Keith Edward English's Blog, page 4

Vesik vs. Tidus

Vesik (main character from Monolithic and villain from Thoughts of Steel) squares off against Tidus (main character in Our Sins). This is a short one and further explains Vesik’s want to be reunited with his family and friends at all costs. He’d even go so far as to crack open the walls of Heaven…

***

Vesik straightened up as though a lightning bolt had fallen down upon his head. The invading sense of another conscious mingling with his own was always a foreign, unwanted feeling. Fingers dripping with sludge slid through his being and gripped him firmly, words following shortly after. “Do you want to go home, Vesik?”

Speaking with a god required little more than breathing. One’s true intentions were nearly impossible to keep from them, especially when they encroached upon the mind and reaped its thoughts before they could become words. Vesik somehow knew Belok, the bastard god inside his head, was smiling as he continued, “Of course you do. I have a way back for you. Now. If you’d like.”

“Yes!” Vesik cried aloud, his voice echoing through his abyssal chamber despite him not having opened his fang filled maw.

“Step into the portal. On the other side lies a kingdom in the clouds. I want in, just to take a peek and see what god reigns over it.” Vesik recognized the lie as soon as it reverberated through his skull. Belok wouldn’t be satisfied with a mere glimpse. He’d use Vesik to crack the shell then wriggle his way inside and spread his pollution. “You may be resisted. Destroy the opposition, blast open the wall, then you can go home.”

Crimson slashes and points of winking light surrounded Vesik, his perpetual company in his otherwise dark and void realm. Smoke appeared before him and expanded quickly. The milky fog suddenly shifted and became light, the portal yawning open wide enough to fit his muscle bound form and even the wavering tentacles protruding from his back. The appendages, wrapped in skin the shade of dark violet like the rest of him, straightened in excitement, resembling shredded wings.

Suddenly, he was anything but alone. The solitude had suited him at first, and still did often when he grew tiresome of Zeraskyr, which happened swiftly. Now, however, a whole new realm sat before him. He felt a connection between himself and whatever was through the disk of sparking light before him. And his home resided somewhere beyond the portal.

Vesik stepped forward, his fingers stretching toward the portal. Before his claws could make contact with it, he felt Zeraskyr’s presence behind him. He froze in place, contemplating his next move. Should he leave the demon behind or take him along?

“Belok,” he projected, “will the threats that wait for me be difficult?”

“More so than anything you’ve dealt with.”

Vesik nodded and pulled his hand away from the portal. He spun toward Zerasky as the demon asked, “Master, are you going to Zepzier? Is the ritual complete?” Within the demon’s beady eyes of solid white with a single speck of black Vesik detected fear. Of course Zeraskyr would be terrified. If the ritual had been completed, Vesik would be far stronger and therefore harder to dispose of. It was inevitable that Zeraskyr would try to overthrow Vesik. That day would never come.

“Yes, Zeraskyr, I am. You, however, are not.”

The demon snarled in response and took one hard step forward. Vesik raised his hand and gripped the air as though it had grown hard as stone. Zeraskyr froze in place and grunted against the power crushing his chest and pinning his limbs together. Magic exuded from Vesik and flowed along his arm to cascade over the demon, the sensation of thousands of acid-dipped needles pricking Vesik’s skin a side effect of the use of magic.

The needles became swords and the acid became hellfire as Vesik reached deep inside Zeraskyr and turned him inside out in a way. All the energy and magic sitting inside the demon’s form and mind flew from his physical body and into Vesik. He staggered back as the force of the power leapt into him. He felt his heel slip into the portal and witnessed one last scene of Zeraskyr collapsing, a withered husk, as his world was consumed by blackness.

As soon as it came, the darkness disappeared and was replaced by shades of gold and vibrant purple. Vesik absorbed the vision for a brief moment before Zeraskyr’s essence was devoured by his. Had he physical eyes, he would have shut them tight as the power flooded through him, threatening to unzip him from his skin in a million different places and unmoor him from his sanity. Then, it all settled and his vision returned. A red glow emanated from his dark skin and with it came demonic things.

As jagged horns grew from Vesik’s temples, curving up then sweeping backward to end in sharp points, he was accosted by the urge to taste human flesh. Anything would suffice, for that matter, as long as it was full of innocence and screaming within his gnashing jaws. Searing pain erupted along the backs of his arms and all down his back as spikes of bone suddenly shot from his flesh. Barbed, irregular shards created a net of death along the back of him, adding another deadly element to the tentacles sprouting from his back.

Hatred filled him, and he knew by instincts that before now he hadn’t possessed that the reason for his discontent sat behind him. He whirled around to find a massive wall surrounding resplendent buildings and towers that spread back for hundreds of miles. Folds and creases in the golden puff of clouds all around and below the kingdom cast dark shades of shadow, resembling a blade as it was being cast by a smith.

A sliver of clarity cut through his malicious thoughts and he reached out to Belok, asking, “What am I now?”

“You absorbed the essence of a demon, Vesik. What do you think you are now?” Terrible laughter followed, echoing in his mind until it droned out to nothingness.

Anger surged through him once more. He took flight and the air rippled when he burst forward, gliding like a diving hawk toward the wall before him. He’d open up this kingdom to Belok’s prowling then remove the infernal power infecting him. Then, he’d be free to go home, back to Koe, Alitor, Fal, his parents, and Suemaira. The thought of her spurned him onward, for the path to reclaim his love was one of destruction and tearing down the walls before him would finally deliver him to her.

He crashed into the wall with his shoulder, bone spikes piercing the immaculate stone. The entire structure wavered at his force, but didn’t collapse. He roared and thrashed against it, pounding fists and conjured blasts of energy that would have rent a man in two into the stone. The sound of wings flapping from above stole his attention.

The first one, he slayed without even seeing it.

Tentacles curled against his body, much like a snail’s eye stalk did when accosted, then lashed out of their own accord. The shards along them dug into the flesh of a winged creature, arresting its descent and staying its flame-tipped spear only inches from Vesik’s skull. Imprisoned by several of the appendages, the winged human struggled to no avail. The tentacles squeezed even harder as Vesik looked upon the man, then pried him apart, ripping him completely it half. He tossed the remains aside but they winked away with a flash of light before they struck the bilious clouds.

Dozens more followed in waves that left Vesik only mere seconds to work at the dent growing in the wall. He’d remained unmolested by their flaming blades and spears until one man carved through the muscle between his neck and shoulder, slicing a tentacle in half at the same time.

Vesik screeched in pain and anger as he loosed a shroud of black mist from his hand that engulfed twenty of the angelic men and women coming for him. They writhed in the corrosive blast of death until they were raptured by the light. One of them, however, shed a brighter light then the others, and the luminescence failed to leave quickly. A sudden blast of air from within the black cloud blew it apart and there stood the man who had cut him, his blade sizzling where Vesik’s blood boiled in the fire sheathing it.

Sinew and muscle grew back together and Vesik stood whole once more before this new creature. With the wall at his back, he lifted his right leg then slammed his heel into the stone, shards dropping into the pile of dust at his feet. He smiled wickedly at the man and said, “You cut me. Does that make you better than the others?”

“God seems pleased with it,” replied the winged man. The brilliant white feathers of his massive wings perpetually danced as though stirred by a light breeze. Thick, gold and royal blue armor encased his form, showing nothing more than his eyes, cheeks and mouth within his open faced helm. Vesik felt a power growing in the winged man, and the origin of it disgusted the demonic side within.

“What god, boy? There are many, and each one is a demon in its own right.”

“Not my god, Vesik.”

“You know my name. What a useless talent.” As he spoke, the shadows cast by the wall and folds of cloud around him darkened and began to writhe like snakes. A cord of shadow leapt up into each hand and he whipped one then the other forward. The man interposed his blade, searing the first to nothing. The second, however, lashed across his armored forearm and corruption lingered where shadow met steel. Veins of blackness spread along the armor, weakening it enough to cause it to crumble. In moments, his arm was naked up to mid forearm.

