The Willbreaker (Book 1)

by Mike Simmons

  As he dropped, he heard the life-ending grunt of the Templar next to him as the body fell limply backwards to the ground, showered in blood and without a head. Metal clashed against metal. The sounds of war deafened him. Shouting, screaming, and grunting surrounded him. His adrenaline fully dumped into his system.

  The maiden on top of him stepped over a body and planted her foot on top of Ny’Ael’s weapon. She screamed out as she kicked his shield with her powerful leg, knocking him backwards into another Templar. The other Templar jumped forward at her, arm vaulted backward as he moved to thrust his polearm into her flesh. An arrow shrilled through the air, stopping as it plunged into the flying Templar’s neck, spewing blood all over Ny’Ael and the maiden in front of him. His lifeless body struck the maiden and knocked her over. Ny’Ael stood, shield raised, and grabbed his weapon.

  He lunged his arm at her as she attempted to gain her feet. His blade caught underneath her arm, cutting into her ribs just beneath her armpit. She wailed out in pain. Another maiden stood behind her, ready to advance. Ny’Ael reached out his hand, leaving the long polearm stuck in the woman and thrust his open palm to the maiden advancing from the rear.

  He let the power within his mind flow through his body, funneling it down his arm and through his hand. A short but powerful gust of wind punched the woman in the chest, hurling her back. As he reached to retrieve his polearm, a strong blow struck Ny’Ael in the ribs from his left side. The blow came from a great battle hammer, crushing in the side of his armor and breaking numerous ribs. His feet left the ground as he whirled upward, spinning through the air until he crashed on top of other fallen bodies. Ny’Ael gasped for air. Pain tore at his insides. He clutched his middle, trying to catch a breath but the pain kept him from a full gulp.

  He scooted backwards the best he could, as the maiden with the giant hammer approached him for the final kill. Ny’Ael could not get away from the pain long enough to summon this power. The agony kept him from moving back any further. In one swoop, the armed maiden raised her battle hammer over her head and with all of her might dropped it onto Ny’Ael’s head. Flashes of his family, the last things he saw, disappeared into forever as the shape of his skull collapsed and crumpled underneath the weight of her hammer. Today, Ny’Ael earned his honor on the battlefield.

  Janga Blackhand led the attack of Reinhold’s men. His unit, much smaller than the groups of Templars, did not attack the head force of maidens; they attacked the group from the left flank. Janga, suited in thick, battle worn plate mail and his signature right-shoulder pauldron, charged on foot into the wave of inward bound maidens. He carried a wicked spiked mace in each hand and had two thin, curved short swords strapped to his back. Like a raging bull, Janga’s immense presence plowed into the fighting Blade Maidens. His sweeping blows, powered by his adept muscles, broke through blocking polearms and intercepting blades. He crushed his enemies with every swing.

  Janga fought into a large group of maidens. The other men around him had either fallen or disappeared. Realizing he was surrounded, he began to perform the Dance of Death, a lost training set used long ago by skilled blade masters. Polearms from every side thrust at him, fueled by rage and hate of the women behind their blades. Janga stepped back, swinging one mace in front of him, pushing their blades away from his body. As he stepped, he twisted his body, flipping his other mace with him, countering the momentum of two incoming blades at his side. He slipped into the middle of the women’s arms, driving his elbow into the face of one while hammering his heavy knuckled fist into the jaw of the other one. The maiden’s face distorted as her jaw cracked and then broke. Janga twisted again, barely avoiding the stab of another maiden, her blade skimming in front of his belly. He mashed his mace across the shaft of that polearm, snapping it in half. With his other hand, he hit the stunned maiden in the head with his angular spiked mace. Blood mist filled the air as she collapsed into a bloody heap.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Janga caught a glimpse of a swinging blade heading straight for his head. He ducked down, already swinging again, and connected to the side of the woman’s knee. Her leg snapped like dry tender as she screamed out in pain and fell to the ground. As she toppled, her legs pressed Janga’s mace into the ground, pinning it beneath her. Without thought, he released it and withdrew one of the swords at his back. In a single motion, the blade came free of its sheath and traveled into the underbelly of another maiden, just beneath her plate mail. Her guts spilled over her legs onto the ground, instantly dropping her. Janga looked up as four other Red Lion soldiers entered the circle, battling toe to toe with the Blade Maidens. Janga stood and engaged his enemies once more.

