. I read this thing to my fifth-grade class, I was so proud of it. Hey, everyone’s gotta start somewhere, and my start just happened to be with LOTR revisionist fanfiction. Don’t judge me.
But a funny thing happened over the years; every once in a while, I would come back to this story I wrote, and I would be gripped by the desire to revise it. I would see my writing from so many years ago and think to myself, “Wow, I thought this was Hugo-worthy? Pssh, I’ve grown so much as a writer since then, I could write this story so much better now.” And that’s exactly what I did. I came back to Geyron over and over again throughout the past decade, always finding something else to tweak, something else to revise, something else to evolve and deepen. No matter how far my writing developed, no matter how many new projects I took on, I found my attention returning to this project, seeing what my last efforts had turned it into, and pushing myself to make it even better. Over time, my little LOTR ripoff grew and changed to such an extent that it genuinely became its own thing. And at long last, just over a year ago, I realized that I had written something I was truly proud of. Geyron was no longer a ten-year-old’s vanity project; it was a twenty-year-old’s pride and joy.
And after a year of wondering what the hell I was gonna do with it now, I decided that I wanted to share it with you.
The Chronicles of Geyron is the first book in a planned four-book fantasy series. I still have a very old first draft of the second book lying around, and a general idea of where I want the series to go, but my writing has stalled on actually completing it. The reason I’m sharing it with you now is because I want to see if it’s worth re-igniting that spark. I want to see if this story that’s become so important to me can reach the hearts and minds of total strangers, to see if this story is worth seeing through to its end. Perhaps doing this will finally inspire me to get back to this series and finish it. Or perhaps it’ll be a total bust. Whatever the outcome, I hope you enjoy what I have to offer. This novel is the patchwork product of ten years of retooling and rethinking, and it’s gotten to the point where I genuinely feel I can consider it complete. I sincerely hope you enjoy it.
Like I said above, I’ll be posting a chapter a day to this Tumblr, Ardania22. Follow me if you want to keep up with my updates, and you can see every chapter I post in chronological order here. Feel free to reblog, comment, share your thoughts however you wish! If you’re a fan of fantasy, fiction, imagination, or reading in general, I would be honored to hear what you think of my story.
Thank you for your time, and starting tomorrow, please enjoy... The Chronicles of Geyron!
The Chronicles of Geyron, Chapter 36: Afterward
After every storm, the calm. After every dark, the dawn. After every trial, the triumph. At long last, the battle for Geyron is over, and our heroes open their eyes to a grateful world. Welcome, lord, ladies, and everyone in between, to the final chapter of The Chronicles of Geyron!
(If you’re just tuning in, The Chronicles of Geyron is a fantasy novel I’ve been writing and revising for the better part of a decade. I've been posting a chapter a day to this blog, so thank you all for following along! You can read the whole thing in chronological order here.)
* * *
“Kalann?”
Kalann muttered something incoherent and turned over. Just let me sleep.
“Kalann, wake up!”
Shut up, he told the voice. He just wanted to rest. After his fight with Xaran, he was so exhausted that—wait a second. If the battle was over, then where was he?
Groaning, he forced his eyes open. Trees came into focus above his head. Pine trees. Scratchy needles beneath him. He was in the stretch of pine forest on the shore of the Great Sea, just beyond the Mountains of Trazmor.
Laura was kneeling over him, her face lined with worry. “You’re awake,” she whispered. “Thank the spirits.”
Kalann blinked. His head was still swimming. Memories came crawling back in: the fight, the power surge, the explosion, flying. “How long… was I out?” he asked throatily.
“Over a month.” Laura’s eyes were red and puffy; she turned away slightly, almost as if to hide them. “I barely made it out before the cavern collapsed. I saw you fly up, too high for me to see you, and then you just… crashed back down.” She was starting to rush, the words tumbling out faster than she could say them. “And somehow you were still intact, not a single bone broken, but you wouldn’t wake up, and your pulse was so faint, and I knew we had to get back to the mainland, so I got you onto one of Shindar’s warships (they were still preserved, can you believe it?) and I barely slept sailing back, I was so desperate to—”
She broke off in surprise as Kalann suddenly embraced her, wincing as his body ached from the strain of moving so quickly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, starting to cry. “I really made you worry, didn’t I?”
For a moment, Laura was still. Then, she smiled and returned his embrace, clutching him tightly like she was scared of him fading away. “Yeah,” she murmured. “You did.”
Kalann breathed deeply, letting silent tears fall from his face. He could feel a cool breeze on his cheek, hear the faint rustle of squirrels in the trees above him, smell the scent of fresh pine bark. He was aware of Laura’s heart beating inches from his own. The scar Kalann’s power had left on her face was starting to fade, leaving only a faint tinge of red behind. The world seemed more alive than he had ever noticed before.
This was Geyron.
This was the land they saved.
He broke the embrace and sat back, propping himself up on his weary arms. He smiled faintly. “We did it.”
Laura nodded. “We did it.”
They stayed there for some time, drinking in each other’s presence. Part of Kalann wanted to stay there forever. But he knew he couldn’t. His friends were waiting for him.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Let’s pay Wethelnar a visit and see how they’re holding up.” As he tried to stand up, spots danced in his vision and he collapsed onto his hands and knees. “Oooh, spirits. Not good.”
“Easy.” Laura slipped her arm through his. “We don’t want you dying before the victory celebration.”
“Right. Sorry.”
With a grunt, Laura lifted Kalann up with her, bracing him on her shoulder. “Better?”
Kalann found his footing. “Better.”
Laura smiled. “Then let’s go. And in return for giving you my shoulder to lean on, I expect you to tell me everything about your fight with that bastard to pass the time. Deal?”
Kalann returned her smile. “Deal.”
So saying, the two warriors took off, him leaning on her for support, on the long trek to Wethelnar.
* * *
Sitting on a bench in the park courtyard, Evartan watched as stonemasons and builders repaired the walls of Wethelnar. With the invasion repelled and the people recovering, there was nothing left to do but repair the city and erase the damages it suffered in the battle. It had been about two months since then, and with everyone pitching in, the scars of the battle were fading fast. In time, they would heal completely, and the Urtish scourge would be nothing but memory.
But Evartan was uneasy. Kalann and Laura still hadn’t returned. He was beginning to suspect the worst.
“I’m guessing they’re on your mind too?”
Evartan nodded as Sparks sat down beside him. “I’m loath to be a pessimist after all the impossible deeds we’ve accomplished together. Yet still....”
“I know.” Sparks sighed and looked around at the workers repairing the city. “The waiting is murder.”
Evartan rubbed his temples. “If they have failed, and the Urt’s leader survives, this war may not yet be over. I refuse to believe that possibility.”
“Same here.” Sparks put a hand on Evartan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. If there’s one I know about Kalann, it’s that he won’t go down without the most stubborn fight he can muster.”
