War Wizard

by King, DB

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed—years? Decades? Now and then he had the urge to make his way back to the town, to see what had become of his people. But the feeling always faded, as if his desires and emotions were gone. He felt less like a man and more like part of this place, more akin to the wind or the sun above. He remembered years ago when the desire for revenge had burned bright, when he had wanted nothing more than to hold the head of the shaman in his hand, the spine dangling below. But now? He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. Or if he even wanted anything at all.

  For a time, it was beautiful. The former forests became a great plain where huge animals prowled in packs, birds soared overhead. It was calm, peaceful.

  But the peace didn’t last. Logan was alone, which meant he was alone with his thoughts. Over and over again, his mind returned to the battle, the fight with the orcs that had seen every one of his companions slain. And it had cost him his life.

  It was the strangest thing—the more he thought of the battle, the more he imagined himself able to see it happen, as if his memories were playing out before him. He pictured the battle time and time again, each recollection becoming clearer, more detailed. He hated it, as if he were doomed to watching his failures play out through eternity.

  Logan screamed for those he lost, knowing the rest of his people were among them. His father, Jesper, his cousins and his friends and his kin. And when the grief left, rage replaced it. He wanted nothing more than the chance to find the orcs who had killed his fellow rangers. He craved vengeance, wishing for only the opportunity to exact his revenge.

  And that feeling was replaced by hopelessness. He knew he wouldn’t get his chance. For a time, he sank to his knees in despair. The seasons passed him by, and in the depths of his anguish, he wished for nothing more than for his spirit to vanish. If he couldn’t be with his companions in the Hall of Heroes, then he wished to simply not exist at all.

  But the following spring, Logan rose. He banished the feelings of weakness, embarrassed he had ever let them take hold. The desire for revenge still burned inside, the anger more than he could handle.

  An orc. All Logan wanted was a chance to fight one, a chance to release his anger upon the ugly face of one foul-smelling orc. He closed his eyes, a grin tugging one side of his mouth as he imagined shoving the head of his axe into the belly of an orc, then ripping it limb from limb.

  He had been content to live in his imagination, to enact hundreds and hundreds of slayings against his hated enemy. But when he heard a snort so clear that it sounded mere feet away, he snapped his eyes open.

  An orc stood before him.

  But there was something different about this orc. The orc stood still, his chest rising and falling. And more than that, it was translucent. Through it, Logan could see the days coming and going, animals rushing past.

  Why it was there, he couldn’t say. He approached it apprehensively, waiting for it to strike. But it never did.

  “I have no idea what brought you to my realm, beast,” he said. “But you won’t be here for long.”

  He stepped to the creature and plunged his fist into the belly of the orc, screaming as he did. The orc remained still as Logan’s hands ripped open the thick muscles of his stomach. Once he was in, Logan pulled back his blood-covered hand and grabbed the orc by the shoulders. With all his strength, he ripped one arm from the orc and then the other.

  The orc, however, remained standing, oblivious to the destruction of his body.

  “Begone, beast,” he said.

  At Logan’s words, the orc vanished.

  He considered what had just happened. It didn’t take him long to put it together. He’d focused on the orc in his mind, and there it had appeared.

  I’m trapped in this realm, this strange in-between world, he thought. But I seem to have some control over it.

  Logan decided to try something new. He closed his eyes and pictured two orcs. And sure enough, when he opened his eyes, they were there, side by side.

  Another thought occurred to him. He imagined holding an axe, a simple weapon like he’d wielded on his last day alive.

  And that too appeared.

  Logan didn’t need to spend time thinking about what he wanted next. He stepped up to the orcs, raised the axe, and plunged it into the forehead of the one on the left. The blade connected, the light in the orc’s eyes went out, and it dropped in a heap. Logan yanked out the axe and readied himself, slashing across the throat of the second orc. Blood spurted out and then the orc fell.

  Logan grinned. He imagined more orcs, dozens. They all appeared, and he went to his bloody work, slaying one after another and another. The orcs died one-by-one as he used his axe to enact the revenge he’d pictured for so long.

  And there was more, Logan realized. His body, not being a real body, never grew tired. He used this to his advantage, seasons passing by in which he did nothing but slay one orc after another until his revenge was slaked.

  But when the next winter arrived, he found himself bored. After all, what was an enemy who couldn’t fight back? Where was the fun in that, the challenge?

  Logan pictured an orc, but this time, he imagined it with intelligence—what intelligence could be expected from an orc, that is. He heard a roar and opened his eyes just in time to see a murderous orc rushing him, pure hate in the beast’s eyes and a mean-looking spear in his hands.

  This is more like it, Logan thought.

  The orc approached, and Logan stepped aside as the orc’s spear plunged through the air where he’d only just stood. Logan rushed in with a powerful swing, slicing the orc’s left calf, dropping the beast into a clumsy heap. The orc down, he finished it off with a quick cleave into the back of the orc’s neck, the beast’s spine snapping like string under the blade.

  Next Logan pictured three orcs. But instead of an axe, he pictured a longsword in his grasp. It appeared, the simple blade of a human foot soldier. And the orcs appeared as well.

