by King, DB
“How the hells are we going to get out of this, Logan?” Aiden asked. “There’s… hundreds of them!”
“We get out by killing every last one of the miserable fiends!” Logan growled before he turned his attention to the rest of the men. “Archers! Shoot at will!”
The men did as they were told, slipping their bows off their backs and nocking arrows. The men were low-ranking rangers, but they’d been training with bows since they were old enough to hold them. Logan’s eyes went back to the shaman, who watched with an expression akin to amusement.
The men launched their arrows ceaselessly into the approaching horde of orcs, their arms working like machines as they each loosed one after another. The thwip-thwip-thwip sounds of arrow after arrow taking flight filled the air. Arrows, all shot with the expert precision expected of Elderwood Rangers, found their targets. The Magnus steel of the arrowheads was strong enough to punch through any armor like paper, the enchantment on each head bestowed by their War Wizards making them powerful enough to cut right through the thick muscles of the orcs.
Logan took aim with his own bow, aiming the arrow at the shaman. The orc shaman only locked eyes with Logan, as if daring him to shoot. Logan pulled the string and let loose, the arrow hissing through the air as it raced toward the shaman.
“We’re doing it!” Aiden said, eagerness in his voice.
But right at the moment the arrow would’ve hit, the shaman raised his hand casually, stopping the arrow in its path, holding it in mid-air. Then the shaman raised his eyebrow to Logan, as if wanting to make sure he was watching. The shaman spun his hand, the arrow turning along with it. The shaman flicked his wrist, sending the arrow screaming back toward Logan.
There was no time to react. But the arrow didn’t find Logan.
It found Aiden.
The sound of the arrow hitting meat, then bone, filled the air, followed by a choking and gurgling. The arrow was buried in Aiden’s neck. Logan’s eyes flashed wide, his free hand going to his friend’s neck as blood bubbled up around the wound.
But the shaman wasn’t done. He twisted his hand upward. The arrow did the same, pushing into Aiden’s neck and traveling up toward his skull, then into his brain. His choking and gurgling stopped, the light fading from his eyes.
Logan’s best friend was dead before he could even say a word.
The arrows from the rest of the rangers kept flying, stopping only when the men had run out. But whatever target they hit was replaced by another orc, and by the time the singing of the arrows through the trees stopped, it seemed as if the rangers hadn’t done any damage at all.
Logan rose, his hand clenching his axe, a rage flowing through him that I’d never known before. All he wanted was to kill, and the looks on the mens’ faces declared that they wanted that very same thing. Logan was ready to lead the remaining rangers to the glorious deaths they’d all dreamed of since they were boys barely strong enough to lift wooden swords.
“Rangers!” he shouted. “Kill every last one of these bastards!”
The rangers rose, bladed and blunt weapons in hand as they roared out their war cries. Elderwood Rangers could be as silent as a blade to the throat, but within each of their hearts dwelled a berserker warrior who craved nothing more than the blood and sweat of hand-to-hand combat.
The magical runes etched onto the skin of the warriors all glowed, Logan’s wolf rune turning a deep, thrumming blue as the power and rage of Fenrir filled him. A berserker rage took hold, images of blood and gore and gruesome revenge flashing before Logan’s eyes.
He was ready.
Axe in hand, Logan grabbed the scimitar from Aiden’s body and rushed with the rest of his men toward the orcs. If he was going to die, he decided, he was going to die like a ranger. The orcs roared back, raising their weapons into the air as they barreled toward the rangers. And behind them all, the shaman stood with his arms crossed over his barrel chest, that same, pleased sneer still on his face.
You’ll die last, Logan vowed as he gazed with murderous eyes at the shaman. He turned to face the nearest orc, who noticed Logan at the same time, his piggish mouth curling into a snarl.
Logan raised the scimitar and flung it at the orc, the blade flying end-over-end through the air and planting in the forehead of the soldier, blood as dark and thick as tar gushing from the wound of the now-dead beast. Logan allowed himself a grin, glad his friend’s blade had found a home in the skull of an orc.
