Every eye was now upon Cada Varl who stood stronger than any mountain, the faint glow of energy still around him. He had seen just how quickly the beasts the Orcs rode could move, he had to be sure to kill them all before they charged or made their escape.
There was silence for what felt a very long time, as each soldier tried to come to terms with what had just happened. Before that could happen, the near-silence was replaced by the sound of drums. Everyone including Cada Varl looked into the distance where countless Orcs were on the march. It was ungodly what Cada Varl had done, but many enemies still breathed. Juruz knew he needed to take command and quickly turned his horse around.
“Nobody move,” came Cada Varl’s voice, it was deeper than usual and more animalistic. The soldiers of Ebulon waited with held breaths as Cada Varl watched the oncoming mass of Orcs. It wouldn’t take them long to reach this place.
Juruz could see that Cada Varl’s eyes were still glowing and the flesh of his right hand had become completely red. Cada Varl knew he had used too much of the energy, he had gotten lost in the heat of the moment, these 500 Orcs were but an inch to the mile of enemies that were now coming his way. When he had first seen their numbers he knew he would have to use this power eventually, he just wished it wasn’t so soon. He only hoped that he would manage to keep control of it. He glanced over his shoulder and looked into the flinching eyes of Juruz before looking back to the oncoming horde. He hadn’t come here to be an observer.
“I’ll kill as many of them as I can, but if any do get passed me it will be up to you to kill them.” Juruz couldn’t bring himself to respond, he watched silently as without fear Cada Varl walked towards the countless mass of Orcs, his eyes still glowing, his sword ready. As every pathway and trail the eye could see in the distance became filled with Orcs Cada Varl neither quickened nor slowed his pace, he just kept walking.
“And you said help would never come,” Torin said to Ulka, in an attempt to add levity to the air (which failed miserably).
Ulka looked to his companion briefly before looking back at Cada Varl. “If ones such as he arrive to help the other entrances, than Ebulon will be saved….” Ulka said, as awestruck as he had ever been. Torin nodded in response before Ulka added. “Let us just hope that when he is through with those Orcs… He’ll return to his own world.” Without knowing it every single soldier nodded in agreement.
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/101158
Entry Point 2 - by Walter Rhein
Malik’s head hurt.
It had hurt for the last few months, and oddly, the only thing that seemed to appease the sensation was turning his head North and marching. If he turned left or right from a specific line, the pain flared up around his temples and didn’t relent until he had oriented back on the chosen course. Likewise if he tarried too long without making reasonable progress. In that case, the pain seemed to start from the back of his skull and surged forward without mercy towards his eyeballs.
It ached.
Even when Malik complied, there was a nagging annoyance. It felt almost as if a grain of sand had become rooted in his head that could never be dislodged.
To say the situation had left him in a foul mood was something of an understatement.
With every step, the wind seemed to grow a fresh set of teeth. The ground beneath his feet had turned barren and rocky weeks ago, which had been bad enough. Today, however, Malik found himself trudging through a foot of freshly fallen snow. Not only was it cold, it was wet, and Malik had lost feeling in his toes early in the day’s march.
His fingers twitched in longing to draw his sword from its sheath and cut down something, anything, in payment for the hardships he was being forced to endure. His weapon was an oddity, even in his distant homeland. It was a slender, single-edged sword with a curved blade. There were no fancy engravings or augmentations to disguise its nature as a killing tool, but to the eyes of grunt warriors groomed for a quick death as front line fodder, the craftsmanship was nevertheless exquisite.
The handle was bone, and appeared to be that of a human femur.
The bone was wrapped with leather cord for about half its length, but at the bottom the gleaming white handle was decorated with a series of crude, almost childlike carvings.
Malik didn’t know what the carvings signified or who had put them there. He had not modified the weapon since it had been bestowed upon him for passing the final trials of the Camden Guard.
The weapon represented his first kill.
The memory was not particularly pleasant.
“Halt!” bellowed a voice from the road ahead.
Malik was startled from his reverie. Under normal circumstances he kept a diligent watch on his surroundings, and would not have been surprised. However in this case, it felt more as if he were being driven like a slave dog, so he had let his guard slip.
He looked up in the direction of the voice and found that he was standing at the base of an entrance gate. A twenty foot wide arch rose from pylons embedded into rock walls on either side. Behind the pylons was a portcullis and then a heavy wooden door.
At the top of the arch stood a soldier in crude armor covered with animal skins.
“Who goes there?” the soldier demanded.
“I’m Malik,” Malik replied.
“Malik who?”
Malik gritted his teeth. A lance of pain stabbed through his eyes reminding him that he should be moving forward.
“Malik of Camden, of Miscony, of a half-dozen god-forsaken little villages and arm-pits like this one stretching back a thousand miles to the South,” he snapped.
“You don’t know where you are?” the soldier persisted.
“I do not.”
“The city you look upon is Ebulon, many call it the jewel of the North.”
“Then they don’t get out all that much because it’s an arm-pit. Open the gate or I’ll start scaling it.”
The solider recoiled at Malik’s words, but he continued with his duty.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m here because of a pain in my mind which will not let me be anywhere else has led me here. It’s been driving me onwards for days and nights and frankly I care nothing for Ebulon, its walls, its treasures or its populace. I know only that a phantom taskmaster has driven me to this gate, for all I know there is a cliff on the other side it wishes me to throw myself off of, but unless I obey I’m put into agony. I ask only that you don’t impede my progress because I have no desire to suffer the inconvenience of dulling my sword against your stubborn head.”
The solider seemed confused.
“I was not aware that the call could cause any pain.”
“The call?” Malik said.
“Our dear King Yadi has sent out a call to heroes, Ebulon is in peril. Could it be that you are one of the those he has summoned to save us?”
Malik gritted his teeth as the irritation continued behind his eyes.
“How about if we open up the door and see?”
All at once, the solider seemed beside himself with the desire to be accommodating.
“Right away,” he said with a salute, and a moment later the portcullis began to creek upwards.
Malik got as close to the wall as he could, but the delay still provoked needles of pain to persist in their insidious, creeping torment. He situated himself next to the small door that had been cut within the gate and stood with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose until the portcullis had risen enough and the door cracked open.