“You play with dark forces. What a weak crutch.” Fire erupted from his sword in an arc that raised up then crashed down on Vesik’s head. He endured the crushing force and blistering heat, even when shards of bone cracked and fell from their perch. He conjured a shield of black energy that absorbed the fire with jealousy. The flames grew weak, drawing away the strength of the man before him. Then, it exploded and shot a beam of black fire back at the winged man.

The darkness collided with his chest and blasted him back several hundred feet. Vesik spun toward the wall and crafted a maul of evil and demonic energy, supplied to him by Belok and Zeraskyr’s essence. The head of the hammer slammed against the wall and several stones shifted back in their perch.

Dozens of other angelic creatures dove from the top of the wall. Vesik swung his maul toward them despite the distance that separated them. A crackling beam of purple lightning leapt from the head and slammed into one of them then immediately struck through eight others, reducing them to a flash of light instantly.

“Stay back from this demon, brothers and sisters!” called the angelic man as he sped toward Vesik, trailing black smoke from his chest. His armor, however, was unscathed.

Vesik prepared a sphere of darkness no bigger than an eyeball, the ball jerking within its prison between his fingers. He pulled his hand back to his hip, ready to send the destructive ball toward the oncoming threat. Suddenly, he was before Vesik, though, his fingers closing on Vesik’s throat. He spun and launched Vesik away, but the latter hurled the dark sphere as he tumbled through the air.

He arrested his flight now several hundred feet from the wall and smiled as the ball of darkness struck the wall and expanded a thousandfold, disintegrating stone. The angelic man was before him again. “I understand why you do this, Vesik. I once gave into my earthly desires, partaking of flesh I had no right to. The state marred my flesh for doing so, making me a monster amongst my people. My name is Tidus, and we are not different. Despite my hideousness, God took away my sins and made me into this. He can do the same for you.”

“My god is the creature who made me a monster, Tidus. And now he wants your kingdom. I’m here to let him in.”

“Abandon all hope, Vesik.”

Vesik roared in reply and darted forward, his maul whistling as it cut through the air. Tidus dipped below the crushing blow, dragging his blade along Vesik’s midsection. His skin, however, repelled the blade with its demonic aura as though it were stone then tentacles wrapped Tidus’ throat. One ripped his helm from his head, scoring his flesh, while the others constricted tightly around his frame.

Two lances of light shot from Tidus’ eyes as though they were ballistae firing their missiles. Each one crashed into Vesik and cracked his aura, spearing through his torso and causing him to convulse. The grip his tentacles maintained faltered and Tidus slipped free of them. He flipped through the air above Vesik and chopped down with his sword. Vesik interposed his arm and the blade bit deep into his forearm, digging a furrow in bone.

Every tentacle shot forth at once, wrapping Tidus’ arm so completely up to his shoulder that not even an inch of peach flesh or gleaming armor could be seen beneath. Tidus wrenched away as a wave of bright light cascaded from his free hand and crashed against Vesik, scorching his flesh. Vesik spun away from the holy light and came away with Tidus’ blade wrapped in the cocoon of his tentacles.

The sword he had possessed was immediately snuffed of its flame and Vesik launched it past Tidus as though his tentacles were a catapult. The blade flew straight as an arrow, spinning slightly as it sailed for the wall. It struck the stone with a calamitous crack and sheared through the wall. Tidus cried out in terror as the wall then crumbled, opening a fissure that provided a view of the wondrous city within. Vesik glimpsed walls, roads, statues, and fountains made of gold, all shining with immaculate brilliance.

Tidus then collided with him, his forehead slamming into Vesik’s jaw hard enough to shatter several of the short fangs within. The next two strikes dislodged a handful of teeth. On the third, Vesik opened his maw wide and bit down on Tidus’ skull, his lower jaw sinking into the man’s face and his upper grinding against the top of his skull.

Muscles strained in Vesik’s entire head as he strained to snap Tidus’ skull in two. Tidus screamed and thrashed, the fangs stuck in his head only sinking deeper. Two shafts of light suddenly burst from his palms, wracking Vesik’s body with pain enough to dislodge his fangs. The tentacles growing from his back acted of their own accord as they reached out and wrapped Tidus.

The light fled and Vesik saw a dark portal floating in the air only a stone’s throw from him. He leaned forward as his tentacles pulled Tidus in close and brought his elbow toward the angelic man. Tidus’ wings and arms curled in to shell him from the strike. Once his elbow slid from the shell, Tidus revealed himself and his fist connected with Vesik’s jaw. The two combatants thrashed against one another, landing strikes that would have pulverized any mortal.

A creature with wings at least four times the size of Tidus’ and twinkling with a brilliant white light shot up from the middle of the kingdom and Vesik felt its presence. Whereas the other angelic beings and the kingdom itself had inspired hatred and hunger in Vesik, this one brought terror and insanity. He needed to leave this instant or his existence would be snuffed out.

Tidus pounded his fist into Vesik’s chest and the latter reared back, tentacles slipping from Tidus’ body. Vesik pitched forward and vomited a stream of hellish energy. A column of red, smoking, ichor struck Tidus’ chest and immediately melted steel and flesh. Vesik spun once and the tentacles along his back formed a line that ripped across Tidus’ throat. The angelic man smiled as he was ravaged by the jagged bones along the appendages then consumed by the light of death. Or perhaps it was rebirth for these things in a way.

Vesik took off like an arrow from a bow for the portal, right through the space his adversary had only moments ago occupied. Belok’s presence filled his mind and the space around him as the god appeared in this heavenly land. He floated before the shattered wall, staring into the kingdom. Then, a black sphere of energy encased him as hundreds of men and women like Tidus descended on him. The hand of god speeding toward Vesik paid Belok no mind and it was only a few strides from the portal.

Its spear passed right through the portal and took Vesik in the chest as his fingers brushed the edge of the dark portal. The spear lanced through his heart. As he died the portal swallowed him, pulling him down into the belly of some horrendous beast. Within the darkness, Vesik was pulled apart. He felt his body dismantled until he was only a fragment of what he should have been. It was as though he was being divided into a multitude of pieces and each one placed into a separate unbreakable cell. Until he felt as small and insignificant as a worm, but free.

The darkness retched him out into a sun-clad land. Bronze and brown mixed to become a familiar sight. He stumbled across the hard, dusty ground, his arms flailing for balance. Not the dark arms of a monster or the reddish limbs of a demon-infused beast. But pale in color and frail, thin as a stick and brittle. And perfect.

First, he marveled at his body, the one he truly knew and remembered. Then, he looked forward to behold the Endless Sea, glittering in the sunlight and casting spastic flashes of light as though it were filled with diamonds. Finally, he cast his eyes to the right and his breath caught in his human lungs at the sight of Cavia. Within his city were his friends and his wife.

“I’m home,” he whispered in his unimpressive voice. Somehow Belok had kept his word.

Vesik took one step forward on a shaky, weak leg, and smiled, unsure of how he’d explain his absence to his loved ones. He’d be truthful, and the conversation would unfold as it should. Hopefully, they’d at least allow him an embrace before rebuking his actions. That would be plenty for him.

With tears streaming from his eyes, he went home.

 

Aerimon Vs. Micale

The first of many death matches to come. If you do not know what this is all about, then go here.

Here, Aerimon Clyde (protagonist/antagonist from my Dargonzine stories Sowing Seeds and Death Blooms) is pitted against Micale (one of the main characters from Thoughts of Steel). Both of them are masters of the martial arts, although in completely different styles. I guarantee that this is some of the most engaging and creative writing I’ve done in respect to a fight scene. Enjoy, friends.

Remember to leave me some comments on your thoughts. I also welcome your ideas. Who, of my characters, would you like to see fight to the death?

***

Blood sprayed from between the pale blue lips of the massive creature along with one shining, sharp tooth. Aerimon drew back his elbow as though it were a bolt of lightning, rolled to his left and brought his katana to bear. The Urepterian stood eight feet in height, a brutish thing with perpetually moist blue skin, spikes of bone stabbing outward from its body along its collar and joints, and an extended lower jaw that harbored large fangs within. It recovered from the elbow strike after having attempted to rush forward and grab Aerimon in a crushing embrace only to come face to edge with his blade.