Logan didn’t keep his eyes on the orc for long enough to watch it drop into a heap. His hand axe gripped tightly, he flew with wolven speed and power toward the next-nearest orc that emerged from the trees. The orc raised a fearsome greatsword as he howled, ready to cleave Logan in half from scalp to groin.
Amateur. Logan grinned. The orc had left his entire body exposed. Logan feinted, goading the orc into taking his swing. As the sword screamed through the air, Logan danced well out of the way. The sword struck the ground with a dull thump, missing him completely. With the blade stuck, it was a simple matter of bringing down the hand axe in an arc of its own, burying the blade in the orc’s forehead, the skull splitting like a ripe melon.
Logan placed his foot on the orc’s chest, pushing off as he yanked the blade from the creature’s skull.
Two, Logan thought. Two is nothing. If this is where I die, I need to take more than two with me.
He grinned like the wolf spirit that fueled him, his warrior rage honed. Screams erupted from his men as they fought back, and as he turned to find his next target, he laid eyes on Horvath, another Rank One ranger. An orc wielding dual short swords approached Horvath with the same downward arc ‘tactic’, but Horvath wasn’t fast enough to avoid it. A blade hit home, cleaving down to his throat, blood jetting out from the severed artery. Horvath’s body staggered for a few steps before dropping.
This one's for you, friend, Logan thought as he locked eyes on the orc who’d killed Horvath. Logan held his axe with two hands, watching the orc spin the blades before him in a flurry. Then the orc pulled both blades back to his right and swiped them in Logan’s direction. Two blades could be deadly in the right hands, but these weren’t them.
Logan stepped back before the blades could come close, the momentum pulling the orc along with them. When the orc was half-facing him, Logan rushed in and slammed his shoulder hard into the gut of the orc. The beast stumbled forward and tripped, falling eye-first onto the tip of one of his own blades. The sharp point jutted out the other end of his skull. Logan felt some small consolation, knowing his friend was avenged.
Two growls sounded out, and Logan turned to see a pair of orcs barreling down on him. Two-on-one—the odds were not in his favor, so he pulled the hand axe back over his head with both hands and tossed it at the orc on the left. Logan had won more than a few axe-throwing competitions in his time, and his skills paid off in that moment. The blade connected just below the orc’s right eye, the orc’s feet flying out from under him, thick, dark blood arcing through the air as the creature fell dead onto his back.
The other orc still remained, close enough to kill. Logan slipped the Skofnung daggers from his waist sheaths, the razor-sharp edges of the blades glistening in the dappled forest light. He roared as he lunged toward the orc, the hapless creature not even having a chance to raise his broadsword before Logan jammed the daggers deep into his chest, yanking them out only to drive them in deeply once again, then again and again. An expression of dumb confusion painted the orc’s face as the life drained out through the twin wounds. The orc was soon dead on his feet. He hung for a moment before falling backward and landing with a thud, the daggers still plunged into his flesh.
Logan placed his boot on the orc’s belly and yanked the blades from the beast’s thick chest, the ends dripping foul blood. He breathed in and out as he watched the carnage unfold, ranger after ranger dropping around him, arms and legs and heads being severed left and right.
Aesir Skalbad—another friend from Logan’s youth, a boy with
whom he’d spent many summer nights exploring the outskirts of their town, catching fireflies in their hands—fell to an axe to the face. Brynjar Fjord, who as a boy had boldly asked if he could have Logan’s sister’s hand in marriage upon their eighteenth year, a request Logan had only laughed at, fell to a volley of arrows to the stomach, ragged howls of pain sounding from his throat as he died.
One by one the men of Logan’s town died. And he could only take solace in the fact that they’d died like warriors, that their souls even at that moment were being reborn in the Hall of Heroes, and that he would join them soon in the blessed afterlife of eternal battle and feasting and song.
