The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1

by Ryan Copeland

  “But the villagers---"

  “As long as I stand, no more death will be wrought on these people!” the Ranger bellowed.

  Tiberius turned away from the frightened Mage, and with Shayla and his fellow rangers, flew headlong into the oncoming battle. Bloodlust and rage were etched onto the enemy's faces, matched only by the fury of Tiberius and the defenders who ran with him. Shayla bounded ahead, and with a mighty war cry, burst headlong into the oncoming wave of soldiers. Her spear was faster than lightning as it snaked and spun around, hacking arms and heads off in one swift motion. The rangers were right behind her, slashing and stabbing at more of the white-clad soldiers.

  Michael turned and retreated back to the village, his hands still pressed against his head, and his lips fast in prayer to his gods. He flew beneath a small wooden house on the outskirts of the town. A sudden hotness crept up from inside his robes that ceased his constant praying. Slowly, he reached inside the folds of his cloak to find the handle of his ebony wand. He was shocked to find that even though the wand radiated such immense heat, the ivory metal grip was cold to the touch.

  A sudden urge to reveal the wand began to overtake him. Despite knowing that such a thing would be futile right now, his body acted on its own accord. He tried with all his might to will his body into submission. For all his strength, the compulsion was too great to ignore. He felt as though something was controlling him like a puppet on the end of its strings. He knew what his body was trying to do was futile, and wrong. But his body continue on regardless.

  Just as he moved to produce the wand a mighty roar boomed out from the village, as though from a beast of legend. The shock of such a sound released Michael from his trance. The furious battle beyond the town had come to an immediate standstill.

  The Mage spun his head around underneath the wooden shack, trying to see where the roar had come from when he heard a mighty voice thunder out, “My village!”

  Heavy steps rumbled out from a large stone building in the village square. The sound of scraping metal on the cobblestone ground ignited the air, and the mighty voice called out again, “My home!”

  Michael broke from his cover to see what was approaching them. In his mind, he imagined an enormous dragon such as he had read about as a child, fire breathing from its mouth, and its forked tail swishing to and fro. When his eyes finally found the source of it they grew ten times their normal size. His mouth dropped in fear and wonder, and he stammered back to his hiding spot under the wooden building. Heavy foot stomps echoed throughout the plain and loosed fresh snow from the town’s rooftops. The ground shook under its weight and power. In his terror, Michael finally saw him and was taken aback at the sight of him.

  A massive heaving mountain of a man three times as tall and as wide as a normal man shuffled out of the village. His enormous muscular body was adorned with tattoos of the ancient dwarven language that seemed to glow against his body. His eyes had turned fire red with rage, sweat steamed off of him, his teeth gnashed into a twisted snarl, and his powerful muscular arms drug two enormous double-sided axes.

  Tygahl Rogers, master of the village that bore his namesake, stared down the white-clad attackers to his home.

  The air around him seemed to rise several degrees in an instant. He raised the massive axes over his body and cried out, “My people! You dare attack my people!?”

  He was in motion towards the attackers in a flash, a mighty roar escaping his massive body. Faster than the fastest horse Michael had ever seen, this large hulking man sprinted to meet the new enemies head-on. No armor, no shield, no strategy or tactic. Just pure, ancient rage. The power of the Father had filled him again.

  He cut through a wide swath of the enemy soldiers, his massive axes cleaving through their torsos as if slicing through a hot piece of bread. In one violent attack, ten of the soldiers lie dead in the snowy field. The occasional arrow or spear would find its mark against his enormous body, but never pierced his skin. The weapons themselves crumpled as paper against his thick skin, more of a nuisance than pain. But a nuisance was not something to cause such a dangerous wild man.

  The rest of the soldiers turned in an instant and began to flee back over the hill with the berserker, close behind them. Tiberius and his companions flew after him, trying desperately to reach the Berserker, but there was no hope in keeping up with the man’s speed. Once their foes had crested the hill, they spun in place to reengage with the beast of a man. Their screams of anger and cruelty almost matched the thundering roars of the oncoming behemoth.