Steel split flesh and bone greedily, opening wide and devouring this beast’s life. The match was won, in similar fashion as the three others before now. Aerimon indifferently pried his blade from the creature, allowing it to crumble to the floor, then wiped his blade on its scant clothing.

An applause rent the momentary silence as violently as Aerimon’s blade had slain the Urepterian. The black fog of battle that the gods above had conjured evaporated, revealing a circular set of stands barely visible in the wan light cast by the few specters of flame that floated in air. In those seats there sat three thrones and a god was upon each, staring down hungrily at the battles. Hundreds of others in gaudy clothing and shielded from identification by masks of all sort filled the rest of the coliseum.

“Aerimon takes another victory!” boomed a commanding voice. The sound of coins changing hands could be heard within the folds of cheers and laments, conjuring forth memories of time spent in the Shattered Spear, a seedy tavern nestled in Dargon.

He’d been there only a few hours before, in fact, having walked outside simply to relieve himself of a painfully obvious liquid nuisance. Stepping from the Shattered Spear’s door and onto the streets of Dargon, however, resulted in his trip to this other world where he was pitted against many brutal foes in a fight for his life. The rules had been simply and swiftly explained to them all; either one killed the other before the fight drug on overly long or they’d both be struck dead immediately.

Aerimon didn’t need to wait for the guard to prod him this time. A gate of iron bars slid up into the wall it belonged to, chains rattling as it did so and he strode toward it in a melancholy state.

Although he understood none of what was transpiring, Aerimon decided to believe that each creature he dispatched was born of evil. Therefore, it was an easy thing to look upon the blue beast’s ruined, red spattered face and feel not an inkling of remorse. He was reminded of the night he’d watched the shadow boy Gerald die and the ghost of sensation returned to his left hand where his missing pinky should have existed. He gripped his blade harder, grit his teeth, and moved through the raised gate to the holding area.

Once within, he became painfully aware of the fact that only one other being other than the armor-clad guards remained. The dank cell held little more than wooden benches, several sets of chains and manacles set into the far wall, and an open fire burning weakly near the middle of the room. The final figure sat with his back to the wall, chains hanging to either side of his head. He trailed Aerimon with his eyes, a mixture of respect and the promise of violence exuding from him.

Aerimon hadn’t paid attention to names. He didn’t care what these evil things were called. He did, however, note that this final contestant was human as well, unlike all the others, and covered in bronze armor: gauntlets covered him from fingertip to elbow with spikes and sharp blades stabbing out from joints and knuckles, greaves flowed from toe to knee and bronze caps covered those joints with a brutal spike of metal spearing outward from each, and a breast plate protected his torso. The firelight reflected off his smooth, bald dome and green eyes, accentuating his deep, angular features.

Only a short moment separated Aerimon from what may be his last battle, so he took a breath to steady himself as his master had taught him. He turned his back to his final opponent and sat upon and bench, letting his eyelids slowly fall.

First, he calmed himself from the rigors of his last fight and found a balanced center for his world. He came to a point where he merely felt the things around him with a physical sense and shut out all emotion. It was a better way to draw upon his knowledge. Then, he began to imagine the movements of his attacker and how he would evade them. Void of armor, he’d be left with just one means by which to keep from the clutches of death.

Lastly, he fell into a land of thoughts that was relatively new to him. It was a place of fetid ideas and corrupt actions, all of which were perpetrated by the man behind him.

“What do you seek out of life?” The man’s voice, deep and soothing, slowly brought Aerimon from his inner world. The words penetrated some time after, causing him to wrinkle his brow in confusion. It was such an odd question to ask of someone moments before they attempted to kill one another.

“What?” Aerimon asked, unsure of how to respond and feeling a sense of discomfort creep into room as the time stretched.

“For me,” the man continued, shifting, “it was always about being the best at my art.”

“Which was?”

“Besting absolutely every single person in battle.” Aerimon spun around at that, placed his katana on the bench next to him, and leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. The man continued, “I didn’t care how. It could be messy. I could barely survive. As long as I wasn’t the one who died. That’s what my master taught me. He was cruel, and oblivious to the pain he caused me, even as a child.”

“I take it you were forced into your art then. Mine I made part of my life by choice. There have been many who have tried to take away the things I hold dear, and each and every one of them died for it.” A bitter taste shocked his tongue as he imagined the things he had lost for the retaliation he had taken and felt entitled to.

“Again, what do you seek out of life?”

Aerimon was stalled by the intensity of the man’s gaze. Certainly there was a reason behind his asking. He had something he wanted to convey, but was waiting until he drew the answer he sought out of Aerimon.

“What is your name?” Aerimon asked as he narrowed his eyes, letting his mind chew on the abstract question he seemingly had no hope at avoiding.

“Micale.”

“You don’t have a sir name?”

“I don’t know it. My master took me from my village when I was young. He was the emissary of a god.” Micale shook his head and let his eyes drop to the floor for a moment, lost in a specific thought. Whatever it was, it seemed to be one born of anger.

Aerimon nodded once, scrutinizing Micale, befuddled once more by that he had said. A god? How could that be? The bronze-clad warrior brought his gaze back up and pierced Aerimon’s with the question once more. “Well, I’ve always wanted to teach my art. To affect as many people as I can with it. To spread my knowledge.” Even as he said it, he realized they were only half-truths. That is what he had wanted, but far from what he now wanted.

In one crystallizing moment, Aerimon realized his self-doubt plagued him often. It was as if he had been climbing a hill without purpose to crest its top and discover his cause and the reasons he had begun the journey in the first place all at once. Not just here and now, but ever since he’d hunted and murdered the gangsters who had tried to extort him and then slammed his heel into Garrity’s chest until the bones caging his organs were no more than shattered eggshells, he’d been unsure of his actions and motives.

Aerimon shook his head, forcing the damning thoughts from his head. Now, anger replaced his introspection, throwing up a wall that prevented his mind from reviewing his actions. “Now though,” he whispered, knowing that keeping the truth from this man he was about to murder was pointless, “snuffing out all the life of all the evil things is what drives me. I live for the moments where I get to kill those who I know deserve it. They drove me to this point, and I am glad they did.”

Micale was unfazed as he snapped, “None of that is truly what you want. They made you think it’s what you seek in life. But it isn’t. My purpose was forced upon me by a god and I discovered one terrible truth that obliterated all of it; gods are not real. Only children with unheard of powers. Now, you die knowing that you have fallen prey to the game this universe plays on its victims.”

With the threat, heat blossomed in Aerimon’s chest, calling him to rise up, stretch out his limbs as a plant reaches its leaves toward the sun, and fall into the dance of battle that would end in Micale’s death. It was plain that each man thought themselves the better of the two, and there were no empty meanings in anything Micale said. Despite that, however, Aerimon would claim victory today. His sword would slice through Micale and spill his life onto the hard dirt ground of the battlefield.

Chains rattled and a guard barked, “It’s time!”

Micale surged to his feet, slamming the backs of his arms against the brick wall behind him as he pushed off it. Aerimon turned before the man could pass him, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t strike him before they each began on a level playing field.

The two strode past the open gate and were accosted by a thunderous cacophony of those in the stands above. The dark fog had yet to hide their masked faces. They jostled one another, called out bets and jeered others to participate in them as well. A healthy amount of blood and gore covered the battleground, staining the dirt dark with violence.

Darkness coagulated above and Aerimon turned to look at Micale. His opponent, however, kept his eyes glaring upward as if he was attempting to murder one of the gods sitting in their thrones with the intensity of his stare alone. Aerimon followed Micale’s gaze to see bright eyes shining amidst features darkened but obviously raised in a satisfied smile. A voice whispered through the air, “I am your god, child.”

The god was lost behind the veil of fog and Aerimon was left in the ring alone with Micale. They locked eyes, Micale obviously overcome with anger as he breathed deeply through flared nostrils. Aerimon slid his feet apart, setting his right leg forward, and laid his katana, also in his right hand, on his lead shoulder. Micale stomped down with his left foot in front and set his weight deep through his heels, raising his open hands before his face.