Evartan smiled. I am grateful for your optimism, young one. Hold onto it as long as you can.
“Travelers!”
Evartan turned to see a wall guard running their way, his eyes alight. “We’ve spotted two figures heading this way across the plains. Humans. Might they be-”
Evartan was on his feet in a flash, all traces of exhaustion gone. “Lead me there,” he said, “and we shall see!”
* * *
Kalann stared up at the great gate of Wethelnar. It had taken many sore feet, many cold nights and a particularly friendly travelling merchant, but they were finally there. He could see the marks of a great battle scarring the walls, but they were faint. Wethelnar had survived; Geyron had weathered the war.
He turned to Laura, who was gazing up at the walls in awe. “Shall we knock?”
Laura turned to him and smirked. “After you, hero.”
At that moment, a great horn blared out across the plains, and the gates groaned open.
Kalann blinked. “I… suppose that’s our welcome.” He could see through the gates into the beautiful city beyond. It truly lived up to every story he was told as a child. If only Hother could see me now.
“Kalann! Laura!”
Their friends were running through the open gates to greet them. Selia, waving widely, Faro, whooping with joy. Evartan, a smile of relief on his face. Makuran looking at peace for the first time since Kalann saw him. Tenno, raising a wry salute. And…
Kalann’s jaw dropped. “No way,” he choked out.
Sparks was smiling the biggest smile Kalann had ever seen. “About time you showed up.”
It wasn’t an illusion; there was no mistaking that sly wit. The man Kalann had last seen crushed beneath the weight of a collapsing cavern stood before him now. Time seemed to slow down; he ran forward, the ground barely registering underneath him. Was he crying? He suspected he was.
He crashed into Sparks full tilt and wrapped him in a massive hug. “You’re alive,” he choked out. Then, louder: “YOU’RE ALIVE!”
Sparks grinned and hugged him back. “What can I say? Everything works out.”
Kalann laughed with joy, not caring about the tears streaming down his face. He was aware of Laura crying by his side, of Selia and Faro embracing her, of the sound of cheers coming from the city ahead as the people rushed out to greet him.
Xaran was dead. The Urts were gone. The war was won. Sparks was alive.
The long journey was finally over.
* * *
Kalann had never seen a bigger celebration. Parties were held all across Geyron to celebrate the fall of Xaran and the Urts. Kalann and his companions were hailed all across the land. The queen kept her promise; they were all granted the highest possible honors from the royal court. People from all over Geyron met and celebrated the end of the war together. The Lerian trees even paid a visit, honoring Sparks with a secret ceremony that no other human was allowed to attend. Kalann would pester Sparks for hours afterward, but he refused to spill the trees’ secrets.
As time rolled on, Regania set to work finding homes for those displaced by the war. The villagers of Pailan dispersed across southern Geyron, many of them settling in the nearby village of Arkton. Kalann and his friends decided to make their new home in Sword Flash, away from the spotlight of Geyron’s capital city. They would all need time to themselves to figure out who they were going to be, now that their old lives were so firmly behind them. As even Faro acknowledged, they all had a lot of thinking to do.
Hother met with Kalann once more on the outskirts of Wethelnar before leaving for his new home. They exchanged memories of simpler times and the future ahead. “I will say this much,” he said as he mounted the horse he now rode on. “You will find that people looking up to you will be both blessing and curse. But it will grant you many wonderful opportunities, and for that, you should cherish it with your life.”
“I will,” Kalann said. “And for what it’s worth, I’m honored to have known you.”
Hother smiled. “The feeling is mutual. May fortune bless you and your friends, Kalann Sefu.” With that, he rode off, vanishing over the hills.
Watching him leave, Kalann couldn’t help but feel a little sad. Only a few months ago, he’d lived a simple life in a distant village. Now, he was a hero known throughout Geyron. Part of him wondered what would’ve happened if he never left Pailan, never got Evartan’s message. Who would he be then?
But he knew he’d made the right choice. He may not be the same person he was back then, but the new Kalann Sefu was far from unpleasant. And he was ready for wherever his life would take him next.
The last of the celebrations ended in early summer, and life across the land slowly returned to normal. But Kalann and his companions were still honored as the greatest heroes of the land of Geyron.
* * *
Three days after the end of the celebrations, as dusk turned into night, Kalann made one last stop in Wethelnar before departing for his new home in Sword Flash. Even after all of the triumphs and victories, there was still one matter that weighed down on Kalann’s mind— the amulet. It somehow had survived the eruption of power that had destroyed the hive and once again found itself back into Kalann’s pocket, but it no longer glowed in Kalann’s grasp, as if its power had been rendered inert. Kalann wanted to know what its significance was. And there was only one person in Geyron who might be able to help him: Larius, Geyron’s renowned historian. He went at night to keep his expedition secret; he and Laura had agreed than until they gained a better understanding of what it was capable of, they should keep the knowledge of it contained within their companions. There was no telling what dark forces might want their way with it.
The old man stared at the symbol for several long seconds. “This comes from a dark time, young hero,” he finally said. “So long ago that even I have few records of its lore. But I do remember some things.” He paused, as if unsure how to continue, but then he spoke.
“The symbol on the amulet is the ancient symbol for rage and chaos. In older days, if it was seen on the door of a house, it meant that a tragedy had befallen the family living inside. But I’m more interested in the amulet itself.” The reflection of light off of his half-moon spectacles cast an eerie glow over the candlelit chamber. “I know it is a symbol of great power, once wielded by one of three warlords that acted as the first king’s advisors. In time, they grew corrupt, and they attempted to overthrow the king. Thankfully, they failed, and were exiled from society, lost to history from thereon. But there are legends—mere rumors, you understand, but quite persistent ones—that these warlords did not die, but somehow lived on through the ages, waiting for the right moment to usurp the throne once again.”
A chill ran down Kalann’s spine. “And Xaran seemed to claim it as his own”, he murmured, half to himself. “Do you think…” He trailed off, unsure if he wanted to finish his thought.
“That Xaran was one of those warlords?” Larius nervously adjusted his glasses. “I’m afraid we must consider that possibility.”
“Do we know anything about the other warlords?”
Larius shook his head sadly. “Only that they, too, had artifacts of great power. But what they may be is a mystery.”
Kalann wet his lips. His head was whirling with a thousand different thoughts, each one making less sense than the last. “Thank you for your help,” he said. “Can you promise me you’ll keep this discussion a secret for now?”
“Of course. And should you further uncover anything of interest, let me know at once.”
“At once.”
* * *
Kalann closed the door to Larius’ chamber behind him. He’d come there to find answers, but it seemed that only further questions lay before him. They never make it easy, do they?
He thought back to the prophecy. What was that one line?
Three evils rise, while one draws nearer.
Kalann shivered as he took off for his horse. At least one mystery seemed to be solved: the “three” were the warlords who betrayed the king. They were starting to rise… which meant the other two couldn’t be far behind. He didn’t know who the “one” drawing nearer was, or what their ultimate goal was, or how that nonsensical line near the end about the three “fusing into one” fit in. But he did know one thing.
