Keith Edward English's Blog, page 2

Hold my Battleaxe 4 – Gax makes an eagle angry trying to score hallucinogens

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Gax parried an awkward and weak strike with his massive axe, burst forward, then slammed his fist into the human’s face, bone crunching. The merchant flopped to the hard rock ground, a limp heap. He brought his axe up over his head and set his feet apart.

“Gax!” shouted a familiar voice. “No killing!”

He rolled his eyes and spun around to face Darsil’eit, his elf companion, his arms going slack.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he argued, kicking backward and striking the unconscious human with his heel.

Dar tilted her head and glowered at him.

“Oh, fine!” he relented.

The two left the handful of unconscious humans and their orc guard to sleeping and ransacked the cart they’d been hired to waylay.

As they pulled open compartment doors and slid open drawers, finding hidden areas with small lockboxes and other fine goods, Gax noticed a sizable cut on his forearm, leaking blood to his elbow and wrist. “Look at this! They tried killing me dammit!” He cast a glance over his shoulder as the driver stirred, his face twisted in pain.

“One’s waking up, Dar. Come on, let me take him out. I think he’s the one who got me!” Gax took a step toward the semi-conscious man.

“No,” Dar barked. “You heard Eaton. Any casualties and we lose half our pay.”

“Fine then,” he huffed. “I’ll just take a bunch of their shit.”

“Fine by me.”

Minutes later, they were strolling along the mountain pass, a light breeze blowing infrequently, shivering Gax to his bones each time. They were only a bowshot from the merchant and his cart when they heard the people they’d left there stir awake. The pair remained sure in their casual gait, however, certain that the rope binding the guards, driver, and merchant would impede them for quite some time.

“Hey,” Gax said suddenly, stopping. He unslung the sack from his shoulder, filled with the merchant’s goods, and placed them on the ground. Dar followed his intense stare up the slope of the mountain leaning out toward them, searching futilely for whatever Gax had seen that had caused him to cease abruptly.

“Here,” he added without looking at her, “hold my battle axe.” He thrust the weapon toward her but continued to stare upward. When she didn’t take it for a long moment, he turned to regard her wildly.

Dar stared at his axe with a mask of disgust. He followed her gaze to the pointed tip at its end and found a chunk of meat and greyish green skin. “Ah, from the orc back there. Shoulder, I think. Maybe some bicep…”

He trailed off as Dar turned her angry glare his way. “Right.” He carelessly flicked the mound of gore from the top of his axe then placed it on the ground. “Wanderer’s moss,” he said as he turned back to the mountainside and pointed. Roughly twenty feet up the steep, rocky face, was a thick mat of glistening blue moss, small flecks of purple strewn across it.

“We’re stopping so you can get a handful of wanderer’s moss?” Dar asked, plainly not impressed.

“The places you can go while on that stuff, Dar.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’ve paid a gold square for an evening on that before. That’s enough to keep me hallucinating for a week.”

Without another word, he began to climb, ignoring Dar’s whispered expletives.

The rocky face was lacking in sure foot and handholds, made especially difficult given Gax’s size. He sidled back and forth as he charted the best path up. After a minute or so, he fell the short distance to his back, smiling at Dar as she bored holes into him with her glower while he made another attempt.

Sweat falling from his brow, calluses ripped open on his hands, Gax was finally nearing the hallucinogen. He found a particularly flat shelf that would place him within arm’s reach of the moss and hoisted himself toward it. His hand reached over the lip of the shelf and brushed something rough, perhaps just another stone. He pulled himself up higher and came face to face with the narrowed eyes of a large eagle.

“Oh, no,” he whispered into the raptor’s face as her chicks squawked alarmingly behind her. The eagle opened its wings, screeched, then clawed at Gax’s face. The tip of one talon raked across his forehead, digging a deep furrow through his skin. He yelped and nearly lost his perch, leaning away and swatting at the bird.

He slipped down and barely managed to grasp a rocky outcropping after slamming into it, groin first. He continued to slide down it, slowly, the breath blasted from his lungs. His grip continued to falter, and he plummeted the rest of the way down. He bounced off the rocky mountainside once, then crashed down onto his back next to Dar.

A groan of pain spilled from his slack mouth, his eyes clenched as tears welled.

“Gax, get up!” Dar instructed.

“I just fell off a thrice-damned mountain, woman. Can’t you give me a moment! Oh, my balls…”

Footsteps sounded vaguely on the rock back the way they had come. Gax opened his eyes and looked up the path to see the orc and human guards from the caravan descending on them, weapons in hand. He turned to look at Dar and found himself staring at her back. She had turned, their prize in hand, and bolted.

“Honestly…” he whispered incredulously.

Gax struggled to his feet, grabbed his items, then followed, limping at first as each step sent a stab of pain through his groin. He heard the eagle’s piercing cry and looked over his shoulder to see it staring at him menacingly. He threw an obscene gesture its way. As though it understood the insult, the eagle dove from the mountainside and cut through the air at him.

Gax’s eyes widened and his mouth went slack. Then, he looked ahead, put his head down, and ran as hard as he could, hollering, “Shiiiiiiiiit!”

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Hold my Battleaxe 3 – Gax wins a grappling match by knocking himself out

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A mighty roar spilled from Gax, issuing between his large orc teeth, some of which were sharpened, drowning out the laments of several humans. He reached across the bar table, his rickety stool wobbling threateningly beneath him, and raked a small pile of copper ovals toward his person. The other players begrudgingly shoved their dice back into their cups and began shaking them.

Gax snatched his ale and drained it in a mighty gulp, a bit spilling from the corner of his grinning mouth. He slammed it back down and looked triumphantly at the others.

“I need me a drink!” he bellowed. “Which one of you lowly dogs will be paying for it? ” He ran his hand gingerly over the pile of small copper coins. “All of you, it seems!” He pushed away from the table laughing, stood, swept the copper into a hide satchel, then bid the others a swell night with an obscene gesture that meant nothing near as much.

He spun around, intent on calling out to Darsil’eit, who was garnering coin and drink by throwing knives with a few other elves. Before he could muster a shout, however, the round, ruddy face of a large shirtless man appeared, startling him backward a step.

“Gax!” hollered the muscle-bound man.

“Eron!” Gax responded, clapping him on a shoulder stiff with rippling muscle. “I barely recognized your ugly face. What with all that muscle stuck to your bones! You been chucking bulls across your farm or something?”

“Glad you noticed,” Eron said, flexing his arms proudly. “Sold the farm last spring. Starting traveling as a mercenary. Bit of luck I had at it too! You see, these ain’t natural muscles. Wizard bet me I couldn’t catch three fish with my bare hands in thirty seconds. This,” he slapped his chest, “was my reward.”

“You almost look like an orc, mate. Looks good on ya. Now, I need me a drink. The boys back there are paying.” He shook his satchel and the coins within jingled happily.