At once, they began to move, Aerimon stepping forward with his lead leg toward his opponent and Micale bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. The latter suddenly burst forward, catching Aerimon off guard with his aggression. He backpedaled several steps and set his base, waiting to strike. Micale continued to hurtle forward. A lunge separated the two when Aerimon faked with his blade, jerking it from his shoulder and forward as though he were attempting a downward chop. It was a feint that concealed the stab that came next.

Micale was not fooled, however, as he spun off his line and swept his forearm across his body, batting the katana away. He continued his rotation and lifted his far leg, tucking it in tightly. Then, his leg lashed out as he twisted violently and the back of his heel cut through the air for Aerimon’s head. Aerimon raised his arm to hug his skull tightly and the strike landed on his bicep. Thunder resounded between his ears but he rolled with the force of the blow, committing to his own spin.

Aerimon lashed out with his own kick as he came back around and his aim had been true, his shin slamming into Micale’s thigh. They disengaged, circling and calculating, neither one injured.

Micale was again the first to move in. Aerimon pushed him back with short stabs and slashes, forcing Micale to slip this way and that to avoid the blade. He danced lightly on his feet, too busy dodging to commit to his own attack, and Aerimon increased the speed of his onslaught, wanting nothing more than to slice into Micale’s flesh, even if only shallowly. He wanted to see blood. Micale deserved to bleed. Somehow, for something he had done in his life, he deserved it.

Greed was a costly thing, Aerimon learned as Micale nearly ran into the wall surrounding the battlefield. The bronze-clad fighter slipped to his right and turned his hips, raised his leg, then thrust it out. Aerimon ran into Micale’s extending heel, blasting the air from his lungs and nearly forcing his stomach to leap from his throat.

Aerimon swallowed the pain as quickly as it came. He ducked beneath a hook aimed at his head which would have ended with his brains scattered across the ground. A knee strike, led by a four-inch spike of bronze, came next. Aerimon shot his arm down and burst forward. The side of Micale’s thigh slid along his forearm.

Without looking up, Aerimon continued his charge and raised his head up at the last moment. A satisfying crunch reverberated through Micale’s lower jaw and the top of Aerimon’s skull. Scorching pain seared his abdomen and he cried out in surprise as he jerked away. Blood began to well beneath Aerimon’s tattered robes and he realized that the blade along Micale’s forearm had sliced into him. He hadn’t seen the elbow strike as he drove his head into Micale’s jaw and he had ended up in worse condition out of the two for it.

Micale rubbed his jaw briefly then rolled his shoulders and neck, taking up his fighting stance once more. Aerimon banished his own pain, knowing that the gouge in his stomach was not one capable of causing an end to his life at the moment. He’d survive as long as he made it out of this soon.

Aerimon leapt forward with a downward cut and Micale sidestepped the strike then interposed his forearm when Aerimon slashed for his neck. Micale raised his other arm and pinched the blade tightly, the spikes from his knuckles acting like a cage that locked the katana in place. Then, he pulled violently. Aerimon rode the momentum as his enemy swept his leg out in a low kick that would have sheared into his calf.

The blade, and leg it was attached to, cut through air as Aerimon jumped. He pulled his legs in then thrust the nearest one at Micale. His heel met his enemy’s chest and sent him stumbling backward, losing his grip of the blade.

A respite did not come, however, as Micale dove back into the melee. They traded blows for a while, Aerimon slipping away from Micale’s strikes, any one of them with fatal capabilities, while the latter utilized his armored forearms to deflect the blade. They disengaged for a brief moment and Aerimon found himself rasping like a bellows. Several cuts lined his arms and a shallow hole had been punched into his thigh after a failed attempt at a head kick ended with Micale glancing him with a punch. The bronze fighter bore the mark of several gashes and even a rent in his armor which leaked blood just above his hip.

Micale seemed physically unperturbed, however, and Aerimon knew that the wound in his stomach was posing a much larger problem for him then he thought it would. “You’re slowing,” Micale taunted.

Although Aerimon wanted nothing more than to allow his anger to control his response, he willed the turbulent maelstrom of emotion within to dull until they were no more than calm waves lapping at the shore. They beat a steady rhythm, but he was the guide of his vessel upon them, and they would not control his decisions.

Instead, Aerimon relived the fight thus far and realized a hole in Micale’s tactics. Either he finished this now, or he’d die.

Aerimon darted forward, his blade carving an X through the air with speed great enough to elicit a whistle with each strike. Micale evaded the first two strikes but could then afford nothing else other than to begin using his forearms to deflect the blows after. He still burst side to side as he tried to get off the line Aerimon moved on, but the latter was prepared for the swift movements and followed.

The rhythm set, Aerimon took a chance and broke it himself. He completed a final swipe of his continuous motion then feinted low. Micale thrust his hips back and Aerimon twisted his blade and brought it up. It slashed the air before Micale’s stomach, the tip aimed for his jaw. Instead of carving through flesh, however, Aerimon’s blade clashed with bronze as Micale intercepted it with his hand.

Steel dug between the joints of bronze, shattered them, continued through muscle and bone, then sliced through the knuckled spikes on the other side. Seven things fell to the ground: four fingers and three spikes of bronze several inches in length. Micale, for his part, continued with the kick he had thrown despite the maiming of his hand and Aerimon faltered as the blade of bronze along Micale’s shin sliced deeply into his thigh.

Aerimon’s knee crashed into the ground and he looked up to see Micale’s balled fist, this one with all its fingers and bristling spikes attached, cocked back in anticipation of the death strike. He interposed his katana at an off angle and Micale’s fist came down. Again, steel and bronze warred, but the latter was victorious this time. Aerimon’s grip failed and his blade slipped from his grasp to clatter on the ground before him.

Micale shot his lead leg forward and the spike bristling from his knee sank into Aerimon’s chest. With the invading spike came a sense of cold dread as he feared it would lead to his death. The strike, however was far too quick, thus lacking in power, to cease the beating of his heart. Micale pulled his leg back to ready it for another strike and Aerimon saw death standing before him. It was a terrible, evil thing, and it deserved not at all to molest him. He wouldn’t fall victim to this malicious being. He would defy it with every iota of his body and soul while he still drew breath.

Despite his various crippling wounds, Aerimon burst forward and wrapped his arms around Micale’s legs, circling all the way to the back of his thighs. The spikes on his knees poked at Aerimon’s flesh prodding him to continue to drive forward and circle. Had Micale’s hand been whole, he may have stopped Aerimon. As it was, the bloody stump of his hand slipped across the back of Aerimon’s neck as he surged to his feet and spun, finishing behind Micale with his arms clasped together across his enemy’s chest.

Aerimon maintained his grip and leapt into the air then pumped his legs forward. Each heel smashed into Micale’s hamstrings and he crumbled. Immediately, Aerimon flipped his left leg across Micale’s stomach then clamped down on his own shin with the back of his right leg, locking in a body triangle with enough pressure to snap bones if not for the breastplate saving Micale. Either way, it made for a damn efficient way to stick to Micale’s back, keeping him safe from the spikes and blades along his body.

Aerimon looped his left arm around Micale’s neck and struck him twice in the side of the head with his right fist. Micale accepted the blows and gripped Aerimon’s arm with his good hand. The next motion happened far too quickly for Aerimon to understand until it had already ended with his arm in peril. Micale had pried Aerimon’s arm from his neck, slipped beneath it, passed it to the other side of his head, then put his ear against Aerimon’s elbow and turned to lean the entirety of his weight on it.

The pressure that exploded in his arm spoke of torn ligaments and muscle, but the bone had yet to give. Aerimon began to resist, grunting with exertion and pain, knowing that he needed to do something before his arm snapped. Bronze glittered near his shoulder and he found himself lying on his side next to the spikes he had cut from Micale’s fist. He accepted the inevitable and snatched a single, two-inch spike.

Cold shot through his body and his bones jumped at the sensation of his arm snapping in half. He cried out involuntarily but his yelp quickly transformed into a snarl as he brought his other hand around. Bronze pierced flesh as the spike he held stabbed into the side of Micale’s neck.