Logan laid eyes on the shaman, who watched the battle unfold like a mere spectator, his arms still folded over his chest.
Logan knew his next target.
He closed his eyes and focused his power, feeling that animal strength in his bones, the rage of the wolf taking hold. He ran toward the shaman, his daggers ready for the kill. An orc saw what he was doing and positioned himself between Logan and his prey. Logan shoved his daggers into their sheaths before he approached the orc.
And when he was close enough, his hands shot out, one grabbing the orc at the shoulder and the other wrapping around the top of his arm. With a mighty howl, Logan tore the arm from its socket, the muscles and skin pulling apart.
He tossed the arm aside and juked around the stunned orc. He pulled his daggers free again, and once he was close enough to the shaman, he let out another battle cry and leaped into the air, his legs curled behind him and his arms pulled back, the daggers aimed at his enemy’s heart.
But Logan didn’t get his chance. The shaman slowly raised his hand. Logan stopped, frozen in mid-air. At first, he wasn’t sure what was happening. He flicked his eyes down and saw that he was still above the ground.
He couldn’t move. He struggled, but not a single muscle in his body cooperated.
The shaman smiled, the sounds of battle fading. The orc approached Logan, stepping slowly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Logan tried to break free, but it didn’t do him any good—he was held in place by magic more powerful than any man.
The shaman looked Logan up and down with curious, intelligent eyes. Logan tried to form his lips into a curse, but he wasn’t even capable of that.
The shaman stepped back and spoke.
“You’re the last of your group,” he said, his voice reminding Logan less of an orc and more of some pampered aristocrat from one of the cities. “All the rest are dead.”
Logan tried to speak again, but again, nothing came out.
“Ah,” said the shaman with a nod. He raised his hand again and twisted with his fingertips. Logan’s body stayed frozen, but his mouth could now move.
“You fight like a coward. Let me go and let’s finish this,” Logan said.
The shaman smirked. The orcs, now done with their bloody work, formed a large circle around Logan and the shaman.
“I know honor is big with your type, but I choose not to waste an advantage when I have it,” the shaman replied.
“That’s because you’re a coward,” Logan snarled. “You kill my men afar with magic, and then send your men to do the dirty work.”
The shaman chuckled. “Well, true. But I’m the one still standing. And you’re the one about to die—along with the rest of your people.”
“Spirits take you! It’s not enough you kill our warriors—you plan on killing the womenfolk and children too?”
“That’s the plan. Wouldn’t be much of a war of extermination if we left hundreds of you around to scatter to the wind. No, you’re all right where I want you. Once you’re out of the way, we’ll claim these forests for our own, use them in the way they ought to be used. But you needn’t concern yourself with any of that.”
The shaman cocked his head to the side.
“But what’s your name, boy? I’d like to know the name of the man who fights so fearlessly though he knows he’s defeated.”
Logan narrowed his eyes. “Logan Grimm—son of Jesper the War Wizard. There are more rangers who will stop you. And you have not yet even faced a War Wizard. The Elderwood is home to dozens. And they will bathe the forest in your blood.”
“Take a look at this,” the shaman said, sweeping his hand toward the battle scene behind them. “The other rangers and your wizards will all fall like you have done. Do you think I am alone? Do you think I am the only one of my kind to venture from what you call Shadespear? I am not the only magic user among the forces of the Southern Empire. No, I am but a mere leaf among a veritable forest of trees.”
Logan spat. “You foul creatures from beyond the Shadespear Pass deserve nothing more than daggers through the eyes and axes to the skull.”
Another chuckle. “Well said. Too bad I can’t take that fighting spirit of yours and bottle it up.” The shaman shook his head and sighed. “It’s almost a pity that you will die. But don’t worry—the rest of your people will be joining you soon.”
With that, the shaman swirled his hands in front of him, summoning another great charge of magical energy.
Logan knew it was the end. Knowing he’d be with his men soon, he closed his eyes and smiled as the shaman did his work. The magical energy crackled and roared, then rushed toward Logan.