“About that. What’s say we wager like big boys, eh?”

Gax stopped mid stride. “Over what?”

“I bet you five silver rounds I can best you in a grappling match. First one to land on his back loses. What say you?”

“I say…” Gax smirked wickedly as he pulled his axe from its perch on his back. “Hold my battle axe.” Without handing the weapon to anyone, or even speaking to anyone in particular, he thrust it out and dropped it onto the table he’d been sitting at. Dice and coins clattered and the wood groaned as though it would split.

A great buzz erupted in the tavern. Games abruptly ceased, drinks were grasped, and tables and chairs were moved aside leaving a clearing roughly ten feet across on all sides.

Gax shed himself of any bits of armor bearing spikes and a handful of knives from his belt while Eron snatched the sword hanging from his hip and handed it to a man with a pockmarked face and a hooked nose. As the two dropped into crouches, whispering voices filled the room. Bets were hedged. Then the room fell silent.

Eron surged forward, dropping low at the last moment to attack Gax’s lower half. The orc threw his hips backward, landing with his chest on Eron’s shoulder and back. Most men would have been flattened beneath Gax’s impressive size. Eron, however, wasn’t most men.

Eron began to straighten, lifting Gax from his feet. The orc’s grin faded, replaced by a child-like mask of surprise and worry. Eron reached out and his fingers brushed Gax’s thigh, nearly seizing the limb. If Eron got a hold of Gax’s legs, the match would be over in seconds.

Gax snaked his arm between Eron’s chest and chin then pressed his forearm into the man’s jaw. Eron growled against the pain and continued to push forward, albeit slower. Gax gave a final shove and disengaged from the man.

The tavern walls shook now with the hoots and hollers of the bystanders.

Before Gax could recover and mount an attack, Eron bolted forward again. The two locked up, arms entangled, and began wrenching each other back and forth. Eron nearly slipped both his arms under Gax’s armpits, the orc stumbling backward to prevent it. He suddenly stopped moving, the pair crashing against the crowd of onlookers.

Eron threw Gax’s arms up then ducked. Eron snagged one of the orc’s legs and heaved it upward. Gax reeled backward but the crowd caught him, stalling his descent. He began to regain his balance but Eron, realizing that the crowd kept Gax suspended, began to violently jerk him around toward the clearing.

Gax knew he couldn’t maintain his position, hopping on one foot while the knee of his other leg was jammed up near his chin. Eron’s muscles bulged, veins exploding all across his rigidly carved framed. Gax pushed against Eron’s face but his neck swelled in response and Gax felt as though he was trying to shove a mountain aside.

Only another few seconds separated Gax from being either lifted or tripped. Either way he knew he’d be painfully planted on his back. Without a second thought, he spun away from Eron as much as possible then dived and rolled… or so he tried. Eron’s grip on his leg turned out to be nothing short of an unbreakable vice. Rather than roll, he dove headfirst into the wooden floor.

Wood splintered and cracked, white stars exploded before his eyes, then blackness drowned him.

When he came to, the world seemed to greet him as though it was slowly squeezing its way through a tunnel far too tiny for it to fit past. His vision swam, hundreds of blurry faces dancing before him. Then Dar materialized fully, along with a few other onlookers.

“Dar,” he croaked, “what happened?”

Most of the bar erupted with laughter.

“You won,” Dar said, her angular features glowering. “When you tried that roll horseshit, your heel slammed Eron right in the balls. He went over backward like a toppled statue. Whereas you smacked yourself unconscious, on your stomach.”

Gax shook the fog from his mind and sat up. “Why do you seem so upset then?”

“Because you lost me two rounds. But don’t worry,” she added with a wry smile, “I took those from your haul. The other three went to the barkeep to repair the floorboards you smashed.”

“You bet against me?” he said, his tone incredulous. “How could you, Dar?”

“Because I’m no idiot. You just got lucky.”

“Hey, Gax!” came a gruff voice. Gax turned to see the barkeep standing behind his bar. “You owe me thirty coppers for the spirits we gave Eron to shut him up. Damn near popped one of his testicles, man!”

Dar rolled her eyes and strolled away. Gax looked to the nearest bar patrons and smiled, his chest puffed with pride. “Least I won.”

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Hold my Battleaxe 2 – Gax runs into a horse, and earns some ale

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Gax and Darlis’eit traveled down the snow-clad streets of Durthlem warily. The particular avenue they traversed sloped downward ever so slightly, making the going that more treacherous. Once already Gax’s feet had slid out from under him and he’d crashed down onto his back to slide a dozen feet down the icy street.

“Ya know, you didn’t need to bite a chunk out ofBeshyn’s ear,” Dar said, picking at her long fingernails with a knife. “He would’ve talked with a few mugs of ale in him.”

Gax looked sidelong at his elf companion. “And a run with you in his bedroll! He said as much!”

“He hinted as much, you dumb idiot. Now we’ll have to keep our eyes out for him and his friends trying to get even.”

“We’re always watching our backs anyway,” Gax reasoned. “What’s it matter if there’s another face to look out for?”

“I bet your orc brain told you he’d taste good, huh?”

Before Gax could berate Dar for insulting his culture, a joyous voice called out to him. “Hey, Gax! Bet you three tankards you can’t ride this here shield more than five seconds.”

Gax looked over his shoulder to see Saryn, a tavern-crawling cretin, standing at the mouth of an alley he’d likely just relieved himself in. A few of his fellows stood at the entrance to the Crooked Sword, a dive Saryn damn near lived in. Saryn quickly wrenched the shield from the back of one of his comrades and flung it down the street. “On your feet, too!” he added as his friend rounded on him and gripped his shirt with two fists.

Gax, being one never to pass up free drink, unslung his massive axe from his back and nearly tossed it to Dar, saying, “Hold my battle axe!”

He shuffled forward, mindful of the slippery road, and caught up to the shield. He hopped atop it and nearly pitched forward immediately, but managed to keep his feet on the oval-shaped piece of steel, despite them barely fitting on it. He began to count aloud as he wobbled back and forth, sliding down the sloping road. Saryn and his compatriots erupted with boisterous laughter and heckling. Dar admonished him with a flurry of curses.

“Three…” Gax looked up from the shield just as a child ran out from a nearby alley. The boy stopped right in his path, turned and threw a snowball at an unseen friend, laughing all the while. “Move!” Gax shouted, his normally deep voice going to a pitch higher than what he thought imaginable, causing embarrassment to burn in his cheeks.

The boy whirled around, squealed, then dove out of the way. Gax attempted to steer the shield aside but only managed to turn, now facing the alley the boy had fled from. A snowball careened from the alley and smacked him square in the face. He wobbled once more, but hollered, “Four!” despite the snow blinding him.