The war for Geyron was far from over.
* * *
Kaston grimaced as he pulled himself out of the cave system he’d been hiding in since Makuran’s desertion. He had heard the celebrations up above, and knew what they meant: Xaran had been destroyed. He was well aware that the two remaining warlords had their own ideas on how to continue.
But he didn’t care about their petty squabbles. That had long since lost interest for him. There was only one thing on his mind now.
Revenge.
Behind him, a squadron of red-skinned humanoids climbed out of the lip of the cave and into the cool night air of the woods. A mile east was Arkton, a sizable town with an active trading season. It would be in that area that Kaston would prepare.
Waving his hand, he motioned for the blood Urts to follow him. He may not have been a warlord, but the Urts would still follow him if he gave them humans with blood to spill. And Kaston was determined to spill the blood of Kalann Sefu for taking his master from him— no matter the cost.
* * *
Crast slowly made his way through the half-collapsed caverns that were once that gateway to the Hive. He had felt Xaran’s realm fall; he had seen it in his dreams. He had seen with his own eyes the wreckage that once could have ended Geyron’s miserable existence.
This is what you get for fighting this war the wrong way, he thought icily. If I was in charge, we would we wiping out the last villages by now.
His feet brought him in the direction of his true master’s chambers. Now that Xaran had been destroyed, perhaps it was time to speak with him.
He suddenly found his path blocked by a massive corpse. It was the Great Arach that had been sent to guard the passages against human intrusion. It was half-buried under a mound of rubble, its carapace crushed. Another lack of foresight on your part, he thought. If I was choosing a guard, I would have gotten something a bit more resilient than an oversized bug. I could have just crafted one of my terras and that would be that.
Sighing, he raised his staff. Tendrils erupted from the rock wall and latched onto the pile of corpse and rubble, crushing it against the wall. He twirled his staff and the wall opened, allowing the tendrils to pull the mass inside. With a loud snap, the wall closed, trapping the Great Arach inside for good.
He smiled. So close to the source of his strength, his weakened power slowly recovered inside him; such feats did not tire him as much as they might on the surface.
Moving on, he walked down a dark corridor until he stopped at the edge of a massive pit. It was the one area of the caverns unaffected by the Hive’s collapse, the yawning black abyss empty of rubble and debris. It was almost as if the cave-in had avoided it on purpose, as if it was scared of what was waiting at the pit’s unseen floor.
And so it should be, Crast thought, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
With a wave of his staff, stone spurs jutted out of the pit walls to serve as stairs. Crast hesitated for one second more, then slowly descended the newly formed staircase into the darkness below.
The End... For Now
The Chronicles of Geyron, Chapter 35: In Final Battle
The Urts are defeated, Wethelnar is saved. Now, all that remains is for Kalann to triumph against their leader in the depths far below. At long last, the battle for Geyron has reached its end!
(If you’re just tuning in, The Chronicles of Geyron is a fantasy novel I’ve been writing and revising for the better part of a decade. I’ll be posting a chapter a day to this blog, so follow along and let me know what you think! You can follow my updates in chronological order here.)
* * *
Makuran stirred. He was lying on a cotton mattress, staring up at the sky. Bandages covered his lower torso.
“You’re awake.”
Evartan was kneeling beside him, smiling.
Makuran propped himself up on his left arm. It was some time past noon. He was on the fields just outside the city of Wethelnar. The grass was packed with soldiers, civilians, and everyone in between. They were helping each other, carrying the wounded, burying the corpses, embracing their loved ones. And not a single Urt in sight.
“Did we win?” he asked hoarsely.
“We won.”
Makuran let his head fall. It barely seemed real. Geyron’s long scourge was finally over. “What have I missed?” His head was swimming with a dull ache, but he refused to give in to unconsciousness yet.
“Not much,” Evartan responded. “All our friends survived the battle. The city is greatly damaged, but it will recover. The last of the Urts have been found and taken care of. Now, we recover.” He turned to his brother. “The Lerian riders told me of your bravery. This victory is yours.”
Makuran shook his head. “This victory is all of ours. I do not deserve that distinction.”
“Nevertheless.” Evartan’s eyes were sparking with some emotion that Makuran couldn’t quite read. “Allow me the pleasure of being brother to a hero.”
Makuran blinked. Hero. The word sounded fake to him. Yet Evartan spoke it with such conviction he could almost believe it.
He was a hero.
His head throbbed, and he moaned softly.
“Get some rest,” Evartan suggested. “You’ve earned it.”
Makuran nodded and closed his eyes. For the first time in decades, sleep came easily to him.
* * *
After making sure that Makuran was sleeping peacefully, Evartan got to his feet. There were a few matters he needed to attend to.
The Lerian trees had lost half their number in the struggle. Yet the survivors remained, stretching their branches to carry the wounded to the castle. Only Kaovinus remained still, standing tall above the recovery efforts, his head bowed in respect for the fallen.
Evartan walked up to him. “Thank you for aiding us,” he murmured. “You have saved Geyron.”
“We would never let it fall to those monsters,” Kaovinus rumbled. “And we will always honor the allies of the Gold One.”
“Sparks would enjoy hearing you say that.” Evartan cast his gaze around. The mage was speaking with a stout holly tree some distance away. They were too far for Evartan to hear what they were saying, but from the tree’s reactions, it seemed like reminiscence.
“Attend to your friends,” Kaovinus said. “I will remain as long as my people are needed.”
Evartan nodded and walked off. He cast his gaze across the crowded plains for Regania. She and Tirius had taken shelter in the palace during the battle. Now, she walked among her people, honoring the dead and praising the living. He finally saw her by a crying soldier, helping him bury his fallen comrade.
Noticing his approach, the queen gave the soldier one last comforting word and rose to greet Evartan. “My people owe you their lives,” she croaked. “Thank you.”
“And thank you for trusting us,” Evartan smiled.
Regania bowed in respect, then turned away to continue her work.
His visits made, Evartan sat down and gazed around him. For all the movement on the plains, the world seemed very still. He felt his bones creaking softly, the fire of battle replaced with the weariness of age. How long did he have left? How many years remained for him, now that his life was finally his own?
However long he had, there was one thing he was sure of. He was going to spend as much time as he could with his brother. After all the suffering they’d put each other through, they deserved a chance to start again.
He sighed. The battle was finally over, and the Urts were finished. Everything was coming to a close. But there was one matter left to consider: Kalann and Laura. He had no idea where they were, what they were doing, or even if they were still alive. Until they returned, he could not be fully content.
Let them return safely. Please.
* * *
Kalann smashed his blade into Xaran’s, ignoring the jolt it sent through his arm. The energy coursing through him set his senses alight. He could feel the darkness radiating from Xaran even mora palpably now, like a sickening tumor growing on the edge of his perception. But he also felt his own strength fighting that darkness, pushing it back. Xaran was powerful, but he wasn’t invincible. And now, Kalann had the strength to match him.