Without the use of his other arm, however, Micale was able to spin around and put Aerimon on his back. There was time only to absorb the haunted look that had come to Micale’s eyes as he realized that, despite who was deemed victor in this battle, he was already dead. Then, Micale’s fist came down.

Every spike lining his knuckles bit into Aerimon’s throat. He felt the sharp tips split his skin then dig deep and separate his trachea in three places. Blood immediately flowed into the back of his throat as he gagged on the bronze spikes grating against his spine. Hot lead pumped from the spikes and into his throat, damning it off from the air it needed to breathe in order for Aerimon to continue living. Fire conjured from a raging inferno in the deepest pit of hell exploded where the spikes punctured.

Aerimon’s vision flashed, white giving way to black then finally allowing him a skewed sight of his attacker still above him. Micale now seemed extremely far away although Aerimon looked down on his wrist and followed the impossibly long arm up to the man’s neck, blood spurting from the hole in it. His own arm appeared as if it belonged to someone else and Micale simply sat still as the spike clutched in Aerimon’s hand pierced his temple, cracking bone open like a clam shell then exposing the prize within to the merciless shard.

Light fled Micale’s eyes quickly and his face grew slack as he immediately became a corpse. Aerimon reacted on instinct then, his free hand gripping Micale’s wrist and dislodging the spikes from his throat. The sensation of the spikes sliding from his flesh caused a wave of disgust to overcome him. He rolled the dead man off his body then wriggled to his stomach, the black closing in. The damn broke as he vomited an obscene amount of blood on the ground a few inches from Micale’s head. His sight returned in full and so did his senses.

Complete consciousness opened the door to fear. Icy clutches gripped Aerimon’s heart and squeezed it tight. He floundered as he tried to push himself up, frenetic in his motions as if standing would somehow remove him from the terror swallowing him. However, he continued to slide down its gullet as he finally stood and stumbled, groping his ruined throat.

Darkness above dissipated and Aerimon stared up with wild eyes at hundreds of maddening faces. Masks and the gods mocked him and he felt insignificant beneath their gazes. Death swept him up and he knew he could evade it no longer.

Desperation caused him to cry out. “Help me!” he croaked, blood bubbling from the holes in his throat and between his teeth. Cold glares answered him and he lost the will to stand. He collapsed and his throat closed again. He lay on his side, obscene noises coming from him as he coughed his life onto the ground and convulsed. Ultimate darkness closed in, and his last sight was a vision of Micale’s placid face, the bronze spike propping his head up in a sickening position.

Aerimon expired as a maelstrom might, in complete disarray, suddenly, and without accepting his end. His fleeting moment was accompanied only by the soul shattering influence of terror, and the urge to do nothing more than simply stay alive for one more moment. Despite his brief victory over his opponent, he failed to conquer his final battle.

***

All of the above material is not, nor will it ever, be considered canon for my writing. The story takes place in a time between Sowing Seeds and Death Blooms for Aerimon and after Game of Gods for Micale.

Phalax and Gang go to the Gym

Head here to figure out what the deal is with this short story. Be sure to leave me a few comments on what you think.

***

The clanging of weights coupled with laborious grunts and exhales greeted Phalax a breath before the receptionist could. He responded to her tired welcoming line with an indifferent nod, as his eyes scanned the facility. Arlukent, Chaetor, Daria, and Micale filed in through the swinging glass door immediately behind him, each with a different mind about their being in this place. Phalax cared little for what they wanted to gain from their trip here; he only wanted an escape from his reality. Even with these people surrounding him constantly for the months he’d spent on this planet called Earth, he constantly felt desperately alone.

“Card?” asked the receptionist in a tone bordering on irritation. Phalax snapped from his reverie and looked to her to find an eyebrow arched high reminding him of the tip of the Arrows back home.

He made to snap back at her but Arlukent beat him to it, skipping forward and singing, “Here, my dear.” Chaetor had obviously infected the old wizard with another mood today. That old man could be anyone’s best friend. “And how are you this fine day?” he asked.

“Not a chance,” Chaetor whispered far too loud to actually achieve the point of doing so.

Daria rolled her eyes up to look at the ceiling as if asking the gods why she must be subject to such jackasses. No one is there to hear you, Phalax thought to himself. They never were and never will be.

The receptionist snatched the card from Arlukent’s hand, her bubblegum popping in her mouth as she did so, slid it across a solid red light beaming from the face of a scanner, then let her wrist flop over in his direction so he could pluck it from her. He took the laminated piece of plastic and slid it into the pocket of his sweats, his unkempt beard doing nothing to hide his smile. It was clear as day that he only had attempted to flirt with her so he could rile up Chaetor. Anything could get him going. Tits on a goose could fascinate him until the day he died of old age.

Micale, ever the silent one in the group conversations, tapped Daria on the shoulder and asked, “Ladders for agility, a few miles on the treadmill, and some circuit training today?”

“You know it,” she responded as they headed off to get started with their workout. Those two truly sought to achieve something physical here. Phalax was only here to exercise his mind in a way that kept him too busy to ponder other things.

Chaetor, visibly offended that the two had gone off without extending an invitation his way grumbled, “I’ve been barking up that tree for months and where does it get me? Absolutely nowhere. Gods! This guy and his strong and silent horse shit … Maybe I should try that?”

“Don’t make me hit you again, Chaetor,” Micale taunted lightheartedly as he strolled away with Daria at his side.

“Oh, let me do it this time,” she chimed in.

“To the hells with you two,” Chaetor mumbled as he swiped at the air weakly.

Arlukent slapped Phalax and Chaetor on the back and said, “Well, I’m off to the hot tub and sauna. Enjoy your workout, kids.”

“A pile of dust is a kid to you, old man,” Chaetor teased.

Arlukent shrugged, a smile on his face and sauntered away.

“That old bag of bones never does a damn thing when he comes here. Just sits in that tub and turns the water foul.”

“Oh, and you do anything more?” Phalax asked. “You come here and do nothing more than show off at hand ball and try to catch the eye of a woman.”

“Hey! That hurts … I don’t try. I do catch their eyes. Plenty of them too. Hey, before you go all angry-weight-lifting-guy-who-hates-everything, how about we play a few rounds on the court?”

Phalax lifted a hand to reject the offer and took a single step forward. Chaetor stalled him though, reaching out and catching his shoulder with a hand while begging, “Come on! I promise to let you serve. And I’ll go easy, since you desperately need me to.”

A competitive nature swelled in Phalax and it wasn’t something that he had to conjure by force of will. He had always been one given to competition. It fueled him, kept things interesting, and he won many of those he engaged in, so that was a bonus reason to find joy in it. For a moment, as he looked at Chaetor, wondering whether he should call forth a sliver of steel and mold it into a sharp blade with which to lop the groping hand off from the idiot who owned it, he was reminded of Ven.

They’d often times taken their jobs as sentries as a game, despite understanding the importance and gravity such a title held. They’d competed over most things. From who could arrest the most offenders of the law in one day to who could spit the most heinous of tales and coerce a recruit into believing it. He recalled, with a bittersweet smile, a time when one recruit followed around a group of children for hours under the pretense that each one were merely a dwarf shaven of face but malicious of intent as they sought real children to abduct and sell to a slaver. The new sentry had in fact arrested two of them before all the others, scared out of their minds, turned and bolted for home. He then took them into a watch station, advising the “kids” to drop their act, quit their sobbing and squeaking, and face the justice of the law like men.

Phalax and Ven had both been there to stop the incident before it went any further. They would have answered for their games gone awry by going to their own captains and confessing had the kids not turned cheery so soon after being allowed to arrest the recruit then playfully, but with no small amount of effort, smack his thighs with a truncheon. Also, the recruit had spent all that time on a false case while he was supposed to be off duty, so Phalax hadn’t really taken anything away from Cavia’s defending force. In fact, he had ended up with a week’s worth of Ven’s pay for the antics and a grand laugh shared between the too, albeit in private over a few tankards of ale.

“Fine,” Phalax relented as he snapped back to the here and now.

“Hah! Let’s get to it then!” Chaetor punctuated his glee with a cartwheel and a skip toward the square rooms with one thick, clear plastic wall located near the back of the gym.