Gax wiped the snow from his eyes and found a horse’s rear looming before him. There was no hope at avoiding it. “Five!” he screamed. Then, he collided with the steed. The beast shuffled forward, whinnying angrily, and nearly lost its footing. Its rider turned and began lobbing insults at Gax as he slid across the snow on his belly.

He lay there, groaning for the better part of a minute while the spectators burst with laughter. A trickle of blood streamed from his nose and painted the white snow beneath him red. He shakily got to his feet, ignoring the rider, then turned and held up his hand, splaying out his fingers.

“I only counted to four,” Saryn shouted between guffaws.

“Dar!” Gax complained.

Dar, smiling with amusement, turned to Saryn and hefted a knife. “Ale or I cut your pecker off.”

Saryn waved her threat away and continued to laugh.

Dar cast the knife at him and it flew between his legs, just inches from slicing into his manhood. His laughter died abruptly. “I don’t miss a second time,” Dar promised, gripping another knife.

Gax ambled up to them, a wide grin plastered to his bloody face.

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The Punisher and High School, Characters of The Source, One-Liners, Keebler, Vesik’s Daughter, Hold my Battle Axe

As I come to the end of Revival of Fire (Ruination 3) I’m getting super amped to sit down and finish the damn thing. Life, however, keeps telling me to hold on. Can’t I just not work for like a week to devote ALL of my free time to writing!?

Still, this past week made for some good writing, some of which is below.

Things that might go well together but probably won’t:

The Punisher working as a high school conflict mediation counselor

Things got a bit out of hand when it came to light that Mr. Castiglione was using less than acceptable methods to sway bullies into letting go of their aggressive tendencies. The school board was willing to ignore said methods, given his success in lowering bullying rates so far, but was forced to terminate him when another staff member became the victim of an IED rigged with paper clips that caused “mild lacerations and mental anguish”. Said staff member, however, never pulled the classic dick move of stealing another staff member’s parking spot ever again. And for that, the Punisher remains an uncelebrated hero.

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Peep this video about two of the characters from The Source, Imixis and Glave. Things get plenty messed for these two plenty fast. Find out a about why then go over here to read the story.

***

Enjoy these snappy one-liners, meant to evoke some good imagery and/or get some powerful emotions across quickly:

“Her hand came away as if she’d plunged it into a vat of lightning.” (Karris – Head Case)

“Shit storms and piss rain wouldn’t have phased me now.” (Karris – Head Case)

“The time to murder the gods had come” (Vesik – Revival of Fire)

***

On December 7th in 1926, Keebler was trademarked. What the company won’t tell you is that hidden beneath the cute and delicious exterior is a terrible secret. Many elves were far too young to be working, and things only worsened when the great tree fire of ’91 occurred, littering the ground with tiny charred corpses. The government, of course, swept it all under the rug, deeming the whole operation too integral to Americans to shut down. But, as long as I get my E. L. Fudge cookies, it’s all worth it.

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Vesik gets plenty emotional in Revival of Fire. Let’s watch:

Vesik sucked in breath, his lips quivering as he exhaled. A loud pounding noise sounded in his head, his own pulse. The cold pit in his core swirled darkly, polluting his insides. “I need to help her … now!” he croaked, tears streaming from his eyes, his brow furrowed and teeth bared. “I’m the reason. It’s my fault!”

The others began to murmur. Phalax stomped forward. “Help who?”

“My daughter!” Vesik all but screamed, glaring up at Phalax.

Phalax nodded his head. “We’ll help her,” he promised, his face promising violence and his voice dark. “And whoever hurt her will pay tenfold.”

Phalax stepped forward and reached out his hand. Vesik stared at it for a moment, his body on the verge of collapsing under the emotional toll blanketing him. He thought about giving in, about flopping down and succumbing to the pain. But then he looked up into Phalax’s steely gaze and found fire. Not just in his comrade, but in himself as well.

Vesik clasped Phalax’s hand and surged to his feet, feeling stronger than ever. He sucked in a deep breath as Phalax squeezed his shoulder firmly, then turned and began barking at the camp. They’d be up and moving before daybreak. So help them, they would be.

***

This new bit came to me after watching a video entitled “Hold my Beer” in which people did some pretty dumbass things. So, I give you Hold my Battle Axe 1. I really hope you dig this (it killed on Facebook):

Gax ambled down the broad thoroughfare, clipping shoulder after shoulder. Had this been a normal day, the road would have been far less crowded. Had he been a human, he would have slipped past most of those rushing against his tide.

Today, however, was the Festival of Drakes and Gax was an orc, and a hungover one at that.

He and his elf companion, Darlis’eit, tramped onward, Gax groaning and mumbling curses at those he ran into. He held his axe in one massive, green hand, too hungover to strap it to his back. It was difficult work not stabbing or cutting someone, both because he didn’t particularly care about those around him and because of the throbbing pain hammering his skull.

They came upon their target, and Gax’s heart dropped. A hundred feet away stood a man with a wide grin, handing a massive turkey leg to a customer in exchange for a few bits of silver. The problem, however, was that there only remained one last leg.

The fog plaguing Gax fled and he straightened up. “By Axrok’s hairy balls!” he seethed. “Dar, hold my battle axe!”

Gax thrust his weapon at Darlis’eit, who had no choice but to grab onto the massive weapon lest it fall atop her or tip over and cleave through some unlucky passerby. She began to berate him but he was off before she could even utter her first swear. He blundered past people as he jogged, his brain slapping against the inside of his skull with each step, nausea and pain washing over him.

Gax danced around a handful of children, nearly squishing one, then came directly toward a man hawking various leathers, his cart twice as wide as he was. Panic set in. The greasy, delicious turkey leg he savored could be being bought at this very moment!

Gax sprinted straight at the cart. A few steps separated the two when he suddenly leapt and continued to pump his feet as though he could run on air. He expected to sail right over it. Rather, he fell right back down to the earth and smashed into the cart like a battering ram.

Wood splintered and the cart toppled, now nothing but a pile of rubble. Gax twisted and fell, his plate armor saving him from anything worse than superficial damage. The vendor, ignoring Gax’s size and violent look, wheeled on him and began shouting.

Dar hustled forward, her mouth agape.

“My boots?” Gax asked, astonished. He inspected his feet as though they were new to his body and found old, grubby boots.

“You lost your boots of air stepping in cards last night, you idiot.”

Gax rolled his eyes and his head fell back; the pain and nausea afflicting his noggin was far worse now. The vendor began slapping Gax’s shoulder, demanding payment for his damaged cart.

“Get up, you big oaf,” Dar growled tugging on Gax’s ear.

“Hold!” he barked. “I assume we have to run?”

“I’d say so.”

The vendor, hearing this began to flail his arms, screaming for the Guard.

Gax held up a finger, turned his head, and vomited stew that had been digesting since last night. “Much better now.”

