Tales of Famgor

[TheBlob]

Creation

IN THE BEGINNING there were the five.

The Council of Five, as they were called. They lived in a twisting nether of Mana and Chaos, where no life but their own could survive. The five were of Flesh, Blood, Deep, High, and Old; Char, Jira, Nen, Avari, and Xannon. The Council of Five decided to create their own world, with life that was created in their own image. But first they escaped the Twisting Nether, having to use much of their power in order to create a new universe, in which their life would live. They then left the twisting nether and entered their new universe.

Char of Flesh created the flesh of their new world, the rock. Jira1 of Blood created the Blood of their new world, the Plants. Nen2 of Deep created the Deep of the world, the oceans. Avari3 of High created the High of the world, the sky. Xannon4 of Old was left with nothing to create, so he told the others that he wished to create a new kind of thing, life.

The Council of Five elected to create this life, but also decided that this life could not be a forever type of thing, so Xannon of Old created something of his own name, death. This death would come with Age, so that none would live forever, especially the evil. Each of the Council of Five created one race that would fill the new world.

Char of Flesh created the Dwarves, a strong and stout race which were capable of creating technology without mistake, and loved to be within the mountains that Char of Flesh made himself. Jira of Blood made the Orcs, a race of green-skinned creatures based much off of the dwarves, and Orcs were filled with the blood rage, and were vicious warriors. Nen of Deep created the Yaar, a race of fish-like people that swam in the oceans that Nen of Deep had made with love; and worshipped the animalistic Deep Ones. Avari of High created the Dragons, a race that flew through his precious skies and sent fire raining upon all that opposed them. And Xannon of Old created a race called the Kelalens; they were a slightly taller Dwarf that was forever curious and very smart.

For a time, it was good.


1 Jira means “Related by Blood” (www.babynames.com)
2 Nen means “Ancient Waters” (www.babynames.com)
3 Avari means “Of the Heavens, From the Sky” (www.babynames.com)
4 Xannon means “Ancient God” (www.babynames.com)

Kelalen Rising

XANNON OF OLD watched over the world like all his counterparts in the Council of Five, watching his creations as they grew across the world now known as Famgor. Char of Flesh had made the mighty land of Kell, in the center, with the Yaarish islands just south of it. These islands had been created by Nen of Deep so that his Yaar could live and love upon it. Xannon created Limend just south-west of Kell, a small, desolate smitten of land that was covered in “The Wasteland”, a nearly impassible chunk of Hell-Incarnate. Xannon created this so that he could place his black citadel upon it, and so that one day his children could live there with him, in the seat of a god.

Xannon of Old also created a vast desert of the land of Limend, the only inhabitable areas he thought would be filled with his children, and in time it was.

Xannon of Old’s children, the Kelalen were a race that resembled the dwarves but were much taller and lankier. They did not have the strange love of rocks that the dwarves had, nor did they build things that the dwarves did. The Kelalens were warriors for the first few millennia of Famgor, while the brutish Orcs were ruling Kell with an iron fist, the dwarves tinkering with machines in their mountains, and the Yaar swimming around while the Dragons flew through the skies. It was in the year 1342 V.V. that the Kelalen discovered magic. Within a decade, the Kelalen race was split, half of them being mages and the other half being warriors. The Kelalens had wars among themselves for hundreds of years, until the Spellweavers and their leader, Kimalio Strine, came along.

When Kimalio was young, he lived on Kell with the rest of the Kelalens, but at age five he heard an otherworldly voice speak to him. The voice was strong and wise, and came from all directions at the same time, as if there was a crowd of this one man surrounding him, all speaking the same thing: “Hello Son,” The Voice had said, “Come to me in the dark wastelands of the West.”

This voice was so commanding that Kimalio had no choice but to follow its command. He journeyed for fifteen years to the Westlands and made it into the Wastelands, armed with not but his spells and his blade, and the Faith in The Voice, he walked onward. He was attacked many times by beasts, monsters, and demonic beings too horrible to describe, but none could hurt him. He had the Word, Power, and Armor of a God about him, and he could not be harmed. His blade sang in the sick pleasure of the battle, and his voice was strong like the one he had heard so many years ago, causing his spells to light up the skies and slay the mightiest of dragons. His shield would never break, never dent, and never scratch because the Council of the Five had great plans for him. At the age of twenty years, he reached the blackest citadel that the world could have ever seen. It seemed that this place was of pure evil-incarnate.

He had a god on his side, though, and had nothing to fear. He told whatever god was listening that he believed, and that he would forever follow their holy will. He entered the citadel and faced the last guardian before he would come to do whatever he was meant to do. This creature was old, very old. It was perhaps the first creation of the Council of Five, and now it was to be slain by one of their Children. The beast was made of rock and filled with the Hellfire, it lurched slowly towards Kimalio but he stood firm.