  Men and women, all with families and friends, and lives outside this battle, fell to the steel and magic of their opponents. Every fighter, whether fighting for Aurora or Reinhold, believed they were doing the right thing. They believed their cause would lead them to victory.

  Gretchen Lomire had a grace and expertise in combat rarely seen in the combat world. She danced into the Templars, long and graceful swings chopping the legs out from underneath the charging elves. A wide swing overhead left a Templar armless and then the graceful withdrawal of the polearm planted its long blade into the gut of another elf. Gretchen whirled the weapon through the air, interrupting the swing of a Templar’s polearm as the blade sliced across his body, splitting him in half. Three times as fast, four times as strong, and graced with the agility of a cat, Gretchen left a path of bodies in her wake as she moved forward.

  Gretchen had the Gift. Her influence fell under Body, Enhancement. She could move boulders by herself that took the pull of three horses to budge, she could outstep an arrow fired at her from thirty paces, and she could run along a one-inch beam for miles without falling. She gave the Templars a reason to be afraid of her.

  Gretchen glared at the Templar that killed two of her maidens in a single motion of his double short swords. His eyes rose, catching hers in a dead stare. He plucked the wet blade of his sword from the gut of the fallen maiden in front of him, wiped it on his knee, and walked towards Gretchen with confidence. Gretchen spun her weapon outward, catching it underneath her arm as she engaged the Templar. Each of them, Gifted, touched the source of their power, uniting body and energy into machines of destruction. Adrenaline burned through their veins and their muscles waited for detonation. There would be only one victor.

  Aren’Fel faced Gretchen, two masters of their trade, both Gifted in Body and the reason the dead lay scattered around them. Aren’Fel circled the Commander General of the Blade Maidens as the fighting clashed on around them. Gretchen eyed the elf carefully, watching his every move; how he stepped, how he held his swords, and how his body moved around the corpses of the fallen. Their eyes never left the locked glare they shared, but they both fluidly moved around and over dead bodies, weapons, and debris.

  Gretchen moved closer, her body anxious to react from the slightest movement of her opponent. Aren’Fel gripped his swords tighter, paying close attention to Gretchen’s polearm blade. Like lightning, she lunged at him, the polearm fully extended in an attacking thrust. Just as quickly, Aren’Fel twisted his body, sucking in his belly as the blade glided across the plate mail covering his stomach. Aren’Fel rolled his body towards her, both weapons spinning like a windmill. The swords landed in successive hits across the raised shaft of Gretchen’s weapon, held over her head. Aren’Fel planted his foot into her chest, kicking her into the dirt.

  As Gretchen slid on her back, she threw her feet over her head and rolled to a standing position, weapon pointing right towards the Templar. Aren’Fel closed the distance between them again. With a quick twist of her hands in opposite directions, Gretchen’s polearm split in two, right in the center, giving her two equal length quarterstaffs. With the push of her thumb, a small clicking noise released a spring-loaded blade from the end of the bottom quarterstaff.

  “Two blades, twice the fun,” mocked Aren’Fel. “No matter.”

  He t
urned towards her, blades moving so fast that they appeared as a blur. Gretchen split her feet, one leg forward, and stopped both Aren’Fel’s swords in mid-swing with a loud ‘clang’. In the same motion, she thrust her knee upward into Aren’Fel’s stomach. As he spit out the air from his lungs, Gretchen dropped her right elbow down across the elf’s face, knocking his helmet off and causing him to fall to the blood-soaked ground. Her blades were not far behind. The two blades from her quarterstaffs split the dirt in a spray of earth as Aren’Fel rolled away and bounced back to his feet.

  Aren’Fel leaped into the air towards Gretchen, body twisting as he extended his leg. Like a spun bag of rocks, his heel connected on the side of Gretchen’s face. Her head whipped sideways as she spewed spit and blood. Gretchen rotated her body away from the charging Templar, aware of his incoming attack, ducked low, and put her power into an upward attack with her staffs. Aren’Fel flew through the air, swords swinging as he pounced on Gretchen.