Snarling, Xaran spun his blade in a wide arc and lashed out, slicing and slashing at a furious speed. Kalann met each strike with his own. With each clash of swords, a shockwave of light and shadow burst forth, rocking the massive cavern and sending chunks of earth crumbling down from the ceiling. The energy pressed against Kalann’s chest, threatening to force him back. But he held his ground. He could see Xaran was reacting in the same way; the sheer magnitude of their colliding powers was threatening to sweep their feet out from under them. It was an oddly comforting feeling. Finally, they were on even footing.
Xaran struck again, and again Kalann met him. He pressed his sword against Kalann’s, sending a shower of white and black sparks crackling to the dais below. “This strength shall give,” he hissed. “You are only delaying the inevitable.”
Kalann met his cold eyes and smiled. “You sound scared, monster.”
He twisted his sword, and a surge of power erupted outward, forcing the two apart. Kalann breathed deeply, taking the momentary reprieve to refocus his energy. Xaran was right about one thing: Kalann couldn’t keep the bridle on this newfound power for too much longer. It was pushing against him, screaming to be let out. Another few minutes and he’d have to let it.
Then I better get a move on here.
“Come on,” he said, raising his sword high. “I’ve got friends to avenge.”
“A pity you’ll never get the chance!” Xaran snarled. And the two threw themselves at each other again.
* * *
Laura burst out of the tower and into a nightmare.
The entire cavern was shaking like an earthquake, deep fissures running through the ground. All around her, the spiny black structures of the Hive were starting to collapse. A spire crashed to the ground next to her, the reverberations quickly reducing it to powder. The screams of dying Urts were everywhere.
Up above her, the red mist was roiling like a massive storm cloud, flashes of white and black lightning punctuating each cumulative tremor. Kalann and Xaran’s duel was literally tearing the cavern apart from the inside. Already the ground itself was cracking into shifting plates, buckling and tilting like a pane of shattered glass. Chunks of rubble fell from the unseen ceiling, exploding into dirt clouds on impact. It felt like the end of the world
For all the chaos, though, Laura felt strangely calm. Finally, the monsters that had destroyed her home were getting what they deserved. “This is for you, father,” she whispered, barely hearing herself over the din.
And then, she took off, the world exploding around her as she ran for the way out.
* * *
Xaran slammed his sword into Kalann’s and twisted it, driving it down. The force of the blow drove Kalann’s blade into the stone like a hot knife cutting butter. Sneering, Xaran furiously jabbed at Kalann’s unprotected chest, but Kalann swiftly yanked his sword up, pulling a chunk of the platform along with it. The rock smashed into Xaran’s face, powdering it and sending the warlord stumbling back.
Seeing an opening, Kalann dove forward and slashed at Xaran’s knees. A streak of light lashed through the air, and Xaran screamed in fury as he stumbled. Catching his fall with his sword, he swiftly raised his open palm, and a streak of darkness burst forth. Kalann leveled his blade just in time, catching the black beam on it. The force of the blow hit him like a tidal wave, and he gasped as his feet left the ground. He crashed against the black throne and crumpled to the ground.
Grimacing, Kalann got to his feet. Xaran had recovered on the far side, looking for another opportunity to strike. The energy inside Kalann was reaching a fever pitch; he could feel his blood steaming. His time was desperately short. He needed to end this fight now.
Frantically, he cast his gaze around the tower’s top. The only things that he could see were the disk they were standing on, the increasingly weathered throne behind him, and the four curved pillars that supported the golden crystal above them.
And then, Kalann had his answer.
He opened his fist and pointed his palm at the sky. There was a jolt, and a beam of light burst forth, heading straight at the crystal.
Xaran’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”
He swung his sword through the air, sending a wave of darkness at Kalann. Cursing, he closed his fist and dove to the side, his energy evaporating before it could touch the crystal. Fine, then. I’ll just have to do this the hard way.
He thrust his fist at the ground as he dove, letting out a burst of energy. It sent him hurtling skyward, right at the stone.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Xaran hissed. He raised his hand and sent another blast of dark energy at Kalann.
Seeing it coming, Kalann raised his sword just in time. The force of the blow knocked him back again, but this time, he was ready. He let the energy carry him backwards, twisting around to catch his sword on one of the arched columns. “You’ll have to do better than that!” he called, vaulting himself up onto the arch.
“As if I needed the invitation!” Xaran snarled. He raised his hand and dark lightning erupted from his fingertips, blasting the column to fragments.
Kalann sliced in the air as he fell, letting out a blast that propelled him to the next arch over. Pulling himself to its top, he leapt to his feet and started running up it, towards the stone.
There was a crackle of energy below him, and Kalann dove to the side. The column he was just on shattered; he hit the third one and heaved himself up onto it.
“Aren’t you the clever little monkey?” Xaran laughed. He let loose another bolt of energy. Kalann was already on the move, blasting himself away from the now-destroyed arch and pulling himself up onto the last one.
As Kalann started running across the narrow obsidian path, Xaran rocketed into the air, vaulting onto the arch ahead of him. “A wise idea, Kalann Sefu,” he hissed, his eyes somehow blacker than they’d ever been. “You truly earn the prophecy’s choice.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kalann said, clenching his sword tight. Xaran’s insistence on protecting the crystal confirmed what he’d suspected from the moment he saw it; it was the source of the Urts’ life energy, just as the Darkwood orb was for that particular faction. If he destroyed it, Geyron would be saved. “Now why don’t you step away and let me finish the job?”
“I can’t have you destroying my focus, can I?” Xaran leveled his sword at Kalann’s chest. “Behind me is the concentrated energy of eons of waiting, Kalann Sefu. Eons of hatred and pain, eons of agony, eons of patience.” He spat the final word like a curse. “All for the day when you finally arrived at my doorstep.”
“I’m flattered.” The blood was starting to rush in Kalann’s ears; his power was nearing its breaking point. “But I’m gonna need you to move.”
He sprinted forward, raising his sword high. A beam of light shot out, aimed straight at Xaran.
Xaran roared in response and let loose a beam of shadow. Their powers collided, raging against each other in a furious struggle. Kalann skidded to a stop and braced his sword, forcing the energy to pour out of him. His skin was boiling with power, his mind screaming in brilliant echoes. But he refused to give in. Not yet.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward. One step, then another. Slowly, agonizingly, the gap between him and Xaran narrowed, their clashing beams pulsing in greater and greater waves. The world around him was trembling, threatening to give way at any moment.
“Yes,” the warlord hissed, his cape whipping in the arcane wind. “Come closer. It will make it so much easier to break you!”
Kalann felt the ache creeping back into his muscles, the fatigue starting to overcome him. He was out of time. He barely had a few seconds left before his power grew too wild for him to control.