  From on high Shayla landed strong and hard, knocking nearly twenty of the men to the ground and stunning the rest with what had just happened. Her landing, as powerful as it was, did not phase the mountain of a man that charged past.

  Rogers spun in place, a tornado of heavy slices that cleaved the men down the middle. He kicked another hard, concaving his chest and sending him flying towards his comrade. A few tried to cut him down, but their weapons merely broke under his steel skin. His eyes focused on the closest one to him, and in an instant, he was picked up by his torso and torn apart by Rogers’ mighty hands.

  The rangers stood frozen at the shock of Rogers’ assault but were shaken from their awe as their commander flew headlong into the battle. His precise, fluid swordplay cut through ten men instantly as he continued to rush through the fray. Shayla sprinted through the formation, her spear tripping others to the ground. Having regained their composure, the rangers followed up her tactic by striking the fallen enemies before they could regain their senses.

  Rogers continued to swing his heavy axes to and fro. From the outside, it looked as if a madman had been set loose on the battle. Amid the swirling chaos, it was a ballet of well-choreographed death. Within a few furious minutes, this second melee was over.

  The rangers were panting hard, searching around for another attacker to strike down, but the three veterans were still and calm. Tiberius and Shayla regrouped behind Rogers near the hill's bottom, his colossal body trembling in with an unmatched fury.

  “Is it over?” one of the young rangers asked.

  “Silent, girl,” Shayla hissed.

  Then the voice cried and broke the silence again. “Loose!”

  Another black cloud of arrows sprung into the sky. The fighters in the middle followed its gaze high as the arrows quickly climbed before again turning down onto the field where they stood. Tiberius and the rangers clammed up on the ground, hiding their heads and torsos from the oncoming volley. Shayla turned and knelt, exposing the back of her armor to the storm of arrows.

  Rogers raised his axes high into the sky and bellowed defiantly against the storm of death above.

  Michael trembled uncontrollably. Terror clouded his senses and rendered him immobile. In an instant, the sharp hot sting from the wand returned from his robes, shaking him loose of his fears and anger. His face hardened, he thrust his hand into the folds of his robe and thrust the ebony wand towards the volley of arrows.

  A bright light burst from his wand and carried over the village and fields beyond meeting the arrows mid-flight. In an instant, they dissolved into dust, falling like the snow onto his companions. Tiberius and his defenders looked around in shock, hoping to find the source of the bright light until his gaze fell on to a stream of light rising up from the village. A faint smile broke his stern face as a sense of pride at the young man’s resolve crept up inside him.

  Again, the voice cried out, “Loose!”

  Another volley sprang into the sky, and just as quickly was turned to ash. Tiberius, realizing that Michael’s magic would continue to neutralize the enemy’s arrows, was on his feet and sprinting towards the top of the hill. Shayla was next to his side as soon as he broke cover, followed by the remaining rangers. The Berserker Rogers stood for a moment, arms still aloft, raging into the bright sky.

  When they reached the top of the frost-covered hill, they beheld more than two hundred archers in the fields before them. They were clad in the same
white armor and leather as the horsemen who now lay dead in the field. In the middle of their tight formation, seated atop a mighty white steed, was their leader.

  “Loose, damn you all! I said loose!” the lone horseman cried.

  Back in the village, Michael continued to hold the wand aloft, keeping the bright light over his friends. At the renewed sound of arrows, a resurgence of anger stirred in him. He gave a mighty scream that rattled his young frame, and the light that he held above his friends spread wide over the formation of archers. The defenders on the hill stood wide-eyed at the sudden eruption of magic that met their eyes.

  Great bursts of lightning began to shatter the ground where the archers stood, turning whole formations of them to dust. Great spheres of fire formed out of the light and fell on another formation sending bright red and orange flames hurtling all around. A thick green fog started to descend on more of them, causing the archers to choke and spasm.