Then the voice spoke again, “Let me see your true power” Kimalio felt his armor of the gods falling from him and he felt his blades maniacal laugh at the fight slowly die and his own voice grow weary. The beast charged at him but Kimalio still had faith in his gods. He charged into battle again and he was struck down.

Kimalio could feel himself and some powerful energy near him, a god?

“You made it, child,” said the Voice, “I am Xannon of Old, one of the Council of Five as you have deducted on your own I see. Listen to me, Child, I have need of a disciple.”

It was five years before the end of the Mage-Knight wars of the Kelalens when a twenty year old man stumbled out of the Wasteland. He told others of insane stories of his defeating beast and slaying dragons with the simplest of spells. None believed him until he showed them the magnificent powers and items that had been bestowed upon him. He had a helmet forged of the same black jewel, Jet, as the Black Citadel of the Final Guardian. His blade now shown a sharp red light whenever a beam of light touched it, and his neck was adorned with a necklace made of gold and jet. There were runes of Old carved into the Amulet that changed depending on how you looked at it. And he had attained the ultimate weapon, the spellcloth.

Kimalio was the first to have a spellcloth, and over the next thirty years worked to with his friends and family to create a society of over five-hundred Kelalens, the Spellweavers. He was their leader. Spellweavers used the magics that the mages had learned to meld them with rags and pieces of cloth to make a spellcloth. Spellcloths were much easier to use than normal spells because they required the material and energy of a spell only once, then never again because they were bound to the cloth forevermore, or at least until they were dispelled.

Kimalio spent most of his time with the “Greatest Spellcloth” as he called it, because it was so powerful. He would never reveal what it would do to someone, or how, but he told everyone that it would be amazing. He told all that he would have to use it, that their own Creator, Xannon demanded that no one else cast the cloth, or it would have disastrous results.

Xannon had granted Kimalio with another life, and with an extended one at that. As Kimalio created his mighty Spellcloth, the entire Warrior Kelalens became Spellweavers, as the mages had already been subjugated. In essence, neither side had won the wars; a middle man was the one who had finally won it for them both.

Kimalio finished his cloth at the old age of one-hundred fifty-three, the oldest of the five races on Famgor at the time, except for the dragons that live for hundreds of years. He had finished his cloth but died in the process. He gave birth to a son and a daughter beforehand, though and he believed that perhaps they could perform the casting. His son, Arth Strine, came to the shrine where Kimalio had set up for the casting and attempted it, what he did would change his race, The Kelalens, forever.

The spellcloth was to make all Kelalens both Wise and Forever young, something that Kimalio could have done with his immense power and his godly will. His son was incapable of casting it and called for help, when no one came; the spellcloth took over his whole body and made him a walking machine of destruction for a few moments, burning all life around him along with the shrine, and himself. When he died, the spell shot forth in all directions, one beam for each and every Kelalen. Kimalio had woven that in, but his plan for a better future for all Kelalens had turned into something horrible.

Kelalens began to live for much longer than ever before, nearly two-thousand years, depending on their health, and they were bestowed a curse. Kimalio had planned to change the gene growth in the Kelalen mind, because Xannon had told him to, which would make them take in things better than any other beings on the planet, but with Arth’s incapability, it had gone haywire. Kelalens took in information so amazingly that it made them age at a hyperactive rate. When a Kelalen heard another race’s name, they would suddenly see that entire person’s life in a flash before their eyes, and they would experience it, and they would live that person’s life.

They had the feeling that they were that person and that they were living out the life, thinking the thoughts, and feeling the feelings, but they did not. They would just store an entire life to memory in the blink of an eye, and while this happened, the Kelalens body aged. It was a horrendous thing to see. A very unfortunate Kelalen was the first to discover this curse. A five-year old Human, the race that had landed on the south shore of Kell that the Kelalens had gone to greet, told him her name and suddenly he saw her entire life before his eyes then aged what appeared to be fifty-years.

The girl screamed and the man ran for his life. Before the confrontation with the Humans, the Kelalens had done a weak mind link, just enough to know when another was in distress and where they were, just in case these new creatures were hostile. The Kelalens broke into a frenzy and killed five Human soldiers, along with the young girl, through Spellweaving. Their leader, Herenula, cast a mass teleportation Spellcloth and sent the entire group of Kelalens far away to the land of Limend.

The entire Kelalen race was collected through Spellcloths and brought in front of their king. Herenula then spoke.