  Her blades connected with his, preventing him from removing her head, but the power behind his attack had force too great for her to withstand. Gretchen crumpled into the dirt. Aren’Fel chortled, but before he could say anything, two other blade maidens charged at him from his right flank.

  Like a ballet dancer, Aren’Fel moved with elegance towards them. Weapons flashed in the air, metal on metal screeched briefly, misting deep red vapor into the air, as the two other maidens toppled lifelessly on the ground. Aren’Fel held his final attack pose, arms extended outward with his swords and his head facing towards the ground.

  Gretchen stood to her feet. Gretchen could not match Aren’Fel’s strength. His gift in that aspect surpassed hers, but she not only had strength; she controlled enhancement of the Body sphere: strength, dexterity, and speed. She needed to beat the elf by dancing.

  Aren’Fel stood up from his last attack position and turned around, spinning his swords in his hands. He wore a smile. You will not be smiling for long, elf. Your time has ended.

  Gretchen tilted her head left and right until it popped. She smiled back at Aren’Fel.

  “Let us dance the dance of death, Templar.”

  “We are already dancing,” he replied.

  Instantly the two engaged, the blades of Gretchen’s quarterstaffs slamming into the swords of the Templar. She swiped at him again with her right hand, and as before, his weapon stopped her attack. She hesitated briefly, a break in her attack so small that no one should have noticed, but Aren’Fel noticed and she counted on it. She attacked overhead with her left hand. Aren’Fel parried it away from his body. Right hand, blocked again.

  Gretchen hesitated again, only a fraction of a second, then jumped backwards. She moved her arms around as if trying to get the blood flowing to her hands. Aren’Fel, smiling, circled around her. Gretchen rushed in to attack, right hand first. As expected, the Templar effortlessly stopped her blade. Now, the time for her hesitation. As she paused, the Templar moved in towards her open flank, blades in full swing at her unguarded ribs. Beautiful. Stupid elf.

  She stepped lightly to her left and raised her weapons above her head. Aren’Fel had advanced too far to stop his attack, and he knew he made a mistake. The blades of her staffs dropped across his arms, cleanly severing both of them from his body at his biceps. The cuts were fast and clean. Aren’Fel’s arms, still clutching the swords, flung behind Gretchen as the screaming, armless Templar fell face first into the dirt.

  Hastily, she moved her lips up to his ear and whispered, “You lose.” The tip of her blade pointed at Aren’Fel’s side, underneath his armor. Gretchen rammed the blade into his body, burying it. The Templar made a quick gasp for air, twitched once and then froze. His mouth stayed open, along with his eyes, forever looking staggered and dazed. Gretchen left him, thoughtlessly, in search of the next person to punish.

  Aurora looked over the battleground from her tower, stroking the scar beneath her robes which ran from her belly button down beneath her seam line. She watched as Reinhold withdrew the Heart of the King and as a hundred-thousand Templars advanced her Maidens of the Blade. Earlier, she instructed Gretchen Lomire, her highest ranked Maiden, to advance only half of their standing army to battle Reinhold’s forces.

  After fifteen minutes of watching the conflict, Aurora regretted her decision. The Blade Maidens, some of the best-trained warriors on the planet, fell faster than Reinhold’s units. Aurora guessed it at five to one. Those numbers made her angry, and when she got angry, bad things happened.

  Aurora turned around and headed down the stairs. She walked quickly, focusing on the immense pool of power that awaited her within the depths of her mind. Clutched tightly in her hand, a small elephant figurine lay hidden out of sight. Aurora hastily walked out of the tower, attracting two of her Lash Lords, Princess and Flower, who without reluctance joined on either side of her.

  Orlimay’s streets were empty. Aurora and her two guards walked with purpose down the main road as they headed towards the gate. Aurora’s mind boiled, furious from the unexpected success of her enemy. Although Aurora still had half of her Maidens waiting for orders, she felt that Reinhold should not have made it this far. He rode through both kingdoms with an army whose numbers far exceeded her expectations and showed up at the capital city of her kingdom. As she sent women to destroy him; his men rallied and knocked her forces down. This battle is far from over. Prepare to see why I am the Empress, Reinhold. Prepare to face my fury.