  It was more of a challenge this time—exactly what Logan wanted. But he was able to dispatch one orc then another then another with a series of well-placed swings and stabs. He tossed aside the longsword and imagined a great battleaxe, the head golden, the weapon beautiful enough to be the pride of any blacksmith. He imagined a silver breastplate on his body, and that appeared too.

  And he made one more change to his battle simulation: he allowed himself to feel pain. He figured that he couldn’t actually die, but feeling pain would be good enough of a motivation to hone his skills.

  If I’m going to be stuck in some sort of spirit limbo, he decided. I can at least train myself to be the best damn warrior this world has ever seen.

  The goal brought a wicked grin to his face, and gave him purpose. He closed his eyes and summoned two more orcs. Just like the others, these orcs flew toward him as they roared, their blades raised in the air and expressions of murder on their ugly faces.

  One got in a little quicker than Logan had anticipated, the orc jabbing a short sword into his arm, pain singing out. He gritted his teeth.

  Well, now I know that works, Logan thought as he regained his footing.

  Logan went to work, fighting through the pain and taking down both orcs. And when they were dead and gone, he felt stronger. He willed the wound away, feeling as if he’d gained experience as a fighter in a way he couldn’t in the real world.

  He was ready to push this strange, spiritual simulation to its limits. He tried all sorts of scenarios. He wielded every kind of weapon he could imagine, from swords to axes to spears to bows. And he fought hard with each, learning their weaknesses and understanding their strengths. He gave himself different disadvantages—one useless limb, a broken blade, even blindness—using all to push his skills as a fighter to their limits. Now and then an orc would get the better of him, landing a blow that would’ve killed him in the real world. But instead of sending him out of the spirit realm, it only restarted the scenario.

  And Logan liked it that way. What
ever scenario he imagined would only end when he won. There were no shortcuts to victory.

  When Logan felt confident in his abilities in combat, another idea occurred to him—he would become a general.

  He closed his eyes and imagined himself high above the ground, a perfect top-down perspective. He imagined two opposing armies, one comprised of a hundred orcs, the other of a hundred Elderwood Rangers. He found it difficult to picture individual faces, so he simply gave them all the face he knew best—his own.

  Logan let them fight. The two armies of spirit warriors rushed against each other, engaging in vicious combat. But he was displeased to see that his side didn’t prevail.

  Logan would have to change that. The advantage of Elderwood Rangers wasn’t in their one-on-one abilities, but in their strategy. For in this world, strangely enough, none of the rangers were marked with the tattoos of Archspirits. Wherever such power resided, even Logan with his spiritual omnipotence, couldn’t produce it.

  He gave the simulation another go. But this time, he tried a new angle of attack. He broke the rangers into three smaller armies, one comprised of bowmen, one of spearmen, and two made up of swordsmen. He let the battle play out, this time positioning the bowmen behind the spearmen, letting them shoot. The bowmen rained arrows down on the orcs, devastating their ranks as they drew closer. He used the spearmen to hold the line, splitting the spearmen into two smaller divisions, commanding them to move to protect the ranks of the bowmen. Just as he’d hoped, when the orcs closed in to attack the spearmen, forced toward them by the swordsmen, the two groups of swordsmen were able to close the flanks, enclosing the orcs and destroying them from all sides.

  The plan worked. Logan’s losses were minimal, the orcs obliterated.

  Just like with the weapons, he tried all sorts of combinations, all manner of tactics. And as his powers with the spirit simulation grew, he could create even more variations—new terrains and landscapes to battle upon. And the amount of soldiers he could command grew. In time, he was the general of armies of tens of thousands of men, doing battle with orcs and gnolls and goblins and demons and whatever other enemies he could imagine.

  Between battles, Logan used his spirit simulation for more recreational activities. At first, he conjured women and sweetwine. But those only left him empty and no more drunk. Next he conjured the drum-circles of the Blacktooth Tribe, the wildmen who lived far south past the wastes. But the music never lifted his spirits more than battle did. He conjured the great beerhalls of the cities where wineale flowed and dice rolled in games of chance. Finally, in the quiet midwinters, he conjured up a small, crackling fire, and a memory of Aiden and the others warming their hands, talking of all the orcs they’d slay on their first campaign, eagerness on their faces and their voices braced with excitement.

  Between the battles and the women, Logan had managed to create his own version of the Hall of Heroes. Though he enjoyed it far more than simply wandering the lands of his people, it all rang hollow—none of it was real. What use was becoming a great warrior and general if he couldn’t use it to fight for those he cared about, those he wanted to protect?

  But Logan fought on. And as the years passed, he found himself growing. Not just in skill, but in maturity. He used his abilities to create realistic battles, ones he at times managed to convince himself were real. In time, he began to feel less like a neophyte, Rank One ranger and more like a battle-hardened, grizzled warrior.

  Logan craved the chance to go back into the real world, to use his skills. He despaired at the idea of being trapped in the spirit realm for eternity, doomed to being stuck in this in-between land of neither life nor death.

  His fears vanished, however, when he saw his first people—his first real people.

  It was a group of travelers, dressed in flowing robes and escorting some kind of trading caravan. Though they moved quickly, Logan hurried to them and tried to get their attention. But to his dismay, none of them noticed him.