Dar’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “That’s just adding insult to injury.”

“Well, I didn’t like it either.” He stood on shaky feet and snatched his axe from his companion. “I hope you remember who got my boots, because I want them back dammit.”[image error]

MTG in Real Life; Arm and Hammer; The Boys Drink; The Evil Within; The Source

So, I started a brand new chapter of life this week. My work schedule (and the rest of life) changed quite a bit. I got out of the martial arts business to spend more time with my family, and good thing too seeing as how I’m going to a daddy next July! With all the changes, I built in time to focus on spreading the word about my words. So, here’s this week’s recap from various social media things.

 

Entry 15 in things that might go well together but probably won’t:

Magic the Gathering and Real-Life Wizards

When Regzenier and his fellow magic-users arrived on Earth, they mostly remained hidden, absorbing the new cultures and exploring the new lands quietly. Once they discovered Magic the Gathering, however, the card game was played fervently by all. Soon, the games became more real, the spells on the cards actually being cast, the consequences of losing resulting in the death of the wizard. Regzenier barely remained ahead of the others in this mad game, until Prosectero cast Plague Wind across Canada and declared that all wizards must face him in battle lest he cast the apocalyptic spell once more across the entire planet.

Regzenier grabbed his conflux deck and headed north. He beat out Prosectero with only one life counter remaining thanks to his Progenitus. Only, now the hydra cannot be banished and has successfully wiped out the upper half of the US. Regzenier, the final wizard left alive in the attempt to stop Progenitus, was forced to exile himself, and in so doing the hydra as well, to an inverse plane of existence where nothingness reigns. Most of all, he’ll miss In-N-Out burgers and Now and Laters.

(And yes, those are names of wizards from my books :))

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On November 28th, 1905, Arm and Hammer baking soda was trademarked. If not for that oh so versatile ingredient, I would have had one less thing to add to my cookies as I mixed them into the living room carpet as a young child. Which certainly would have altered the finished product of my wonderful carpet cookies. Although I don’t think my parents would have been any less upset. Thanks for helping Arm and Hammer!!! (The cookies in the carpet thing, btw, is a true story). 

An Article on Developing Conflict in Fiction, for Writers

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“No, we certainly cannot! If we do, what the hell will our readers read?”

     Conflict drives so many elements of your story, and this is why it’s important to be exceptional at developing it in your characters and plot. Conflict takes your characters, those beloved people you’ve taken so much time to get to know, then molds them into something new. You, meanwhile, are along for the ride as they are shaped. So make sure you have a good handle on how to create dynamic and interesting conflict in your novels.

To first begin understanding this aspect of your story, it’s imperative that you understand what conflict is and what it is not. Conflict is not the dagger in a character’s side, or the fist in their face; conflict is everything that led up to that reaction. Conflict, in its purest form, is as simple as this: want/need vs. opposing want/need. Four words. That’s it, and that simplicity is important to pay attention to.

Conflict takes several forms and shapes, and these are certainly open to interpretation. I believe there exists three types, no more and no less; the first is external, the second is internal, and the third is conflict with reality.

Internal conflict brews when something within a character clashes with something else within that character. When a character has the urge to murder his enemies for wronging him, but his internal sense of morality and justice causes a struggle from within to act on those impulses, he or she is internally conflicted. This type of conflict is what ties your reader to the characters; without it, the readers won’t care about what befalls them. People relate to these types of conflicts, which makes them even more important when writing in a supernatural, sci-fi, or fantasy setting where the external conflicts are not so relatable.

External conflict should arise and resolve naturally. Characters should have some kind of need/want that directly interferes with another’s where they refuse to compromise and then tension rises and relaxes with interactions. Without this element, there is not much of a story; this is the element of your story that creates pages and keeps your readers turning. They want to go where your character goes, and feel the things your character feels. External conflict is how you get your readers sitting on the edge of their seat, eager to discover the actions your characters take and what fate dishes out to them.

Reality is completely subjective; yours is different from mine, like your character’s is different from other characters’. This is closely related to internal struggle, but I find a difference in them primarily in the way in which we go about resolving them. The other two types can normally be resolved by a single event/action. This type, however, normally cannot be fixed with anything but time and acceptance. Conflicts with reality are those that others cannot sympathize with. For example, a character returning from a warzone to a civilized world where he or she feels like they do not belong, is both internally conflicted and cannot reconcile his reality with what he expects/experiences.

Regardless of the type of conflict you create as a writer, you need to make sure you show, don’t tell. Readers do not need to be told that a character is sad because his or her dog has died, they need to be there, holding the animal as it passes, and they will understand the internal conflict that arises from this event. Internal conflict will make your readers truly care about your characters, external conflict will draw them into the story and events, while conflicts with realty may show your characters’ flaws and make them more human and relatable.

Conflict, at its core, needs to be simple. You need to be able to explain to someone what your book is about in a few sentences without being confusing. Game of Gods, a novel I wrote, for example, is about a group of individuals blessed with divine powers and controlled by the gods breaking free of that control and then hunting the gods to save the cosmos. A simple conflict that becomes far more complicated as the book unfolds. Take your simple conflicts, the things your readers can easily understand, and spiral them to a point that is almost out of control, sucking your reader into a maze that they cannot extricate themselves from and I promise you will have career-long readers.

In closing, I’d like to recommend a few authors who achieve amazing conflicts in their works, such as Paul S. Kemp, Chris Wooding, and Robert E. Howard. There are many more, but these are some of the authors whose work I use as examples when giving presentations on how to develop conflict in fiction. And don’t take this article as a call to fill your work with nonstop conflict. It’ll make the novel far too heavy, in a sense. Cutting into this heavy element with comic relief is also a great tactic to keep readers excited about what will come next, rather than constantly nervous or morose.

Now, go develop amazing conflicts in your work that advances the plot and changes your characters. It’ll capture your readers without a doubt, and your work will shine.

A Snippet of Game of Gods: Everyone Dies, then Follows the Road of Corpses

The oddity of this world continued to baffle Phalax, enough so that he forgot to keep his blood boiling. Had he forgotten his purpose for life? Without revenge, what else did he have? If this didn’t drive him then what did, if anything did at all?

For the third time, Phalax nearly walked into the broad side of a building while watching a dead person stroll down the street in the same direction as he was moving.

Daeson slapped his shoulder and said, “Losing your focus just a little bit?” 

A slight smile crept across Phalax’s face and he said, “Yeah. It’s just this place, you know? It’s so out there. The sky too is just phenomenal. And it has me wondering about other places. There are other worlds, Edmund said so. They’ve got to be even stranger than this place. At least we somewhat fit in here.”

“I couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t fit in here. There’s enough weird to let even the strangest blend in. You going to eat that?” Daeson pointed to a piece of bread Phalax limply held in his hand.