  Their spirits broke with all that had been wrought on them. Many began to break ranks and head for the thick, dead forest behind them. A few had thrown themselves on the ground, pleading to their gods for salvation. Whatever prayer these men uttered went unanswered as the green fog choked them too, and balls of fire set their corpses ablaze.

  All at once, the destruction that had rained down on the enemy archers was over. The light that had hung in the sky stretched itself thin and disappeared into nothing. Back in his shelter, Michael dropped the wand and shook his head as sudden exhaustion overtook him. His eyes grew heavy, and his ears rang louder than church bells. Everything seemed to turn in to a haze of nothing as he slumped to the ground motionless.

  “Cowards!” the horseman continued barked. “stand and fight you dogs!”

  But his words were in vain. The remainder of his men had already fled from their posts, many abandoning their weapons where they stood. He looked around, unsure of what to do next when he noticed Tiberius atop the hill. He drew his sword high and exclaimed, “Long live the King!”

  The lone horseman began to charge the hill, aiming straight for the Ranger commander. Unthinking, Tiberius sprinted head on to meet his foe. Though his legs were heavy and his chest on fire, he bid his body onward. But suddenly, a great cry thundered over the plains. Rogers leapt high over the hill and landed a hundred feet in front of the approaching horseman. The power of his arrival cratered the earth underneath him and sent soil and snow flying into the air. He jumped again towards the rider and hurled his massive body against the horse that bore him. The impact crushed the animal’s body and threw its rider hard to the ground.

  The white clad man staggered to his feet in a daze. His head was swimming and concussed, but still, he remained defiant. The berserker no longer needed to rush into the fray as he walked down the small man with evil purpose.

  “Come at thee, ye beast!” the man in white cried.

  He yelled a great war cry as he raised his sword in a vain attempt to strike down on Rogers. In a flash, Rogers had hoisted one of his mighty axes high and brought it down hard on the man, crushing him into the ground. He let loose a scream of rage and continued pounding the earth where the man was crushed. Swing after swing of his mighty axes rained down on the spot where the man had stood. Each swing was followed by a howl of anger. Each swing was heavier and more powerful than the last, pummeling the last of the man’s blood and organs further and further into the earth.

  But as the last swing was about to crash down, Tiberius materialized in front of him, exclaiming, “Son of Frijigzah! I bid you cease your rage!”

  The mighty axe stopped a foot from the top of his head. Rogers stared at Tiberius, unsure of whom he was speaking. Tiberius held his sword to his face in a salute and bellowed at the behemoth, “I am Tiberius Alexander Axton! Son of Emperor Luke Alexander Axton! I bid you cease your rage! This battle is won!”

  Rogers’ hands fell to his side. His once red filled eyes began to clear to reveal the bright blue they had once been. His stiffened body began to slack and almost shrink down into a hunch. He breathed hard and heavy, and his face relaxed and began to turn sad. Tears were streaming down his massive face, and great sobs started to escape his mouth. He crumpled to his knees, his mighty chest raised and lowered as he cried hard at Tiberius.

  “The Father has not forgotten you,” Tiberius said, kneeling alongside the behemoth. “I bid you return to us now.”

  Rogers turned his gaze to the Ranger, and in a whisper, asked, “My lord. What have I done?”

  Tiberius placed his gloved hand on the sobbing man’s massive shoulder as if a small child were trying to comfort an enormous brown bear. “You defended your home with honor, Tygahl. There is no shame to be had in your actions, son of Frijigzah.”

  “Then why do I feel such shame and anguish, my lord?” Tygahl asked in between sobs.

  “Tiberius!” Shayla cut in from the other side of the silent battleground. “Where is the boy? Where is Michael?”

  A wave of panic and fear washed over him. His pulse and breath quickened, and a chill ran up him. In all the confusion of the battle, he had forgotten their young companion. Their young friend who had summoned such terrifying magic in their defense and was left left unguarded in the fighting. Without another word, Tiberius burst to his feet and sprinted hard for the village.