“Listen my people; we have a curse about us. We must never speak to these accursed humans again, or at least never let one utter it’s name to us, the Kelalens.”

With that Herenula used his great power and a spellcloth to create the largest forest that Famgor had ever seen, and named it the forest of Doom. With another Spellcloth he made it that the forest was impenetrable for all but the Kelalens and those who were with them or invited in. When they reached the Eastern edge of the Forest of Doom, close enough so that it was an hour’s walk to the shore, but so that they could intersperse their warriors within the forest to protect from all enemies and to hunt, Herenula cast one last Spellcloth, one that built a great city, and named it after himself.

Herenula then declared it illegal to use Spellweaving, and punishable by death. He then created the Council of Five, a mock up of the Godly version, which would, along with Herenula himself, vote on new laws and keep each other in check. They did their job for a long time, until Herenula died and a new king was to be elected. An Elf appeared in Herenula that day and spoke her name to a young Kelalen, this Kelalen’s name was Arch Mitine, and the Elf’s was Minstre Lightningrage.

Arch aged nearly five-thousand years in one second and experienced a five hundred year life in moments, but to him the entire five hundred years. He suddenly awoke and stared into the woman’s eyes. “You bitch!” Arch screamed and tore out a spellcloth, shouting the casting word and letting it loose. The woman was dead in a moment, her eyes glazing over and her mouth laying agape as she fell slowly down to the ground with a whoosh!

Guards were around him in a second and he was brought in chains to the mortal Council of Five. They gave him a choice: death or banishment. Arch Mitine chose Banishment.

Arch left the Forest of Doom, and found creatures called the Ogres. They were half-breeds, half-orc, and half-human. He told the Ogres of his plight, and they told the Kelalen of theirs. Arch was horrified to hear that their long allies, the Orcs, had been completely eliminated. And that now the Humans were the ruling race in the land of Kell. He also heard of new races coming into the World, the Ogres claimed that the humans were not children of one of the Council of Five, but a sixth power.

Arch knew little of the powers. When Famgor was created, all of the races were gathered after a mighty war between the Orc and Dragons, The Famgor Revelation, as it was called. The Council of Five descended from their higher place and landed on Famgor in Physical Form. Each was nearly twelve feet tall, and carried gleaming weapons and wore armor that represented each of them.

Char of Flesh wore armor made from diamond and carried a spiked mace the size of a normal person. Jira of Blood wore armor that was made of ruby, and red with blood, his crimson bladed sword gleaming in the low light. Nen of Deep sparkled in a suit of sapphire and aquamarine armor, with two short swords at his sides. Avari of High stretched his great wings, larger than any dragon and bristled his scales under is cream white pearl armor and his halberd that would cut down forests. Xannon of Old was hidden in shadow because of his jet studded black-mithril armor and his Wand that could make Spellcloths with the flick of a wrist.

The Council of Five revealed the story of Creation1 to the five races, to their children. Each of the Council of Five went to the corners of the world almost like a giant seminar through magic. They then told their versions of the story, The Council of Five are incapable of lying, at least to their own children, so they told the stories to the best of their knowledge. At the end of their speeches, when everyone was becoming restless and wanted to get a chance to digest the information, each of the Council of Five spoke of a Sixth god, born from the energy that the Council of Five had to leave behind in order to break into their new universe that they had made.

They referred to this sixth lone power as Kellan2 of power, or the Other One. Apparently this Sixth God was created to defeat the Council of Five, and had made its own race that would arrive much later to take over Famgor and subjugate all other races, making them slaves. They were also said to make cross breeds with the now existing races and make creatures of Evil.

Arch was sent back to the Forest of Doom by the Ogres, they felt Empathy for the banished Kelalen, but could do nothing for him. When Arch reached Herenula again and told the others of the Ogres and their story of the Humans and the extinction of the Orcs, the Mortal Council of Five was mortified. They sent Arch back to the Ogres with over one-hundred negotiators along side. When they spoke to the Ogres, they agreed to bring two-hundred Ogres alongside the negotiators to the city of Herenula.

When the Ogres reached the edge of the forest, an army of nearly one-thousand Kelalen warriors and archers came out of the forest and laid siege to the Ogre forces. Nearly half of the Kelalen force was cut down before the last surviving Ogre fled on horseback, and told the King of Ogres, Yikovin Killman II, the news of the battle.

A great war began that last for nearly one century before the Ogres and Kelalens signed a peace treaty, and became one great nation that ruled over the land of Limend.

It was only Ten years later that they met with someone called Drako Fisk.


1 As seen above
2 Kellan means “Powerful” (www.babynames.com)

[Farrian_Rahl]

Interesting idea for a story. However, its haphazard. There are places that make very little sense. For example:

The man had been trying to make himself both young and wise, an impossible feat. He would have to be both old and young at the same time. He did.