Phalax handed it over and said, “You took Micale’s too didn’t you? Gods, man.”

“I’m from the north; we’re always hungry up there. And hey, I don’t think the whole ‘gods’ thing makes sense anymore, right?”

“Shit, you’re right.”

Edmund turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Not necessarily. That’s a conversation for a different time, though. We’re approaching the Graveyard. I’m going to cast an illusion that makes it seem like we are each merely one of the dead. Anybody have any requests? A broken neck? Slit throat, maybe?” Silence greeted him. “Come on, people; laughter isn’t too bad a thing. Well, just don’t talk once I cast. Also, the guards there won’t be able to tell that we are alive. Once we get to the inspectors, though, well, they’ll have things with them that’ll figure it out. Just stay away from anything that looks odd.”

“Everything here is fucking odd,” Micale grumbled, his lips pursed in an angry scowl.

“Whoa, new guy,” Marlen chided. “What’s with the anger issues?”

“I don’t feel well.”

Eula turned and her pupils grew to encompass most of her eyes. Phalax nearly fell backward as if her stare had a physical blow. Micale suddenly stopped when those eyes turned on him.

“Yup,” Eula piped. “You’re running hot. It’s probably a fever. Your body still isn’t used to this place.”

Daeson let the crust of the bread he had between his teeth fall to the ground as his mouth suddenly stopped chewing and became slack. “Does that mean that I’ll get sick too? And what the hells has happened to your eyes!”

“Probably. And don’t you worry about it.” She winked and turned back forward.

Phalax let the girl’s astounding eyes slip from his thoughts. “Hey, Micale, you going to be okay?”

“Probably not but this sickness can wait ’til we finish this.”

“Yeah, we won’t be finishing this today,” Edmund confessed. “We’ll have a chance at some of them today but not all of them. Our goal is to kill at least one. The others will probably run when they find themselves outmatched. Again, a conversation for a different time.”

Marlene suddenly bumped into Vesik and the man righted her then said, “Marlene, what the hell?”

Eula looked to her then said, “She’s drunk.”

“No I’m not. I’m just a little tipsy is all.” The slight slur that accompanied her words begged to differ with ‘just a little’. “There was a rock on the road. I stepped on it.”

Vesik shot her a scornful look and said, “You better snap out of it quickly.”

Edmund chuckled, shook his head, then said, “Well, at least two of you won’t have to try too hard to play dead. Now, come here, all of you.”

Edmund quickly turned down an alley and continued to weave between buildings. After several turns he stopped and faced the group. Immediately, he began casting his spells.

Phalax balked as the men and women around him suddenly became corpses. Daeson’s head sat at an odd angle and his vertebrae stabbed through his skin behind his neck. A dagger hilt sprouted from Micale’s side and red coated his neck. Vesik was old and decrepit, a withered man with blind eyes. The girls had vomit and blood spilled down their chests.

Phalax looked at his arms as Edmund cast his spell and suddenly saw broken hands and dirt-smudged fingers. He surveyed the rest of himself to find hoof marks and indentations along his torso.

Edmund finished with his own disguise and was headless.

Daeson jumped and whispered, “Shit, Edmund!”

Marlene said, “Oh, like you’re one to talk. Your neck is broken.”

“Really?” Daeson began gingerly feeling for his neck.

Edmund scoffed then his disembodied voice said, “It’s an illusion, Daeson. It’s meant to be seen and that’s it. So, follow my lead. Walk like there’s a stick in your ass. We’ll get past the gates easy. Once they go to sort us, we’ll have to start fighting. We’ll rush through the Graveyard, into the stronghold and then to our targets. There should be three of them there.”

“Let’s do it, then.” Vesik nodded and his old neck seemed as though it wouldn’t be able to lift his head back up.

Edmund briskly walked from the alley until he reached the mouth. Then, as he moved onto the street, he developed a hitch that caused him to pitch forward and back. The others followed suit as well, Marlene had too much fun with the charade and blatantly fell into people then bounced off them to continue on her way. A chuckle came from her vomit-covered mouth.

Soon, the dank alleys and rickety buildings gave way to a more industrial sector. Structures here were mostly made up of smooth cement, duller buildings than any Phalax had ever seen. From the tops of the buildings metal shafts sprouted and twisted out to linger over the streets. At their ends hummed odd lights, the likes of which Phalax had never seen. There was no fire, just brightness. His head swirled with confusion.

Reaching up above all the buildings and walls were several jagged towers, their tips twisting menacingly and without uniformity to one another. That, Phalax was certain, was where they were going.

Phalax began to speak but Edmund’s voice drowned his own, “We’re getting close. Remember, you don’t speak, you’re dead. And Marlene, you pull shit like that again and I’ll feed you to the things in the Graveyard.”

Not even Phalax misunderstood the threat within the wizard’s voice. This was beyond important to Edmund; it was his life’s purpose.

Flashes of movement suddenly had Phalax and the others jerking their heads around. Things moved between the buildings and over their rooftops, leaping from one to another. They looked human, or at least made up of flesh. They were fast though and Phalax only ever caught glimpses. Had they been following the group the entire time?

“Don’t look at them!” Edmund hissed. “You’re dead, you don’t care about them.”

Every head turned back forward and beheld a great steel wall. Men walked atop it, they had weapons at their sides, blades of all kinds, and held large staffs with tips that crackled with lightning. Even Phalax felt the coldness of fear blossom within his guts. Just the wall was imposing, the guards terrifying in long black coats and sleek helmets of steel with darkened lenses over the eye holes. Phalax wondered with trepidation at what the actual compound looked like, what terrors lay within it, and how the others were dealing with the fear. Would they break, turn and run only to be torn apart?

Casting these terrible thoughts aside was impossible so Phalax walked, maintaining his rigid gait, and turned his fears over in his mind.

The undead group ambled along the wall, sandwiched by steel and concrete, ignoring flashes of motion from the alleys and rooftops and the black, eyeless stares of the wall guards. Phalax desperately wanted to cover himself in steel, to crawl inside his impenetrable shell and feel the security of near immortality.

Then, as the group neared the wall, the steel groaned and cogs clacked. A large portion of the steel wall slid away into the earth and Edmund lurched around the corner, not bothering to stop for the guards standing there with poles of lightning bristling in their hands. Phalax followed, and nearly came to an abrupt halt once he saw through the gates. Rising from the ground three hundred feet away, was a structure of steel, black metal, and concrete. It pierced the otherworldly sky with jagged spires and square rooftops. It sucked the light of the sun from the air and snuffed it out. Concrete ringed the stronghold, covered in the dead as they shambled across it from several other openings in the steel wall.

Phalax lurched with those around him, his eyes leaping this way and that. Why wasn’t there anyone out here or standing outside the facility? No one was here to maintain anything. And there were so many dead. A crowd of them actually pressed themselves up against the outside wall of the stronghold. Something was wrong with this world if people died this often.