He was barely a few steps away from Xaran.
Now.
Roaring, he thrust his sword into the ground, pulling his beam of light with him. Xaran’s eyes widened in shock as their power’s collision point was yanked downward. The final arch was shattered. Kalann, Xaran, and the crystal all started falling.
Before the warlord could recover from the sudden change, Kalann broke off his beam and sliced at Xaran’s neck. At the golden amulet, still burning brightly.
His shining sword cut the chain like paper.
Xaran screamed as the amulet fell from him, tumbling with the wreckage of the final arch. The darkness around him suddenly collapsed, like a scared kitten retreating to the safety of its mother. He lashed out at Kalann, but he easily blocked the strike. He could sense Xaran’s power shrinking, as if it was being sucked back into some deep part of his soul and locking the door behind it.
The roar of power filling his ears, he swung his sword behind him. He was blasted forward in the burning air. Past Xaran. Right as the falling crystal.
“FOR GEYRON!”
He plunged his sword forward, driving it straight into the crystal’s heart. Screaming, he let loose everything inside him
There was a second of utter stillness, like the world was frozen in time.
Then, the crystal shattered.
An explosion of golden power burst forth like a supernova. Xaran had no time to scream before it consumed him, burning him away. The tower erupted in a shattered into a thousand obsidian shards. The great cavern of the Hive erupted from the inside out, bursting outward before collapsing in on itself and burying the fractured Hive under mountains of rubble. The ruins of Shindar far above shuddered and crumbled as the earth underneath them sank into the massive hole.
And Kalann rose on the eruption, his power at its peak, and smashed right through the roof of the cavern. The force of the blast carried him back to the surface, back to the ruins of Shindar. And he continued to rise, higher than any dragon had ever flown, rose above the clouds and gazed down at the earth below, his eyes burning from the pure whiteness filling his very being.
Then, the white faded.
He lost consciousness.
And he fell like a blazing comet to the earth.
To Be Concluded...
The Chronicles of Geyron, Chapter 34: Climax at Wethelnar
One battle above. One battle below. The fate of Geyron hangs in the balance as both struggles reach their climax... and the adventure races towards its conclusion!
(If you’re just tuning in, The Chronicles of Geyron is a fantasy novel I’ve been writing and revising for the better part of a decade. I’ll be posting a chapter a day to this blog, so follow along and let me know what you think! You can follow my updates in chronological order here.)
* * *
Faro staggered back, blocking the brown Urt’s sword as it sliced for his neck. He could feel the forces of the defensive arc rise on either side of him, meeting the Urts’ charge head-on. For the moment, the renewed vigor of Wethelnar’s army was keeping them at bay. But he had more pressing matters to deal with.
“Can you feel that in the air?” the brown Urt laughed, pounding away at Faro’s defense. “That’s you losing, human. The knowledge that all your efforts have been in vain!”
“Funny,” Faro snapped, knocking another blow to the side, “I figured that was the smell of your lackeys’ blood!”
The Urt caught his sword by the hilt and pressed hard, forcing it down. “Your jokes are pitiful.” He kicked Faro in the knees, unbalancing him. “Now suffer!”
A thousand tiny thoughts raced through Faro’s mind as the Urt brought his blade around for a mighty blow. I can’t give up. Warriors never quit. I can’t beat him. I can’t die here. I’m exhausted. I won’t let everyone down.
And then, in the moment before the blow struck, Faro heard a familiar voice shout something directly into his ear: “DUCK!”
As if on instinct, Faro obeyed, collapsing to the ground just in time for the Urt’s sword to slice the tips of his hair. As his knees hit the dirt, the sound of a metallic clang echoed above him; someone else had stayed the Urt’s blade. Now!
He lashed out, stabbing the brown Urt in the gut before it could recover from the arrival of a second foe. It howled in pain and stumbled back. Faro leapt to his feet as his companion lunged past him, slicing in a wide arc. The Urt took on a shocked expression, an expression that lasted as its head came free from its body and spiraled through the air before tumbling back down and becoming lost in the melee.
A group of soldiers stepped between Faro and the approaching horde, giving him a moment to breathe. He wheezed, doubled over. He had come right up next to death too many times for comfort in that duel. But somehow, he pulled through. The brown Urt was dead.
Sighing, he turned to face the warrior who had helped him out. “That was my kill,” he said, grinning widely.
Evartan returned his smile, twirling his newly slick sword. “Then perhaps you should not have been slower than your elder.”
Faro laughed. It was funny: for all the bloodshed and chaos, he was truly having fun. This was the kind of excitement he’d dreamed of. It was brutal, exhausting, and the most fulfilling moment of his life.
The noise of combat brought him to his senses. The Urts were pushing them back against the gates; their brief reprieve was over. “First one to fifty kills gets ten gold!” he called over his shoulder as he readied his sword.
“No thanks!” Evartan responded. “I’ve never been a betting man!”
And as the Urts crashed down on them once again, they threw themselves back into the fray.
* * *
There was a great explosion in the air above Wethelnar, an eruption of fire and lightning marking the clash of Sparks’ power and the dragon’s breath. It hung like a dying sun in the air, casting sickly light on the great battle below. The forces of man had been pushed back to their last defensive line. The trees were slowly crumbling under the dual onslaught of the dragons and the Urt’s siege weapons. Inside the palace, people huddled for comfort, casting terrified glances at the shaking stone above. The siege’s climax was upon them all.
The force of the explosion rushed over Sparks in a wave, but he refused to let it knock him off course. Twirling his staff in the whistling air, he released his power in a burst behind him, changing the path of his fall. The dragon was still reeling from the impact, flapping its wings wildly to re-orient itself. With a cry of triumph, Sparks gave one last thrust of power, and he landed in a roll on the beast’s head.
The dragon let out a shriek of fury and started twisting in the air, trying to throw Sparks off. But he clung to its horn tightly, bracing his staff between himself and the beast’s crimson scales. Kalann rode one of these things back at Pailan. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
* * *
As Evartan slashed and parried, feeling warm blood spray his clothes with every strike, he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction. These monsters had defined his life for so long that he almost didn’t remember the person he was before. Perhaps, if he survived to the end, he could finally put this black chapter behind him and spend the final years of his life on his own terms. I should be so lucky.
A great squeal interrupted his thoughts. Shocked, he cut down the Urt approaching him and stole a glance behind him.
It wasn’t his imagination: the gates of Wethelnar were opening.
A great cry of confusion rang out among the human forces. They started scrambling, rushing for the safety of the city, only a few staying behind to stem the enemy’s entrance. And the Urts charged forward, snarling with glee, shoving past the stragglers to spread like a swarm of rats on the pavement and into the city. Wethelnar had been breached.
Evartan stumbled backward through the gates, slicing furiously at the oncoming tide. Somehow, Faro was beside him, eyes wide with horror. “What is this?” he gasped. “They just surrendered the city!”