In a minute, they were on the court. Chaetor reached into his sweats and pulled out a red ball the size of a child’s fist then tossed it to Phalax. Then, the young, cocky, idiot slid his pants off and stood in obscenely short and tight shorts that showed off far too much. He began to stretch, smiling at Phalax’s quizzical stare. “Why hide these ladykillers?” he asked as he smacked his thigh.

Phalax shook his head vehemently, then bounced the ball once and slapped the hell out of it. The sphere took off from his palm, slammed into the wall, then ricocheted back with a low bounce. Hell, he might score his first point that easily. He smiled in victory as Chaetor burst forward and thrust his hand out, coming to a jarring halt as the ball slid right beneath his fingertips.

Giggling female voices flew through the small cracks around the plastic door and Chaetor spun around to see his worst fears realized. Several women in tight-fitting clothes sat on the other side snickering. They’d obviously been drawn to him when he removed his pants and had immediately seen him made to look a fool. Certainly not his aim with his ridiculous attire.

Chaetor glared at the now chuckling Phalax, who at the moment thought of nothing more than this game and the feeling of delight swelling in his chest. It had been some time since he’d felt this way. “The gloves are off, friend,” Chaetor vowed, the only serious thing he had said in weeks.

“I didn’t know they were ever on.” Phalax bounced the ball again and repeated his serve, but his adversary was ready this time and retaliated.

Ten minutes passed and an interested congregation had swelled to six people outside the court. Sweat dripped from Phalax, although his anger seeped from him with far more intensity. Presently, Chaetor was winning by twelve points, and the young buffoon had accumulated thirteen. A roar of shear power threatened to rip from Phalax’s throat and blast the walls down around him.

Chaetor noticed as much and offered, “Perhaps we should stop now? There are a few other gents waiting and, now that I’m warm, I’m thinking of taking them all on at once.”

“Serve the damn ball!” Phalax growled.

“Straight. Your funeral though.”

This time, as the ball came streaking to Phalax’s right, he willed a stalk of steel to take on the shape of a paddle and struck the ball. It flew true and, since the metal he commanded from the disk in his chest was weightless, with great speed. Chaetor was too stricken by the fact that Phalax had just revealed his power to the public to attempt a retaliatory swipe of his hand. That brought Phalax to two points; thirteen more to go.

“Shut up,” Phalax commanded before Chaetor could utter his nonsense, “and play!”

Chaetor shrugged and Phalax felt a cold fill his stomach as he knew he was defying the rules of being here. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was this game, and he would win.

Another ten minutes left Chaetor pouring with sweat and heaving breath as though he might expel a lung onto the polished hardwood. They were currently tied with one more point to go. Damn near every patron in the gym stood outside the court now, gawking at Phalax who had gone far enough to cover himself, head to toe, in gleaming armor. He couldn’t help but imagine demons during the match, their snarling countenance and rabidly gnashing jaws clear as day in his mind, and such thoughts conjured the will to encase himself in protection regardless of his present location. Daria and Micale had strode by once, shook their head in disapproval, then continued with their workout, the majority of the facility theirs alone.

The final serve commenced and the two volleyed for a painstakingly long and stressful bout. Phalax smashed the ball into the middle of the wall and the spin on it caused from the steel paddle he commanded sent the ball careening into the air in a long and hard arc. Chaetor was quick to react, springing at a side wall then vaulting off it to catch the ball before it could hit the back wall. His strike sent the ball into a low bounce at Phalax’s feet but left him far back on the court. Phalax dipped low and his paddle barely reached the ball, although lightly. He regained enough control in that moment to make the winning strike.

The ball tapped the wall then bounced a few feet from it once, then twice. Phalax raised his hand in triumph and shouted in joy. Chaetor swore loudly and kicked the ground with his heel.

“Good game,” Phalax cheered. Then, more serious of tone, he said, “Thank you,” and extended his arm. “I needed that.”

Chaetor looked at Phalax with eyes like that of a child who’d lost a bet to a friend and, for the moment, harbored an intense dislike of him. The disdain melted away quickly and the two grasped hands firmly. “Good thing the gods gave you that shiny disk there,” he said as he tapped on it. “Bad thing your dumbass decided to use it here. You’ll be all over those things these people always have their faces stuck to.”

“I’ll go grab Arlukent. Maybe he can do something about that.”

“You do that. I’m going to whoop some of these kids before he turns back time or whatever trick that old bat wants to pull.”

With that, Phalax turned and exited the court to push through the rabble of dumbfounded people. Chaetor began taunting those in the audience while simultaneously trying to melt the women in the crowd into mewling kittens eager for his affection.

Phalax pushed a door open and found Arlukent along with a few other elderly men wading in the large pool. Only, the entire pool itself burst with steam. “Arlukent, what did you do to the water?”

The wizard ceased floating on his back, opened his eyes and flowed to a standing position with the water covering him up to his shoulders. Saggy skin and twirling hair took on a distorted look below the water and Phalax was briefly drawn to the man’s wrinkled body. He must be at least a hundred and fifty years of age.

“The whole thing is one big hot tub now. It’s wonderful, swimming through such warm water covering ones entire body. Does wonders for these achy joints. Who won the handball match?”

“That’s actually what I’m here to talk about.” Phalax held his arms out wide to show off his armored body.

“Yeah, I figured as much. It’s already been taken care of. See?”

Phalax followed the pointed finger of the elderly man to find that another in the pool slowly spun in a lazy circle in the water as if in a daze, his focus on anything obviously nonexistent.

“I cast an enchantment over this whole place, excluding you four,” Arlukent offered before Phalax could even ask. “The others are all going about their business, but more zombie-like than normal. All lethargic and unfocused, they won’t remember a thing, nor did they bother to pull their phones out and record the match. While we have the time, you should take a dip in here. It really does feel quite therapeutic.”

Before Phalax could utter a reply, Chaetor stormed in and called, “Arlukent! What in all of the hells is the matter with these people? They don’t say a word. They don’t respond to anything. I even smacked one and nothing!”

“Where’d you smack her?” Arlukent teased.

Chaetor immediately smiled broadly and winked.

“I felt Phalax call on his powers as he did it and handled it. Now, go get the others, I feel like showing you kids how an ‘old bat’ kicks your collective rear ends at racing across a pool.”

“No spells though, right? This is going to be an honest competition, unlike it was between Phalax and I?” Chaetor said with a scowl he didn’t truly feel.

“Of course I’m going to use spells. Do we ever compete fairly?”

Chaetor shook his head, smiling, before he turned to call Daria and Micale over for the race. Phalax pulled off his shirt and, feeling for the first time in months as if nothing was wrong, cannon-balled into the pool.

The Pantheon of Baronfall

***

While creating my little fictional world, I was allowed to conjure up many things and if you are to read Thoughts of Steel (or Fragments of the Coil which has several distinct and interesting worlds), then you’ll discover my brain children. One such thing that I put some effort toward was the set of gods that play an active role throughout Baronfall.

Here is a list of the gods/goddesses that come into play:

Malkor: God of justice and protection, he is worshiped by the vast majority of people in Baronfall. His sigil is a winged shield and a statue set in the King’s Temple portrays him as a knight clad in immaculate armor with nothing but a massive shield held in two hands set to ward off foes. At the onset of TOS, Phalax worships Malkor. Daria, who enters later in the book, is given the divine power to heal those even on the brink of death with the power given to her by the god of justice.

Espor: God of knowledge. He is known to most but only worshiped by few. Arlukent Seerden is blessed with the gift of foresight and the knowledge of many deadly, creative spells. He is given a task from Espor to assemble a force of others blessed by the gods to end the destruction the demons are sowing.

Hakmrid: God of fury. He is worshiped exclusively by the Deth Uk, a race of barbarians who dwell in the mountains, keeping to their archaic ways and excluding themselves from others. Despite Phalax’s lack of faith in this god, he is filled with power from Hakmrid, allowing him to shape steel that spills from a disk in his chest and to blast flesh and bone from his foes with a shout of pure emotion when in dire straits. The devotion the Deth Uk have toward their god and the blind need to follow the commands of their Keepers (those said to possess power to converse with Hakmrid) coupled with the larger size of the barbarians is a deadly combination that leads to a massive war in book 2 of the series. This religion is the only one mentioned in TOS that acknowledges the existence of demons and their appearance on Zepzier.