After a short, silent walk, they ended up pressing against the dead outside the castle. Cross-hatched, black iron doors kept the dead at bay. Phalax tried to peer over the dead before him but couldn’t see much beyond the doors.

Something suddenly slammed into his back and caused him to stumble forward. He caught himself on the back of a dead Ureptarian, its skin coarse but slimy. He was then pressed hard against the dead creature and was forced to breathe in its stink, reminding him of the stench of rotten food left in detritus-filled alleys to bake in the sun and infested with rats and piss. He tried to push himself away but found a dead woman pressing into his back. They seemed to lock eyes for a moment and Phalax felt terror strike through him as the slack-jawed, dead woman looked upon him.

A shrieking noise turned Phalax back around and he saw the iron doors opening inwards. He couldn’t see what was opening them, however, as the dead blocked his vision. He tried to get onto his toes to see over them and caught a glimpse of something fleshy but oddly shaped. Then, someone pulled him by the arm and he turned to see a headless man. It was Edmund.

Edmund whispered, “Act dead, dammit. We need to get past the doors. Then, we fight.”

Phalax nodded, unsure if his illusion would have even shown it or not, then continued onward. With each beat of his heart, steel pulsed from the disc in his chest then receded back into it again. He found comfort in that, and also heard the drums of war in his head. Anger began to fill him, and he directed it at whatever was going to try to stop them.

Phalax passed beneath the arch and he was through the gates, into the castle courtyard, a dark place with absolutely no vegetation. Spires of black iron were here and there, a soft, blue light pulsing atop each one, drawing the endless waves of shambling dead. Phalax scanned the area, seeking his enemies. Would the dead begin to attack them? Were they the ones he needed to worry about? Was he surrounded by those that would try to kill him? When would they attack? Should he strike first?

Steel swam across Phalax’s body, coating his chest and back. He walked slowly, eager to kill something.

An odd noise came from nearby and Phalax turned to find its source. Metal clicked against concrete quickly and in an obvious rhythm. Then, a blast of energy slashed through the air, seemingly flung from Eula’s hand, causing a whooshing sound. Phalax caught the flash of light in his periphery vision and beheld something fleshy and oddly shaped, seemingly naked, stumbling backward before it was lost behind the dead.

Shouts came from several people, their voices muffled. A clicking sound turned Phalax’s head around yet again. Through the ambling dead, still moving slowly, indifferent to the fighting, was a creature made up of patches of flesh.

It looked as though many people had been torn apart and their flesh wrapped around something and then sutured together. Stitches also crossed where eyes should have been and where a mouth should have existed. The skin was loose on the thing, as if there weren’t enough insides to keep it taut. It looked humanoid, only its thick, fleshy arms and legs ended in points, making Phalax wonder how in all the hells it managed to maintain balance when it walked. Its head even displayed the same point, looking as if it wore a large tipped hat.

It closed on him and he knew it was coming to kill him. Phalax willed it and steel covered his entire body, a thick, long, single-sided blade coming to life in his hands. The creature suddenly lurched forward and the tips of its arms folded in. The stitches burst and the flesh fell away like wet paper. From between the peeled back flesh came metal spikes.

A Snippet of Game of Gods: Phalax Kills a Guy

     Phalax Aberis dropped into a low crouch as the snap of a bowstring resounded from the curved stone walls of the dried ravine he traveled through. Dead roots ran across the ground in random disarray, pebbles and larger rocks nestling within their loose grip, small sprouts of green plants pushing up between it all every once in a while. Small trees infrequently burst up from the rocky ground, seeming dilapidated in the heat of the day.

A moment later, Phalax’s eyes found the speeding shaft and he flung his body left to avoid it. Although he needn’t do so, it was difficult for him to break his habits from working as a captain of Cavia’s Watch for so many years. Then, he’d been normal, susceptible to the pointed tip of an arrow as much as the next man. Now, though, that was far from true.

His armor was brilliant, without an imperfection to be seen. It became impossible to tell where the pieces ended and fit together; the suit was literally a single piece, a second skin that flexed as well as his own flesh. A flung spear wouldn’t have pierced Phalax’s steel hide, let alone an arrow.

Despite the magnificence of the suit, it was anything but security to him. It was his prison, a merciless chain wrapped around his throat.

Phalax scanned the short natural walls surrounding him without catching a glimpse of his attacker. Larger trees loomed up from the shelf that at one time was moist and fertile soil but had since become as forgiving as a solid slab of stone. The frequent breaks in the trees and their withered branches, which resembled decrepit fingers with far too many joints, provided little cover, but still his attacker eluded him. Although he doubted it given their size, it was possible that whoever had shot the arrow had ducked behind one of the few bushes dotting the top of the hard packed dirt wall, silent sentries to watch the passing of countless centuries.

He had been travelling through a ravine in the Arrow Tip Mountains that at one time long ago must have held water. The path sloped upward ever so slightly, climbing toward the peaks of the mountain range. Copper and brown dominated the landscape, rarely interrupted by the greenery that somehow managed to burst from the stony ground of the mountain at such elevation. Beyond the peak, which was perhaps a mile or two away, the sky unfurled its endless waves of light blue, clouds rolling across the heavens, puffy passengers spurred along by the current of the air.

This wasn’t exactly Phalax’s idea of a nice hike. No, he wouldn’t be travelling this path had he been given the choice. A god, however, wouldn’t allow him his own choices anymore.

Sunlight reflected off a steel tip, the bright glint catching his attention above and to the left of him. The arrow plunged at him moments later but Phalax let this one bounce off his armor, the impact barely registering as its stone tip shattered against his forehead. He took off toward the short natural shelf and leapt to catch a hold of the lip. He marveled for a moment at the agility he was afforded despite the armor that encased him, recalling that the steel was completely weightless.

Dirt cascaded over him as a small chunk of the earth crumbled in his right hand. His left hand began sliding and soon he’d fall. His will became reality as spikes formed on the palm and fingers of his hand and dug into the ledge, arresting his slow descent.

Suddenly, a booted foot stomped on Phalax’s left hand. Any man wearing normal steel armor would have at least felt a shock of pain and lost his grip at the terribly hard strike. The blow registered more as a vibration than anything to him, his grip holding firm. He swung his right hand up to grip the meaty ankle of the man standing over him and his hand became like a net of bristling hooks. He yanked and the spikes sunk deeper into the man’s flesh, grinding against bone and sending him careening from the ledge.

The spikes spearing from his hands melted away, lest he be taken along with this man as he plummeted. Phalax landed on his feet in a crouch while his enemy met the ground with his back.

The man stood up slowly and Phalax allowed him to rise unmolested. Blood ran down the man’s leg and his bow lay on the dirt ground. He spun to face Phalax while pulling two knives from sheathes strapped to his hips.