Evartan cast his gaze around. The fleeing human forces were starting to turn around, throwing themselves back at the oncoming Urts. A chill ran down Evartan’s spine. “No,” he growled. “They gambled.” If the army had stayed pinned between the Urts and the city wall, they would have all been crushed, and then no one would have remained to stop their enemies from breaking down the gates and rampaging through the city at will. This way, they had space on their side. The gates had only opened halfway: the Urts were being forced to enter through a bottleneck. Meanwhile, the human forces could retreat and maneuver at will, keeping one step ahead of the Urts. If they could use the city’s geography to pin the greenskins down before they overwhelmed the palace, they might have a chance.
A group of soldiers was clustering near the open gates, stemming the bottleneck even further. Evartan gestured to it. “Join them. I’ll scour the city and help clean up the rats that get through.”
Faro looked back at Evartan, made as if to argue, then stopped himself. “Give them hell for me!” he called as he rushed to join his comrades.
Evartan turned away, slicing the legs of a passing Urt and sending it tumbling to the ground. In the distance, he could see packs of the fiends already making their way through the city, with the forces of Wethelnar in hot pursuit. The gamble was already paying off; isolated from the main force, these scattered groups would be much less of a threat. Provided they could all be contained, of course.
Clutching his blood-slick sword tightly, Evartan started sprinting after the invaders. Wethelnar had just taken a massive risk. It was time to make sure it wasn’t for nothing.
* * *
From atop the wall, Tenno watched in shock as the Urts started pouring into the city. They rushed through the streets and buildings not in a wave, but in bits and pieces, a constantly shifting pattern of mottled green. Her fellow archers were equally transfixed, staring from above as the invading horde swept along. “This is insane,” she whispered under her breath.
“Archers!”
The officer’s call brought them to attention. “There’s still a war to fight here!” he barked. “The northernmost half of you, handle the Urts in the city. Keep along the walls for your own safety. They’re more spread out, so make sure you aim. The rest of you, stay here and keep firing on the bastards trying to get in. Make it happen!”
“Sir!”
Tenno clenched her bow tightly and followed her fellow archers as they dashed along the inner wall, keeping their sights set on the invading forces. From high up, she could see the majority of them making a beeline for the palace. Where Selia was.
She nocked an arrow and let it fly, sending a nearby Urt tumbling to the ground. Not on my watch, uglies. The palace was not going to fall today.
* * *
The wind whistled in Makuran’s ears as his horse galloped at breakneck speed toward the Urtish catapults. The guards had noticed the oncoming assault, and they were turning to face the Lerian riders, snarling a challenge at them. Makuran responded by kicking his steed’s flanks, urging it to go faster. If they didn’t take down those catapults, they would likely lose this fight.
“For the Lerian!” the commander shouted, holding her spear high.
“For the Lerian!” her forces echoed.
“For the Lerian!” Makuran joined in. After so long on the other side, it was exhilarating to cheer for the light.
They crashed into the Urts and barreled through their line, sending the greenskins flying. The circle started to close, the Urts attempting to trap them up against the catapults. In response, the Lerian forces spread out in a clover formation, coming at the catapults from all angles. Horses skidded to a stop in front of the siege weapons, riders dismounted, and swords flashed as they began slicing at the wood.
Makuran urged his horse to the right, arcing alongside the clustered catapults. The Urts were closing in around them, and in a few moments, they’d be completely pinned. With a roar, he strafed the approaching force and sliced furiously, carving away at them. His horse stumbled from a lucky strike, but whinnied and kept galloping, pulling away and back toward the catapults. Makuran cast a glimpse behind him; the section of army he’d hit was reeling, struggling to regain its formation. Good, he thought as he turned his steed for another go. The more he could keep them distracted, the more time his allies would have to take the catapults down. On the other side of the throng, he could see a small group of riders doing the same. Between them all, they could keep the Urts occupied long enough. Hope started to enter his chest. They might just pull through.
Then a sharp pain shot through his leg; one of the Urts had thrown a sword, and it had stabbed through him into the horse’s flank. It screamed and bucked, and Makuran lost his hold on the reins. He fell and hit the ground hard, gasping as the wind was knocked out of his body. Panicked, he scrambled to his feet and brandished his sword.
A pack of ten Urts had broken formation and was circling around him. “Traitor,” one snarled with undisguised glee. “Traitors die.”
Makuran clenched his teeth, ignoring the ache in his wounded leg. All the Urts at Darkwood had disintegrated when his corruption was broken. But it seemed his prestige had extended beyond the confines of that castle. “I’m where I need to be,” he said. “Your plague on Geyron ends here.”
The Urts laughed cruelly. “You betrayed your master,” another growled. “Now we punish you.”
“Traitor flesh!” a third howled.
“Traitor flesh!” his friend echoed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Makuran saw the circle slowly creeping in, barely held at bay by the strafing riders. The warriors at the catapults were hard at work dismantling them strike by strike. As he watched, the first one fell, collapsing in a pile of wood and bolts. One down, but still so many to go. No help was coming for him. He’d have to face these Urts alone.
Perhaps I may find some meaning in that.
“Then come,” he said, raising his sword high. “Come and atone for our sins!”
And the Urts charged, ready to tear their former commander to pieces.
* * *
Selia first heard the distant shrieks while she was bandaging a wounded soldier’s leg. Upon hearing them, she froze in horror. “No,” she gasped.
The people stirred, eyes wide. “What’s going on?” someone called. “Are they in the city?”
Selia was already moving to the front doors. They were barricaded with heavy wooden planks, but they would not last forever against the full weight of the Urt’s army. “Anyone who can stand, help me!” she called. “Find heavy things to block the doors, weapons to fight with, anything that might help!”
A shock of panic ran through the crowd, but those who could staggered to their feet to fulfil her request. “All able bodies,” someone said, “to the door! Keep the weak and wounded safe!”
The shrieks were growing in volume; they were getting close to the palace. Four men dragged a heavy granite statue of a gryphon to the door. Selia stepped back and started breathing heavily, trying to keep the air circulating through her. Her hands started shaking. Keep your head. If you fall apart now, they will too.
Something banged on the door. Screams rang out as the wounded desperately tried to drag themselves further away. The bangs continued, multiplying. By the sound of it, there were at least three Urts outside, clawing to get in. For now, the barricades and blockades were keeping them out. For now
Selia faced the shuddering door, clenching her hands to stop them shaking. A wave of nausea passed over her, and she struggled not to vomit. She could feel the Urt’s bloodlust from the other side, wafting like a rotting corpse. Their desire for pain and violence was so palpable that her already shot nerves were barely able to withstand it.
A group of injured soldiers formed an arc in front of the door, weapons drawn. One of them was missing an arm. One of them was still swaying from blood loss. All of them were too weak to stand against the savagery of the Urts. But they stood there all the same, ready to give their lives if necessary.