  Two fifty foot gates stood between her and the battleground. A horde of guards surrounded the towers that connected to the gates. The gates were iron, three foot thick, and weighed enough to crush anything beneath them. Large iron chains as thick as a man’s leg connected the doors to four round pulling wheels. Each wheel, when in full use, consisted of twenty people who pushed against the bars that extended from the wheels, like spokes. By turning the wheels, the chains would open or close the gate. It took eighty people to open and close the gates and they moved sluggishly at best.

  With a flick of her wrist, the titanic doors flung open, smashing outward with a crash. The doors did not break from their hold, but dust and debris rained down from their hinges. The guards on the ground scattered like mice from a cat. Aurora paid no regard to them as she walked out onto the battlefield.

  Brandon, Edward, Jasmine, and Blue looked onto the battlefield when the gates of Orlimay opened, as tens of thousands of Blade Maidens spilled onto the open plain area in front of the city. Brandon had trouble believing how many armed women stood ready to give their lives. Reinhold moved his armored troops out from the woods with a surprising force of elven Templars.

  “This is not going to be good,” Brandon said.

  “No, son, this is going to be terrible.” Edward responded.

  Brandon pointed out onto the battlefield as three riders broke from Aurora’s forces, heading towards Reinhold’s army. Reinhold and two of his men rode out to meet them.

  “What are they saying?” Jasmine said, curiously.

  Edward informed her of the rules of war. “Typically, before a battle, the leaders of the opposing forces meet up to discuss the terms of the war, surrender, or otherwise. Most of the time, they end up just pissing each other off and threatening each other. Yep, like that,” he said, motioning with his finger towards the group.

  One of the women reared up on her horse and she did not look happy. The three women turned around and headed back towards the city. Reinhold did the same.

  They watched as Reinhold rallied his men and withdrew the Heart of the King. A thunderous ringing of steel echoed through the air as the sword went skyward.

  “The Heart of the King,” Edward whispered, “an artifact from the Age of Creation. It is said that sword holds all of the knowledge of kings past, and of the kings yet to come. Truly amazing.”

  Like thunder, the roar of charging soldiers burst forth as Aurora’s maidens and Reinhold’s Templars stormed into battle. Like two waves of metal and flesh, the groups collided into each other,
shattering the air in noise.

  “What are we doing?” Jasmine asked quickly.

  “Waiting,” replied Brandon as he put his hand back to hold Jasmine in place.

  “We need to get into the castle to find Aurora, but we cannot rush into that battle. We will be struck down before we make it to the gates. The opportunity has to be right. So for now, we wait.”

  Blue knelt down behind them, peering intently into the battle. Kella’Dune Guardians were at their best when fighting large groups of people. His eagerness showed across his brow.

  “Settle down, Blue. In time. In time.”

  Aurora peered around the battlefield, resting her fists on her hips. She could see Reinhold across the battlefield, mounted on his horse and surrounded by his men. For one moment, Aurora thought about killing him. With a single thought, she could focus her rage on him, encasing him in weight and pressure as if a vice tightened around his skull. Slowly, she could increase the intensity of the power, more and more as he fought against the pain. He would feel the bone of his skull weaken, small cracking noises and pops, until his entire head collapsed in on itself. She had done it before to others, and judging by her victim’s screams and facial expressions, it fit the way she liked to kill those she hated.

  Aurora’s angered expression relaxed. No. That would be too easy. He needs to see the repercussions of his decisions. He needs to suffer for bringing this to my capital city. No. I will not be so merciful. I will give him a reason to fear me.

  Aurora walked past the waiting battalion of Blade Maidens, drawing in surprised looks and gasps from the women in her army. Aurora entered the space between her fighting army and her secondary force. Ahead of her, the Blade Maidens engaged the Templars of the Highren’Dol. Bodies piled up in mounds and blood flowed like rivers through the mud. Clenching the elephant idol tightly, Aurora raised her hands into the air and looked into the sky, slowly closing her eyes. In an instant, her power flowed into her like water broken free of a thousand dams. It encompassed her, surrounded her, and it became her. Her power transcended this world; part of the earth, the sky, and the eternal stretch of galaxies beyond.