The blades were long and menacing but Phalax paid them no heed; they would prove to be much less than effective against his armor. Also, Phalax was stuck staring at the man’s face: a visage of blunt features, sun-baked skin, and puffed scars.

A Deth Uk of the Arrows. Not a too uncommon thing to chance upon seeing as how a large tribe of them resided here in the Arrows. Phalax’s mind whirled as he understood now where he was heading.

His enemy would not allow him the time to dwell on those things now, though, as he began to advance forward. Phalax lost all will to fight this man and instead wished to seek answers from him.

Phalax put his hands up in a sign of surrender and said, “Wait. I don’t want to fight you.”

The Deth Uk snarled several words in a different language that sounded like a practiced threat. Phalax immediately fell into a fighting stance and began moving toward the Deth Uk, not of his own volition, however. The armor encasing him stalked forward, dragging his body along with it.

It was as if the barbarian’s words held some sort of magical sway over the suit as it pushed Phalax to move his legs forward.

The Deth Uk seemed as though he hadn’t figured out Phalax’s amazing ability yet as the man brazenly approached him. Phalax willed a spear and shield to spring from his hands but, to his amazement, not a thing happened. It seemed as though he was watching his life take place behind the eyes of another man. He had no control.

The Deth Uk roared as he lunged forward, one knife speeding toward Phalax’s stomach and the other, his throat.

Phalax’s instincts screamed at him to twist aside from the blades, but his body would not respond. Each blade found its mark with intense strength, and then skipped off the impenetrable steel as though they were nothing more than twigs striking the side of stone building. Phalax still felt the vibrations through his armor, however, and imagined for a moment that the blades had somehow punched through and opened his throat and midsection wide. Before he could be sure whether or not he was soon to be a dead man, his right hand balled into a fist and slammed into the barbarian’s stomach.

Phalax’s body became inert, stuck in that moment as if the two men had become statues. Oddly enough, the Deth Uk stood hunched over, frozen in time just as Phalax was.

A cough, then the sound of something wet splashing into the dirt followed by the shudders of a dying man wrenched Phalax back to the present. He was confused by the man’s reaction to nothing but a punch, but only for a brief moment.

Phalax looked around the man’s back, through the eye slits of his helm and beheld four thick, serrated spears of steel stabbing through the man’s skin by several inches.

Phalax managed to back up a half step and saw that his knuckles were buried in the man’s gut.

The barbarian did a strange thing then. He looked up at Phalax with something other than the expected hate in his eyes. It was understanding. He managed to whisper a few wet words that meant nothing to Phalax as he brushed his hand across Phalax’s chest. Then he expired.

Phalax yanked his hand back and the corpse collapsed into the dirt. He held his hand before him and marveled at the spears of steel that had sprouted from his knuckles, each one more than a foot long.

The spikes melted in moments and he was left staring at a gauntleted hand like many he had seen before. Hakmrid, the god of the Deth Uk, had originally given Phalax his powers to destroy the demon threat to Zepzier and avenge the deaths of his wife and son. The price for this amazing ability was free will. Given the choice, Phalax would not have killed this man. He most likely had a family awaiting his safe return. He was, however, without a single choice when Hakmrid controlled him.

He never should have been walking up the Arrows. He never should have run across this man. He never should have donned the amulet that gave him his amazing ability but annexed his free will. He never should have been imprisoned by the very system he served while his wife and child were slaughtered at the hands of demons.

Fresh guilt formed at the corners of Phalax’s eyes as he thought of the man’s family. A son, daughter, wife, siblings, parents all carrying on about their business without the slightest inkling as to the fate of this man. Killing was easy when Phalax was filled with hate. That wasn’t the case now. Without hate, he only sought death to uphold what was right and protect the weak.

That’s what death and war ultimately boil down to, he thought. By killing one man, I’m saving another more deserving of a life. He believed that he had saved his own life in this moment but he couldn’t justify that he was more deserving. His life held little meaning now.

Since the death of his family, Phalax had struggled to find a purpose to continue his life, a reason for his still being alive. He had come close to finding one, or maybe he had just been staving off the inevitable, as he attempted to rebuild his life beginning with his childhood until he had found that perverted by the influence of the bastard god controlling him.

The words of Hakmrid rang fresh in his memory, “You will level your sword at any who oppose my reign in this world and in others. Your time to heal has not yet come. More pain awaits you, my champion, and it begins soon. I am not to be defied.”

Hakmrid had spoken to him after he, along with four others blessed by other gods, had prevented the destruction of Cavia, the capital city of the country of Baronfall, and possibly all of Zepzier. Demons had come to demolish all order and reign over humans but Phalax and the others had won that battle, albeit at the cost of the lives of the other four.

Phalax was doomed to kill without cause until he was somehow killed himself. The only release now would be death and that seemed impossible other than with age. The armor protecting him was impenetrable and unwavering. He would conquer death and be more dead inside for doing so.

His feet began shuffling forward, deeper into the mountains, but Phalax grit his teeth and tried to lean away from the path before him. His steps faltered not at all and he growled in desperation until his voice turned to a shout with such effort. Hakmrid gleaned Phalax’s meaning and allowed him freedom.

Phalax spun back around and scooped the dead man up into his arms. He slung the corpse over his shoulders, the weight of it difficult but manageable. Once done, he was spun around then forced along the dirt path by his steel prison.

Something other than the corpse weighed him down, though. Phalax felt an emotional blanket crushing him like a block of lead.

Game of Gods Prologue

     Gods convened as a final dark figure emerged from the anomaly of light. The spectacle was nauseating, glimpses of limbs and torsos tangling together then being spat out and taking form with each arrival. The portal was a mass of dim, white light that folded in on itself incessantly as if it were smoke billowing from a forest fire.

Despite the several black flames smoldering in the corners, darkness blanketed the room. The odd light dancing around the room from the supernatural flame was scant at best and did nothing more than suggest the corners of the hooded robes covering the figures and the furniture set in the middle of the room.

Black and white ruled this place and the figures inhabiting it would have it no other way. The latest one to arrive sat down with the others and all six chairs around the table were now full.

“How long have we been meeting here?” It was impossible to decipher who had spoken; the words simply reverberated through the chamber. “Decades, a century or two perhaps. The end to this chapter draws near. I can feel it. Are there any additions?”

“I’ve only one at the moment,” came another voice, an octave deeper than the first, “but a promising one. On the planet Zepzier. Your champions, as you all well know, are dead.” His voice was laden with smugness. “I’m controlling him as we speak and plans are moving forth as they should. I’ll be making the transfer in a few months’ time.”

The meeting continued with several others making similar announcements.