Selia took a deep breath. The pain will come. Survive it. For everyone.
She turned back to the wounded, now huddling against the far wall. “Let us retreat deeper into the palace,” she said, walking towards them. “Help each other. They’ll hold them off as long as they can.”
The pain would come. And she would face it, whatever it cost.
* * *
“Kyriax!”
The dragon shrieked as a charge of lightning surged into it from Spark’s staff. It bucked and heaved, trying to send him tumbling down. But Sparks remained steady. His feet were charged with static and clung to the dragon’s scales like a creeper leech. Pity about the spinning, he thought as his stomach lurched from the dragon’s wild thrashing. Let’s hope I don’t go down in legend as the puking hero.
The dragon rolled over in the air, giving Sparks a brief glimpse of the fight below. He winced; things weren’t looking well. The Urts were starting to cluster at the palace doors. Another couple of trees had fallen. And the three other dragons by the palace, satisfied that he was being dealt with, were circling around to take another pass at the walls. Sparks needed to get back in the fray and fast.
He cast a glance down at the monster he was riding. His repeated blasts had opened a crack in its scales. A small patch of flesh was visible underneath.
That will have to do.
The dragon veered upward, barreling up into the sky. Evidently, it had decided to kill him through exposure to high altitude. Not a bad idea at all. Shame it wasn’t going to get the chance.
Gritting his teeth against the whistling wind, Sparks planted the butt of his staff against the dragon’s exposed flesh. Energy crackled through him, setting his robes on end. Lights danced in front of his eyes. This was going to take a lot out of him. So I better make it count.
“Vekara!”
There was a great whump, and Sparks felt his teeth nearly jolt out of his body. The energy concentrated in him shot forth in a single, concentrated pulse, into the dragon’s muscle fibers. It gave a mighty jolt and slammed to a halt mid-air. The blast had paralyzed it from the neck up, its muscles seized up from the static. It flapped its wings in confusion, trying to re-adjust.
“VEKARA!”
Another great jolt, and the paralysis spread to the beast’s torso. It hovered for a second, like a great crimson cloud.
And then, it fell, tumbling head over heels to the cold hard ground below.
* * *
Faro almost didn’t see the shadow. His attention was so focused on the bulging mass of Urts in front of him, spreading and growing every step Wethelnar’s forces were pushed back. It was like a green boil growing out of the city’s open door, and the humans were the skin about to burst, letting the pus spray all across the city. Yet Faro kept fighting, ignoring the ache seeping into his arms. Each Urt he slew was all the motivation he needed to keep his exhaustion at bay.
It was only when his fellow soldiers started screaming and looking up that he noticed.
A dragon was falling out of the sky, and it was going to land smack-dab on top of the city gates.
His face blanched. “Fall back!” he cried, parrying his opponent’s blow and dashing away. His allies were right behind him.
He was just in time; there was a massive crash, a chorus of guttural screams, and the ground shook, sending Faro tumbling to the dirt. Groaning, he spat the dust out and heaved himself to his feet.
The dragon had died on impact, cracking the ground with the force of its landing. It had crushed the city gates completely; once its body crumbled into ash, the Urts would be able to mount a full-out assault through the gap in the wall. But it seems luck was on their side; the Urts that had been piling through the gates had been crushed as well, destroying a large chunk of their army. And those far enough back to survive were still shaken, scrambling back and picking themselves to their feet in disorientation. In an instant, the tide of battle had changed.
“Form up!” the captain called. “Be ready to meet them the moment that beast dissolves!”
As the soldiers rushed to fulfil this command, Faro felt a low hum of static go through him. He looked up to see Sparks hovering to the ground. He landed on sparking feet without so much as a stumble.
Faro grinned widely. “Since when did you learn how to fly?”
Sparks returned his grin. “Controlled falling. Not really the same thing.” He glanced out at the Urts, who were starting to regroup. “Looks like you could use a wizard right now.”
“Tell me about it.” Faro raised his sword. “First one to fifty gets ten gold?”
Sparks rolled his eyes. “You never change, do you?”
“Hold up!”
The captain had noticed Sparks’ arrival and rushed out of the line to face him. “What about the other dragons?” he said.
Faro looked up and cursed: they were starting to circle back to the palace. Out on the field, six more remained in the sky. “Those trees better get moving,” he growled.
“And until then,” Sparks said, “I’ll keep them busy.” His feet started crackling with power again.
Faro glanced nervously back at the palace. Selia was in there, he knew that. And there were three ugly fire-breathing death machines bearing down on it. “Can I… hitch a ride with you?”
Sparks raised an eyebrow. “You wanna fight dragons?”
“Just drop me of at the palace, and I’ll guard it down below. Please.”
Sparks noticed his expression and sighed. “Alright. Just don’t die, or she’ll break her peace and kill me, got it?”
He turned to the officer, who rolled his eyes and turned away. “Go do your thing, soldier. We’ll make sure they don’t get past us.”
Smiling, Sparks, grabbed onto Faro’s waist. Faro gasped; the power dancing through him made him feel like a lit fuse. “This is insane!”
“Tell me about it.”
And with that, Sparks leapt high into the air and started racing down the windstream toward the circling dragons.
* * *
Makuran fought with the force of a hurricane, sword flashing like a dancer. Two Urts fell, their throats cut. A third caught his blade with its own, but Makuran drove it back with a kick. He winced from the pain in his leg, but he forced it down. His allies were so close to taking the catapults down; he couldn’t afford to fall now.
Two more came at him. He blocked the first one’s strike and jumped back from the second’s. He turned in the air and brought his sword down in an arc on the one that was rushing up behind him, cleaving its head in two. Using the momentum of that strike, he spun and cleaved another’s legs off. It hit the ground, and he silenced its furious roars by stabbing it through the mouth. Four down, six to go.
One came up by his side, wielding a battleax. He parried its strike and pressed forward, driving the overbalanced greenskin to the ground. As he pierced its heart, he heard a whizzing sound by his side. He brought his sword around… a moment too late.
The Urt’s slash cut through his side, and he screamed in pain. He dropped to the ground and tried to roll away, but another kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. He gasped, and the sword fell from his hands. The world suddenly felt heavier. Is this it? Is this where my justice finds me?
“Yes!” the Urts crowed. “Traitor flesh! TRAITOR FLESH!” They rushed him, claws grasping and tearing.
At that moment, a shadow fell over them. The Urts’ snarls of glee turned into panicked squeals. A great crash shook the earth.
Blinking, Makuran forced his head up, wincing from the loss of blood. The trees had arrived, crashing into the last of the catapults and grinding them underneath their feet. The Urt circle had scattered before them, its members fleeing to join the main force at the city wall. A cloud of dust rose from the wreckage. The Lerian riders stood and roared in triumph.
Then we are… victorious?
There was a thumping beside him. Kaovinus leaned over him, his oaken eyes seeming to gleam. “My thanks for your efforts, noble one. You gave up the opening to put those wretched corpses to rest.”