  Chapter 16

  The Aftermath

  The cold air cut through his chest like a hot knife. His side was screaming at him in pain, and his legs felt like they would fall off his body. But he still sprinted faster than he could have ever imagined himself moving in his whole life. He cursed himself for neglecting their young companion in all the mayhem that had erupted around them. He cursed himself for only being thankful for the Mage’s well-timed intervention against the archers over the hill, and he cursed his body for not being fast enough to get back to him. He turned his head to see the Dragoon following a way off, lost in her own thoughts at what could have befallen young Michael.

  “Shayla! Get in the village and find him. Quick!” the Ranger exclaimed.

  Shayla burst into the sky at once, bounding towards the village. Five minutes later, he came crashing into the village square, heaving lungfuls of sharp cold air. But whatever pain he might have felt was silenced at once as he began to scramble from building to building calling for the boy. Several of the locals stopped to watch the two warriors dash about the village square in search, but none could offer any help. Many of them were still fast at work extinguishing the remaining fires from their homes, and several more just sat upon the cold ground in shock.

  “Are you looking for the boy?” an elderly villager asked, herself tending to a few small and scared children of her own.

  “Yes,” the Ranger replied, rushing to her side. “Have you seen him!?”

  She pointed a way off from the village square to the small wooden building at the edge of town. “We saw what happened, Ranger. We saw the magic light up the sky. And it was by that power alone that we are still here.”

  “Indeed, it is, mother. Thank you,” he replied before pushing his Sight to where she had pointed. Sure enough, sticking out from behind a broken wooden barrel were a small pair of leather boots.

  His legs were in motion at once, as he exclaimed, “Shayla, with me!”

  They dashed to the wood building in an instant, and after a few tense moments, found Michael passed out against a large barrel. They laid him flat on the frozen ground and began feeling his body for any sign of a wound. Aside from a few small scratches and bruises, the boy looked altogether unblemished. Yet despite their continued probing and harsh words, he did not stir from his sleep. The two warriors started to grow frantic as they tried to rouse him, terror climbing up within their spirits.

  “What evil has befallen him that he does not wake!?” the Dragoon exclaimed while she continued to search him over.

  “You saw what I saw,” Tiberius answered, regaining his composure. “Someone so small and young conjuring something like that. It must have take
n a toll on him.”

  “What can we do? We do not have the skill to help him!”

  “I don’t know. But the boy needs a bed and warmth, now!”

  He wrapped Michael’s body in his arms as if holding a baby at nap and stood, looking around for any shelter that might have afforded them. Beyond the smoldering town square, he spotted the inn that was to be their temporary lodging that night and broke for it in a flash. He burst the flimsy wood and steel doors open and was stopped dead by the sight before him.

  A dozen or more people were lying about in various states of pain and agony. Many had arrow wounds from the volleys, while others had been trampled in their desperate attempts to escape the fray. Even more were burned beyond recognition and laid on the massive wooden serving tables in unimaginable pain. He surveyed the room, searching for someone to help them before deciding to move past them and find a place of his own amongst the chaos. Yet everywhere he searched, each bed and table were occupied by the dead or the soon to be dead.

  “Sir,” a bright voice spoke from the door, cutting through the throes of the dying villagers. “Bring him to our quarters.”

  He turned to see Constance, the Ranger Captain assigned to the village, just inside the large tavern’s sitting room. Without another word, he and Shayla turned and followed the ranger back out into the cold. They moved through the village with all haste they could muster, but everywhere they turned, the screams and crying of the wounded penetrated their ears. They were surrounded by a nightmare they could not escape. For a brief moment, Shayla wondered if she had slipped into a dream as the immeasurable destruction around her brought long-suppressed memories of the war back to her mind.

  A moment later, they were at the rangers’ black and grey painted barracks back near the village's front. They rushed inside the building and placed Michael onto one of the beds they kept in reserve at the back of the barracks. Shayla removed her helmet, knelt, and studied his young face. Tiberius remained standing, but unmoving behind her.