  More caravans came and went, the place where his soul was rooted, in time, becoming a trading path through the desert.

  “You know,” said a member of one of the caravans, speaking in an accent Logan couldn’t place. “They say in these dunes you can hear the spirits of a battle that was fought here long ago.”

  “Who would fight in the Middle Desert?” asked another member of the caravan.

  “You idiot,” said another. “This wasn’t always desert. It used to be an incredible forest. This was centuries ago, of course.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said another.

  Logan noticed something strange—time seemed to have slowed to its normal pace. He found himself moving at the same speed as the rest of the people in the caravan. And this caravan was huge, dozens of covered carts, and even more merchants and guards, stretched as far back as he could see. The largest cart was surrounded by guards, and caught his attention right away.

  Logan weaved through the crowds, though he knew there was no chance of bumping into anyone. He approached the largest cart, the thing two-stories tall. He couldn’t place what it was, exactly, but something inside called out to him.

  “Ranger. Come. Rest.”

  Logan rose, floating on air until he reached the second floor of the cart. Inside, the scene was one of opulence, men and women in finery taking shelter from the hot sun, feasting and drinking liquors and playing games of chance. A retinue of armed guards were there, clad in mighty, steel breastplates.

  And in the center was a woman more beautiful than Logan had ever seen in his life—or afterlife. She was tall and slender, dressed in billowy garments of purple and gold, bracelets adorned with jewels up and down her arms. Her skin was olive-colored, her features sharp and striking. A gold circlet was wrapped around her swan-like neck. Before her was a platform, a small, rectangular object placed atop. The sharp ears of an elf jutted through her ink-dark hair.

  There you are.

  Logan froze. He could feel the gaze of the woman on him. He brought his gaze to hers, and she met his eyes with her own, eyes of a deep, jade green.

  At first, he was certain he was only seeing things. But as she drew closer, there was no denying it—the woman was looking at him.

  She spoke. Not in his head, but in real words, her mouth moving as she looked at him.

  “Ranger. Your spirit is weak. But I know you are there.”

  Chapter 3: Logan

  Logan stood still as a stone. That time was once again moving at its normal pace was enough of a shock to him; that someone was speaking to him sent a shudder through his ghostly form. He held his hands out and glanced down at them, as if he might have come back to the world of the living without noticing.

  But his hands were of the same spectral translucence they’d been since he’d died, since his rightful journey to the Hall of Heroes had been denied to him.

  “Ranger. I know you’re there.” A sly smile played on the full, red lips of the beautiful elven woman. She closed her eyes and lifted her palm into the air, as if sensing something that no one else around her could detect.

  “What is it?” asked one of the guards, a hulking man in plate armor, his hand moving toward the ornate, golden hilt of his sword. “Is there someone here?”

  “Silence!” hissed the elf woman, a flash of anger briefly twisting her features. “We’ve been searching for the spirit of an Elderwood Ranger. And I can detect one right now, very close to us.”

  “You truly think this quest will turn up something?” said another guard. “It’s been thous—”

  The elf woman shot another hard glance, this one a perfect blend of anger and impatience. “The next one of you who breaks my concentration will be carrying his balls around in a little jar. Now, silence.”

  The rest of the guards shut up and fell into line. Whoever this woman was, she had power. Logan could tell. Not only was she in a position of authority, but she could also effectively wield it.

  Logan remained still, his eyes on the woman. But tho
ugh her gaze was in his general direction, it was as if she couldn’t quite see him—more that she only knew he was there.

  “Ranger,” she said, her voice clear. “Approach me. I have need of you.”

  It was all so strange. Despite this, Logan could sense that this was his best chance to find out what the hells had happened, why he’d been trapped in this strange limbo, why he’d been denied his rightful place in the Hall of Heroes with the rest of his men.

  Logan approached, closing the distance between the elf and him to a few feet.

  She smiled, pleased. “There you are. I can sense that you’re close—so very close. Now, I want you to focus. Focus on me, focus on the sound of my voice. Speak to me. Speak to me now.”

  Logan’s focus drifted at first, his attention on her stunning body. But he chided himself, knowing there were more important matters at hand.

  He closed his eyes, clearing away everything other than the elf woman. And he spoke.

  “What… What do you want of me, elf?” It was strange to hear his own voice. It had been so long since he’d said a word that it sounded almost foreign to him.

  “There!” she said. There was excitement in her tone, excitement that she was trying to keep in check. “I can hear you!”

  She forced her mouth into a flat line and went on.

  “I have need of you,” she said. “The Tyan Kingdom has need of you.”

  “The Kingdom of… what?” Anger tinged Logan’s voice at this reminder that the world had continued without him, that kingdoms had risen and fallen as he wandered like a ghost through the desert.

  How much time has passed? he wondered. I can only imagine the time it would take for a forest to become a desert.

  “All of these questions will be answered,” she replied. “But for now, I need you to focus only on me.”

  The elf woman rose slowly, stepping gracefully toward the ornate box. She gestured smoothly toward one of the guards, who hurried over and lifted the box, opening it before the woman.