Arrick: God of coordination and accuracy. Arrick is widely unknown and definitely unacknowledged by even those who know of him. His message goes beyond just the physical ability coordination allows to an individual, focusing on balance in life and important matters as well. Chaetor is blessed by this god, allowing him the uncanny ability to fire bows and cast daggers with miraculous strength and precision.

Hellenia: Goddess of war. She is the decider of all battles and ultimate fate for all soldiers. While she is known across all of Baronfall, she is hardly worshiped and plays no role in allowing power to any individuals. Her presence as a goddess merely serves as a reminder to those who dive into a melee that fighting harder than the enemy will please her and perhaps result in their survival and the destruction of the enemy.

Belok: God of domination and suffering. Belok embodies evil and is often attributed as the sower of all misfortune and pain, although he is not the only malicious god recognized on Zepzier. He is not worshiped publicly, but still revered by most as fear of his wrath sits in the back of all people’s mind. He is mentioned by mortals only rarely as his very name is a bad omen. He converses with Vesik in Monolithic and is responsible for Vesik’s power and his monstrous transformation. Zeraskyr steals that power and eventually comes to worship Belok, although begrudgingly and only for his personal gain.

To read a bit more about these cool dudes and dudettes, read TOS. Follow along until book 2 if you’d like to meet a few of them in person and even watch as one or two are murdered by our own hero’s hand! And then, in book 3… Oh, I think I’m going to hang on to that surprise for a while…

The History of Baronfall with a Twist Ending

***

The scene begins as our hero takes a trip to the King’s Temple and ends with the first sighting of a demon, resulting in the absolute end of Phalax’s world.

***

The glorious shine from the stronghold dimly illuminated the yard but still provided more than enough light for Phalax to make out the hundreds of giant, wooden spikes set into the ground in small clusters, tips protruding toward the wall Phalax had just walked through. These spikes were set in place to slow a siege, allowing archers and other artillery to rain missiles down on the attacking force from the safety of castle balconies. Security had been an extremely important obsession for the Altair family. Phalax walked a zigzagging path toward the east side of the castle that was barely wide enough to accommodate two wagons pulled side by side. As he walked, he thought of the castle’s history, and the events that had led to the founding of Baronfall and Cavia.

Generations ago, settlers north of the Arrow Tip Mountains had braved the stony maze to find Baronfall. The country was empty other than the Deth Uk barbarians who existed in the Arrows. Along their journey to the mountains, they had passed through several other cities north of the Arrows and collected more travelers, each group somehow different than all the others in the party. Eventually, thousands of settlers were working as a single unit, surviving the harsh mountains until at last they looked out over an empty land, rife with possibility, a massive sea sitting at its southern end.

Those were the people who had tamed these lands, Phalanx recalled, during which time wars for dominance broke out. Cavia was the first city to rise from the ground, too small to contain the settlers for long. Among those who survived the wars were those chosen to rule. The wars were short, quick battles that ended without much bloodshed. The Altair family was among the war leaders and so took Cavia’s throne. The others spread out to form Arnamos, Durthlem, and Nemere. The latter became a place where many of those who wanted to lead went, operating as a patchwork of small dominions ruled in unison.

After many prosperous years, Cavia continued to grow, the castle was built, and the Altair family ensured that their seat of power would remain theirs, constructing a network of defenses and guards. The spikes were one such defense, along with the Watch, the military, and the King’s Guard. Ever since the wars to settle the rights of dominion, peace had ruled over Baronfall, the cities working together, continuing in the spirit of shared adventure. Cavia and the other cities eventually developed a culture of mixed ethnicities, foods, songs, religions, ideas. Despite the differences in the populace, equality reigned. In fact, there were no slaves, only those who decided to work for others as their servants, earning honest pay for honest work.

Phalax weaved through the field of giant spears, aimed at a building sitting to the east of the castle. A temple dedicated to his righteous god, Malkor. The temple’s main entrance faced the castle and a short stone path connected the two. A courtyard sprawled across the area between the castle and temple, full of stone benches, intricate statues of the king and his predecessors, greenery, and beautiful flowers surrounding a fountain. Four warriors of the King’s Guard, clad in brilliant, white, full-plate armor, and equipped with the finest weapons in the city, stood before the large doors serving as the back entrance to the castle.

Phalax didn’t bother using the stone walkway but rather headed straight for the temple entrance at an angle. The building was two stories tall, almost two-hundred feet long from the front entrance to its back wall, and just over a hundred feet in width. A winged shield sigil jutted out of the wooden doors, half of the sigil affixed to each door to account for the whole. That particular temple was unlike the others dedicated to Malkor. It boasted the support of the king’s own wealth, setting it apart from any other temple in the city.

Phalax pushed the doors open and was surprised when he didn’t come face to face with a priest or two. He shut the door and walked to the small table on his right where a small bowl held a few pieces of silver. He pulled a small coin purse from his belt and deposited two silver coins into the bowl. He expected a priest to hear the sound and come strolling over to him, but the sanctuary remained quiet.

Phalax shrugged and made his way down a central aisle and toward the statue of his god at the back of the room. The light from the castle didn’t reach the interior of the structure and the temple was instead dimly lit by candles and two separate, blazing hearths, one to either side of the statues of the god. The statue portrayed a classic image of Malkor, a giant knight, clad in armor from head to toe, feathered wings sprouting from his back, and holding a giant shield with two hands, warding off an invisible foe.

Phalax assumed that the priest was most likely sleeping in his quarters in the upper story somewhere, and decided not to bother the man. Instead, he stopped and knelt down before the ornately sculpted statue and prayed. When he reopened his eyes he brought his gaze from the floor to his god’s face and a cold shock of surprise paralyzed him.

Two thin lines of crimson had taken the place of its eyes and a malevolent grin of the same color and thinness spanned half of Malkor’s helmeted head. Phalax sprang to his feet and searched the temple as he pulled his short-sword from his belt. Something behind the statue covered in gray cloth caught his attention.

Phalax turned a tight circle and then backed up toward the left wall. His back hit the wall and from that angle he could just see a dead man’s head lying in a pool of his own blood. The body explained the absence of the priest, but not who had killed him, or if the killer was still in the temple. Phalax’s eyes darted between the rows of pews but in the dim light he couldn’t make out much, and therefore couldn’t rule out the possibility that the killer could be lying in wait anywhere within the sanctuary.

As he began to move along the wall and back toward the exit, he stopped cold when he noticed a small splatter of blood on the floor. It was followed by another leading in between the pews. He then knew that the killer wasn’t smart enough to wipe his blade after the kill. He felt a surge of heat and his blood pumped faster as he savored the idea that he would track down the killer and avenge the fallen servant of Malkor. He began to move toward the exit again, but this time with a quicker pace. His eyes inspected every inch of every pew as he moved past them and he was crestfallen when the trail of blood abruptly stopped.

Nothing caught his attention as he made his way to the exit, and he began to relax, believing that the killer had gone. He passed the small bowl of silver and then turned to look back at the statue of his god just before he exited the building. He let out a small gasp of fear as his eyes drank in the vision of a small creature perched atop the shield his god was holding. It looked like a hairless, red monkey, but with long, pointed ears sprouting from its bulbous head. The creature was holding the dead priest’s fingers and using them as paint brushes to further decorate the visage of Malkor.

The finger the abomination was holding must have run dry for it threw the severed digit down in disgust and screeched at it. Phalax took a step backward and was paralyzed as the thing’s yellow eyes lifted from the floor to pierce him with its gaze. He felt like a child and wanted nothing more than to be back in the house he grew up in with his parents. A scream leveled him to his knees and the vile thing smiled. Phalax realized the noise was in his mind because the screaming visage of his mother flashed before his eyes. He reached forward and as his fingers fell through the illusion of his mother, it split apart and was whisked away.