There was a great heat, and the brief scent of flesh cooking, and then there was nothing.
Logan’s body was burned in the great conflagration, and he had met his final end.
Chapter 2: Logan
When Logan opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the Hall of Heroes.
He was still in the forest.
“It’s done,” said the shaman. “Gather what weapons that might be useful and move. I wish to reach the town before nightfall. We will be rewarded greatly for clearing the way.”
Logan laid in the blood-soaked soil, his breath frantic as the orcs scavenged weapons from his men.
“Fiends!” he called out. “How dare you ignore me! Stand and fight!”
But not one of the creatures paid him any notice. Instead, they trod on with the shaman.
Logan ran to the nearest orc and tried to swing his fist into the beast. But his hand only passed harmlessly through.
What… What the hells is going on?
He watched as the orcs left, vanishing into the distance and leaving him alone. He stood dumbfounded for a time, trying to figure out what the hells was happening. When he finally gathered the sense to turn and look around, he spotted something that gave him pause.
It was his body.
Logan rushed over to his corpse, dropping to his knees. The body was mangled beyond repair, a huge chunk of its—my—torso blown out, guts dripping into the grass and bones exposed. A steely expression was on Logan’s face—what remained of his face.
He tried to touch his body, but the same thing happened as with the orc—his hands only passed harmlessly through. He rose, no one around but the bodies of his men.
And time passed. The sun set, night falling in the woods. Then the sun rose.
Everything passed before Logan, morning bleeding into afternoon which bled into evening and then night. The sun set again, night falling and then morning breaking through the trees.
He felt disconnected. Something was wrong. He should have gone to the Hall of Heroes with his men where he would join them in eternal combat and feasting and wenching. But instead his soul was trapped in the world of the living, but somehow… not a part of it.
Time passed faster and faster, the days zipping by in the span of minutes. He watched as his body and those of his men began to decompose, scavenger animals taking chunks of flesh, then the critters stripping the bones clean white. Fall came, and when the leaves fell, they covered the bodies.
And like a wraith Logan prowled the woods where he and his men fell. He wandered aimlessly, still wondering what had happened—and what had become of his family, his people.
When winter came, the branches growing bare and fresh, pearl-white sno
w covering the ground, he gained enough of his senses to contemplate what had happened.
We were fools, Logan thought as night went into day and into night and into day. Forming hunting parties to pick off whatever orcs wandered into our territory. Ridiculous! We should’ve taken the fight to the orcs, pulling them out by the root.
Spring had arrived by this point, the bones of Logan and his men mostly buried.
It would’ve been a terrible war, but it would’ve been a war worth fighting. The rangers of the Elderwood could have joined with the other civilizations to the west to bolster the defenses of the Shadespear Pass. But the time for that had long passed. If the orcs had managed to move an entire army through the Elderwoods, no doubt they’d razed every settlement along the way.
Something happened in spring to confirm his thinking. Orcs arrived by the thousands, and they weren’t alone. Trolls and goblins and demons and the undead—they arrived too. Great machines uprooted trees from the forest floor, devouring them in their huge steel mouths.
What are these fools doing? They can’t just use the forest like this! The balance of the entire region depends on it!
But by summer they’d pulled every tree clean from the forest floor. The Elderwood trees that Logan had known since he was a boy, since his father was a boy, and all the way back, were gone. Autumn came, but no leaves were there to fall.
When winter arrived, Logan could hear the howl of bitter winds across the plains and see the massive storm clouds thick and dark with snow rolling in overhead. They passed, and the snow melted, green grass stretching as far as the eye could see.
In time, the creatures from beyond Shadespear returned, hunting the animals until their carcasses dotted the plains. When the next winter came and went, the green grass was spotty and sparse.
The grass receded every year, the rich soil turning dry and baking in the hot sun overhead until it became rough and coarse like sand. Logan watched as the seasons rushed by, the scene turning from a barren plain to a rolling desert, the sun bright and the dunes rolling and endless.