Makuran forced a smile through the pain. Noble one. It was such a simple term. Such a meaningless compliment. And yet, somehow, the spirit’s words comforted him.
They had succeeded. With the catapults down, the trees could focus all their attention on the dragons. He cast his gaze around; only around thirty were still standing. But they stood strong, already grabbing great clumps of earth to hurl at the approaching dragons. As he watched, they let loose their avalanche, and the dragons were battered and crushed. Two more fell from the sky. Only four remained.
“We have won,” he whispered through cracked lips. The world grew hazy around him.
“Rest, noble one.” Kaovinus’ voice was growing distant. “We will be here to meet you when you wake.”
Makuran, nodded and closed his eyes, letting the darkness wash over him.
* * *
Faro hit the ground and rolled to his feet, wincing as the sandstone pavement scraped his legs. The city around him was a disaster area, buildings cracked and twisted from dragonfire. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the crackle of Sparks lightning as he called the dragons to face him. The sound of howling in the distance suggested the forces of Wethelnar clashing with the invading Urts. But Faro ignored that. His gaze was set firmly on the palace ahead.
A pack of Urts had clustered by the doors, furiously trying to get in. The scraping sent shivers down his spine, but he drew his sword nevertheless. “Hey!” he roared. “Over here, you damn mutts!”
The Urts heard his cry and turned to face him. About twenty growling fiends, swords stained with blood and viscera.
Whoops.
“What happened to holding the line?”
Faro smiled as Evartan appeared by his side. “I left that to the professionals,” he replied. “How are things in here?”
“We’re matching them. For the moment, at least. I spied you coming in with your wizard friend and figured you might want some help.”
The Urts were barreling down the street toward them. “Two against twenty,” Faro said, gripping his sword tight. “Think we can take them?”
Evartan steadied his stance. “If not, then this will be a fine place to fall.”
“Not on my watch, Evartan!”
Faro blinked as a third voice rang out. “Tenno?”
A flurry of arrows sailed down into the oncoming Urts. They squealed and stumbled, falling over each other in their surprise. Faro’s gaze whipped around; she was perched on a nearby house, a handful of her fellow archers by her side.
Evartan smiled at the sight. “Can you not let an old man die in peace, child?”
“I spent the last year keeping you alive,” Tenno shot back, returning his smile. “I’m not letting that hard work go to waste!”
Grinning, Faro turned back to the Urts. The survivors were scrambling back to their feet. “Seven against twelve. Now that’s more like it.”
Evartan nodded. “I am quite fond of those odds myself.” He readied his blade. “Come, then. Let’s keep this palace safe!”
“Hey, guys!”
Sparks’ cry brought Faro’s attention to the lightning mage, who was skidding to a stop on the roof of a half-melted inn. “Oh, come on!” Faro shouted. “There’s no way you killed three dragons that fast! That’s cheating!”
“I didn’t!” Sparks let a lightning bolt loose at the remaining Urts, driving them back. “Look up!”
Faro did. His jaw dropped: the dragons were all fleeing, heading back toward the city gates. And they were the only beasts in the sky. Their companions from outside the city were nowhere in sight. “Don’t tell me,” he gasped.
Evartan and Tenno had similar expression of shock on their face. “Did we just…” she whispered to no in particular.
Sparks was grinning wider than Faro had ever seen him grin. “The trees beat them. They’re hitting the Urts from the back now!”
* * *
Tenno blinked. It didn’t seem possible. The city suddenly sounded very quiet around her. Even the attacking Urts had fallen silent, shuffling nervously. All she could hear was a murmur running through her companions as they took in the news.
She turned to Evartan down below, who suddenly looked about ten years younger. “Did we just…” she repeated, unsure how to finish the thought.
He smiled a faint smile. “I suppose we did, indeed, just.”
Tenno burst out laughing. It was all too much. She was suddenly aware of the sun beating down on her, how incredibly bright it was. “We won,” she choked out. Then, louder: “WE WON!”
She whipped around to face the palace. “Can you hear us? We won! You’re all safe! Selia! Can you hear me? We did it!”
The remaining Urts, realizing the situation they were in, turned tail and fled. The dust rising from the city was fading, dispersing in the wind. And Tenno laughed, ignoring the bemused looks her companions sent her way.
* * *
The humans didn’t need to lift a finger.
They dropped their weapons and watched, slack-jawed, as the Urts trying to force their way into the city were struck from behind by the trees. Unprepared for the onslaught, the back ranks disintegrated under the spirits’ might. They frantically tried to beat back the new force, but the wooden juggernauts were unstoppable. They crushed the Urts beneath them, breaking the massive horde into pieces. The remaining dragons whistled through the air toward them, but a hail of fragments from the city wall quickly sent them crashing to the earth.
The siege weapons were destroyed. The Urt forces had been crushed. The dragons had been brought down. Only the scattered Urt packs in the city remained, and the warriors who had followed them were making short work of the panicked, now leaderless grunts.
It was high noon.
The battle was over.
Geyron had won.
* * *
As she was helping the last of the injured into the library-turned-bedroom, Selia became aware of how quiet it was. The noise of the Urts banging on the door was gone. The distant howls were much softer now. A faint warmth awoke through her chest. Could it be?
The sound of stone grinding shook her from her thoughts. The palace doors were opening. “Stay here!” she called back to the patients as she rushed out. Her pulse was quickening, but whether it was in fear or excitement, she couldn’t tell. She ran through the palace halls, her mind whirling with possibilities.
She skidded to a stop in the entrance hall. The wounded soldiers had pulled the barricades aside. The doors were wide open. And walking in, bathed in the light from outside like angels, were Evartan, Tenno, and Faro.
They saw her. “Selia!” Faro cried, rushing forward, grinning ear from ear.
Laughing with joy, Selia ran to him and embraced him. “Thank the heavens that you’re still alive!”
“They couldn’t touch me,” Faro snorted. “Though, I might add, you’re breaking my ribs.”
Selia let go. “Sorry. Does this mean what I think?”
“We did it.” Evartan was beside her, swaying slightly from exhaustion. “And quite the spectacular battle it was.”
The warmth in Selia’s chest spread throughout her, until it felt like her entire body was alive with candlelight. She started crying. “Thank the spirits,” she whispered, her eyes stinging.
Faro hugged her again. “Hey, easy. We all made it, didn’t we?”
Selia nodded, unable to speak through the tears. The weight she’d felt on her shoulders for so long had suddenly lifted, like she’d just woken up from a deep and troubled sleep. She was a feather floating in the spring wind. If this is a dream, then don’t ever wake me up.
Tenno touched her hand slightly, drawing her gaze. She was smiling. “No use crying,” she said, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Selia felt the warmth inside her grow hotter. “Oh, shut up,” she laughed, grabbing Tenno and pulling her into a three-way embrace.
And it was a long time before either of them stopped crying.