His head fell to the ground and he couldn’t breathe. He heard the creature screech and laugh, and knew that it had moved within feet of him. He also heard a guard yell out. They were far away and he was immobilized, suffocating. The distance between himself and the guards ensured that they would be unable to save him if the creature had the mind to kill him.

He had to break the hex if he was going to survive. He heard the creature purr and wanted nothing more than to snap its jaw from its head. His muscles twitched slightly and he grabbed ahold of himself. He blamed the abomination for the death of his parents and his world went black—from anger or lack of air, he didn’t know, but he felt like hot liquid poured from and into every orifice in his body.

His vision flooded with red and he lurched forward, frantically pawing the air to get a hold of the devilish creature. He grabbed a fistful of hair and swung his right hand. His fist smashed into the jaw of the creature and he felt it ripped away from his grasp. He fell on all fours and sprang forward, but landed on empty ground and began groping the air to find the creature.

Suddenly, he felt a tremendous force slam into the side of his head. He collapsed, his vision blurry, and he could vaguely decipher multiple figures moving before him.

A hand grabbed his chin and his upturned gaze met with a blurred visage of a creature that looked somewhat human. Phalax began to raise his fist when another blow hit him and he fell into complete unconsciousness.

Fragments of the Coil going like hotcakes!

Went ahead and made FOTC free for five days while simultaneously running an ad for it across Amazon and I’ve had over 200 eBooks downloaded in just four days. It also seems like at least some of these downloaders are finding Thoughts of Steel and actually buying it as well. So that’s over 200 new readers to my world and that is beyond worth any amount of money sent to my bank from sales. I am happy with this.

Oh, and it also broke the top 50 for the Dark Fantasy genre, applicable thanks to a few of the more sinister stories in the book.

Zepzier and Baronfall, the Scene for TOS

***

I began reading D&D novels close to age 13; they drew me into their world, the majority of them meant for adult readers, and I was hooked instantly. When it became my turn to dream up my own world, I may have taken a few pages from Aber Toril as inspiration, but I really did set out to create something unique and different.

Unlike the realms of D&D, magic is an unlikely companion for nearly every soul on Zepzier. There are those that possess ability strong enough to shatter a blade into a hundred pieces of terribly sharp steel as it descends upon them then send the slivers directly into the throat of the wielder. But those number two in the entire world, one of which no longer makes his residence on Zepzier anyway. However, there is an outbreak of something magical, green waves of power spilling from a rend in the earth near the west edge of the Arrow Tip Mountains. Zeraskyr, a demon bent on destruction uses this conflux of power to raise his own small army.

What, then, is the great appeal for readers when it comes to Baronfall, the country TOS takes place in, and Zepzier. Well, despite magic not abounding rampantly, it sits cradled in the hands of those few who seek to use it creatively, making for quite an interesting usage of it. The people who exist in the cities within Baronfall (Durthlem, Arnamos, Nemere, Cavia, and the Deth Uk tribes who dwell in the Arrows) steal the show, as they should. For me, stories have always been about characters and how they react to extraneous situations. All of them have a rich history, just as Baronfall does.

Phalax is a man who eventually discovers the ability to will steel harder and sharper than any metal from a disk in his chest then fashion it into weapons and armor and channel his emotion into a blast of concussive force that rends skin and shatters bone. But, before all that, and more importantly, he was a child who became an orphan and was raised by his city to become its most famed protector. He falls in love with a woman, Felicia, and they have a son together, Holris. He stands firmly upon the faith in his god, his city, and, most importantly, his family. The events that befall him in TOS change every fiber of his being, but it remains his words, his emotions, and his actions that drive the story.

Many others serve as companions to Phalax, with special abilities and histories to set them apart. Ultimately, though, Thoughts of Steel and the entire Ruination Gods series is a story about something dear to us all. While it may not be apparent until book 2 or 3, once you do find the meaning, you will see all the terrible events, the bellowed curses, and the spilt blood in a new light.

The only way for me to impart on you my meaning, is for you to read TOS and then follow Phalax’s journey through Zepzier, other worlds spinning across the cosmos, and through his haunted past as it comes to destroy him in the present.

TOS is Live for Order!

Thoughts of Steel is available for order as a print version and pre-order as an eBook edition at the fine retailers below. Still pondering if you should snag a copy? Unsure of if you’ll really enjoy it? Are you thinking, “What the hell is ‘Thoughts of Steel’ and who is this Keith Edward English guy?” I promise you I only feel minimally hurt by such things. So, to convince you to like me, and my writing, take a look at these excerpts from TOS:

Prologue

A Glimpse of Hell

Phalax Breaks out of Jail

Ready to buy now? Great!

Amazon

Goodreads

Google Books

iBooks

Kobo

ENJOY! :D

The Evil Within (What I Write About and Why)

I’ve been told I have evil thoughts. Fair enough.

While not exactly true, I completely understand the sentiment. It makes sense given the characters I’ve created and dreamt up, the things I force them to do, and how seemingly all of them have one or more damning quality about them. But, isn’t that how real life works? Is anyone completely free of evil?

No.

We all have darkness within us, and some of us allow it to come out in little spurts while others blast the masses with it. Me, I know there are things about who I am that are not perfect and I may be too prone to allowing violence to take over, but I also am secure in the fact that whatever darkness lives in me is only normal, and at best a very, very small, nearly insignificant factor in my character.

Why then, does Jack (Fragments of the Coil: “The Fragile King: Song of Death”) murder countless innocent people just to save his own wife, a truly selfish and evil thing to do? Why does Aerimon (Dargonzine: Sowing Seeds & Death Blooms), a well-mannered and originally law-abiding citizen give in so quickly to vileness, torturing his enemies until they beg for death, committing atrocities that his most evil of foes couldn’t stomach? Why do Chaetor and Arlukent (Thoughts of Steel) Slaughter a half-dozen guards protecting Cavia’s castle after a demon invasion nearly obliterates the entire city just to break Phalax free of the king’s arrogant and ignorant grip? Why do Fal, Alitor, and Koe become defenders of Cavia only so that they can use their position for personal gain, resulting in the death of several evil people in a very evil way?

Why in all of unholy hell do I write these terrible things, praying that they never come true in a modern fashion?

Because I do not believe men and women are created evil but I do know that it is easy for them to give into that evil. I also see a distinction between evil and justice, but believe justice can be furious and destructive, just like its counterpart. So, I like to illustrate how evil can affect a person, how it can turn them into a soldier in its army as they try to achieve justice in their own way. I explore the things that flaw a person, ruin them, then turn them into a monster.

I also am absolutely enamored with the destruction of evil, hence the inspiration for Aerimon’s character. I do believe that a wrong should be corrected and oftentimes our justice system is the right man for the job. But sometimes, a more immediate response is warranted, for example, when Kalen finds an assassin hiding within an alley watching his house in wait for him and his wife and he splits the thug’s chin with his sword. If possible, I’d obliterate all evil from the world, purifying those who were salvageable and ridding Earth of those who are not.

I, however, would not try to do so, as achieving that would turn me into a vigilante and I don’t have the ability to discern who is deserving of what fate. I also wouldn’t attempt to retaliate against the meager evil transgressions with a response greater than what the crime deserves. My characters, however, oftentimes forget that or don’t have that distinction, their biggest flaws.

So, I write about evil – the destruction of it and the breeding of it in those good-natured souls – because it fascinates me, and makes for some damn good stories if I do say so myself.

Pre-orders for Thoughts of Steel

From now until 2/10, you can reserve your Kindle copy on Amazon here. They won’t ever run out, mind you, so you don’t need to rush over there and snag it now… However, I may force Arlukent Seerden, the cheerful, all-knowing, badass old wizard from TOS, to riddle your body with a spell that will cause you to grow feet from your ears unless you purchase it NOW!

If you’re wary of purchasing because you think it might be absolute shit, then worry not! It is indeed a good book worthy of your dough. Don’t believe me? Find out for yourself by reading these:

Prologue

A Glimpse of Hell

Phalax Breaks out of Jail

Remember as well, the origin story for Vesik, one of the antagonists in TOS is also available on my website for FREE!