Once they finished, the first speaker said, “Good. These may be the last ones before The Convergence. We’ve come a long way, friends, and now we are on the brink of achieving a feat not even we imagined possible when the first of us dreamt of it. Ultimate remains stable and the cities we’ve built thus far are thriving. Next time we meet will be the last before we part ways and attend to our last prospects for a final time. Then, we complete the Convergence. Agreed?”

Acquiescence flowed from the mouths of each one.

 

***

 

The pool before Edmund shimmered as the last of the figures departed from the dark room through the folding light. He was staring into a large saucer of water that now showed nothing but his own reflection.

He gazed upon himself, the pockmarks on his cheeks adding to his wrinkled skin a sense of decay. His round nose drooped above paper-thin and pale lips and his hairline was receding, a knuckle length of grey running from his scalp and through his otherwise brown, slicked hair.

His thoughts turned from his appearance and back to the events he had just witnessed. Worry claimed him. Mumbled curses escaped his mouth as he straightened his back with a liberal amount of pain then moved over to another table littered with vials of different colored liquids.

Plans changed and blended with newly hatched ideas as he rested his palms on the table and stared into nothingness. He would have to begin earlier now. “Dammit, how can they be so close?” he whispered to the air.

Absentmindedly, his hands, snaked through with veins ready to burst from his pale skin, passed over the table and snatched several vials. He began removing the stoppers on each. He took quick swigs of several and winced at the bitter taste. From others, he poured a small amount onto his hand, the concoction more like lotion than liquid, and rubbed it on various parts of his body.

He stumbled back to the pool of water and beheld a different man, feeling slightly intoxicated as a result of the various elixirs.

Whereas before the reflection staring back at him looked more like a man of sixty, this new reflection was thirty years younger. The grey had vanished from his hair while his skin tightened and adopted a much healthier hue.

Despite the miraculous change, a morose look crept across his face. Just a year ago he could have ran through the same routine and looked a man of twenty, eighteen if he had the mind to.

The dark figures and Edmund were at war, though. For the past several hundred years he’d managed nothing other than running and spying on them. He’d become a leech they couldn’t find, a mosquito that incessantly took a bite of their flesh when they weren’t looking to then flitter off into the night with enough lifeblood to sustain himself just a little longer. Although his tactic kept him alive, progress was bitter and slow, forcing him to the edge of defeat often while they wallowed in wealth and fulfilled wishes. One day his persistence would prevail, he constantly reminded himself, lest he succumb to hopelessness and crawl into a dark corner of the cosmos to wither and fade.

They put measures in place to dwindle his power regularly, and they were winning this fight. The concoctions and potions before him held less and less magic each time he created a batch. Soon they wouldn’t have any effect at all and he would quickly grow old and die.

But there was only one reason he had survived so long, and only one reason why he had the magical abilities he did.

Edmund’s thoughts were interrupted by the stirring of the bald man behind him. He turned and surveyed the man who had been sleeping for over a dozen days now. Crimson armor was piled on the floor next to the cot he sprawled across.

Edmund waited for something more, for eyes to flutter open and awareness to return. Neither did, of course. His face, however, did twist into a painful scowl as he squirmed.

As the interruption subsided, Edmund continued his reverie.

Edmund stared at his hands as though they could provide glimpses into his past, pondering the import of the miracles – and atrocities – he could commit at will. He realized too, that although he struggled against the ambitious figures he spied on so often, he wasn’t all too different from them. In fact, at one point, he would have called them friends, family even. Half a millennium ago, he had been one of the dark gods.

A Snippet from Game of Gods: Ukebrelek Joins the Fight

Deth Uk and the enemy fell quickly. Soon the avenues became choked by corpses and set the living to tripping over limbs and swords. All the streets were occupied by men fighting ’til their final breath.

Ukebrelek’s old body began to move in the steady rhythm of a man anticipating death and murder. The dam that kept his bloodlust in check shattered and he hobbled into the fray. One arm held a staff that kept him up while his other fist gripped a scavenged axe that he swung without grace, but with savage fury.

The old man shouted as he fought, in both anger and pain as his bones and muscles protested each quick step and hard twist. Suddenly, fire erupted across his face as a blade sliced through his left eye, destroying it and opening a large gash from his brow to his jaw. The pain was horrific, paralyzing, and Ukebrelek was only allowed a few seconds to comprehend his ruined vision. His other eye reflexively shut and he groped his face, losing his grip on the staff that kept his feet beneath him.

Stumbling backward, Ukebrelek crashed into a fellow Deth Uk and floundered to the earth, clutching his bleeding face. A scream of pain and rage erupted from him and he felt as if his throat was ripped and bleeding. Ukebrelek could feel the eye still in its socket although it would not provide him with sight.

Finally, he was able to open his working eye and glimpse the battle. Deth Uk were staring at him while others kept the enemy at bay. Rage exploded off their faces as they turned back to the enemy; they knew Ukebrelek was a Keeper, he wore the robes of his status always. Their anger fueled his own and banished his pain.

Ukebrelek began to struggle to his feet until he was lifted up and planted on wobbly legs by his fellows. He shook them off in anger, not at them and they understood that. One of them handed Ukebrelek his staff and looked him hard in his good eye. The Keeper took the crutch and leaned heavily on it. Next, he was handed his axe and he removed his hand from his ruined eye to grasp it; not a man balked at seeing the horrendous wound.

In a quick motion, Ukebrelek thrust his axe to the sky and screamed in his own language from a throat now raw, “The Fury be with you!”

Every Deth Uk near him responded, “And with you!” Those around him, twenty men or so, who had witnessed the desecration of one of their sacred Keepers flew into a mad dance of death. They suffered cuts and bruises but responded with killing strikes. They screamed while they fought and soon all of Arnamos sounded as though it was run amok with beasts and things worse than demons.

Rage asked Ukebrelek to return to the fray but his old, damaged body won out in this battle. He stayed in his place and watched as his brethren laid waste to the enemy. The Keeper in the guise of Phalax appeared and leapt into the battle. He speared one man through the chest, left the weapon embedded, ducked a crosscut for his head, then tackled another to the earth. He stood as a fellow Deth Uk stomped down on the man’s head. Then, the fake Phalax had a scavenged sword in his hand and the enemy must have seen Phalax using his amazing talent to change his arsenal of weapons. They turned to flee but were quickly run down and killed.

The battle was won, Ukebrelek realized as he turned to see other streets with similar scenes. A horn blared in the distance and Ukebrelek knew the enemy would be slinking away. He needn’t scream at his Deth Uk brothers to pursue the cowards, he was confident that they would. Most of them were covered in the blood of their enemies, their brothers, and from their own bodies, but they would want more to bathe themselves in.

Victory dispelled his bloodlust and pain replaced it. Ukebrelek began to stumble back to the middle of Arnamaos. The sun had long disappeared and night was falling on Baronfall. As if the darkness was a physical blanket, blackness settled in on Ukebrelek. He glimpsed a man running for him as he collapsed into the dirt.