The way its phrased is a little confusing. You go from saying being young and wise being an impossible feat, to 'He did.' which seems almost an after thought. Portions of your story seem this way. Also, it doesnt seem very organized. As i said before it seems like parts of it are after thoughts, almost like while you were writing you suddenly realized you forgot to mention something a while ago and you just stick it in. You did great in the beginning with laying out your information, but quickly it became a mess.

It is interesting though, and could become something great. Take some time and read over it. You'll see the places that need work.

I had the same issue with my sig, I used <a...></a> tags instead.

[TheBlob]

Thanks, I did notice a hell of a lot of grammatical mistakes as I was reading it over, so I will fix those then I might re-do the whole Kelalen Part and maybe the Whole Humans and Elf parts as well.

The part about the Council of Five, I wrote yesterday, the others I wrote a while ago. I think I will simply re-write those.

[Farrian_Rahl]

Okay. This is a real good idea, so keep up the work.

[TheBlob]

I completely re-wrote the Kelalen Part, then I will be posting up the Dragon, Orc, Dwarf, Yaar,Human, Elf, and finally the Drakon parts.

Also, go ahead and post any critiqing or whatever in the OOC Topic from now on, thanks.

[TheBlob]

I

IN THE TOWN of Rimmor, nestled within the Valley of Qelav that sat in the North- Western most corner of Kell, there was a simple farm boy named John.

John new everyone who lived in Rimmor, and went to every funeral and every birth that happened in the area. He heard little about the outside world, but couldn’t give a care. He had never known much about politics or war, so he didn’t particularly know what he was missing. His parents both died when he was young, so he had never met them. Rimmor consisted of a market, three apartment-like buildings, a town center, a town square, a temple to Kellan, and a town guard barracks. John lived with his adopted parents, Renea and Palin. Palin was a guard in the barracks, and was a relatively brave man. Renea was a mid-wife, and had helped deliver many children.

John lived his life as a farm boy. He took care of most of the farm, which provided for their family well. His only friend was his horse, Brayide, a paint. When his daily chores were finished, he would jump on that horse and ride, carrying his bow with him. He would do target practice, and when his parents asked him too, he would hunt. Their store of meat was running out, so he saw it coming soon. Brayide was the only horse he had ever ridden, so he had no way of knowing if he was any good, but enjoyed riding him, nonetheless.

It was when he was riding one day that he came across a wounded man along his usual trail. His pure black cloak was stained in just a bit of blood. John nocked an arrow and swung himself silently off of Brayide. Brayide made a quiet neigh and John put a finger in front of his lips, silencing his horse and companion. He watched the man and the area around him for just a second then ducked behind a nearby piece of shrubbery. The string of his bow was drawn, and the arrow bow combination held in one hand. John had learned to do this a long time ago, and it was helpful.

The man didn’t move, and John would have thought him dead had he not looked up at the horse. He moaned a short little moan, and went still. Brayide neighed again, and snuck forward. He grunted a few times as he poked the man with his nose. The day was still, so John took a step out of the shrubbery. Nothing moved again, so he went to the man.

“Uh, sir,” John asked, “Are you okay?” The man looked up at him with blood-red, dead eyes. Dead eyes see souls, John thought. The man had an arrow wound in his side, and the blood was leaking from it very slowly. This man was covered in his own blood, meaning that he had been going with an arrow in his side for quite some time. John couldn’t help but help him.

He rolled over the man on his side, and checked the wound. It was deep, so he could do nothing but throw him over Brayide and carry him to Rimmor. Brayide neighed at the extra weight, but went onward to Rimmor. John went through his shortcut trail. This trail was relatively untraveled, so it had more bump, rocks, potholes, and streams than his other paths. But, this path was a relatively straight line to his farm, then only a five-minute ride to town.

He reached the town center and the local doctor came to him. He cut the feathers off the arrow, knocked it out of him with a hammer, and then tore it out with tongs. Blood was everywhere, but he was nearly saved. The doctor sutured the wound and wrapped it in bandages.

John put Brayide in a stable, and stayed with the man, at least until his parents came back. During the night, the man was restless. He shook in his sleep and spouted out random words, “No, get away!” “Help me!” “Sins of the Father…” “I’ll find him, don’t worry” “Why?”

John was worried for him but knew that there was nothing that he could do. His parents arrived late at the night and they walked home, Renea, Palin, and Brayide. When he got home, he expected to be questioned about what had happened. He sat down at the dinner table, and his parents watched him as he ate beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans. When he had finished, his mother asked in voice full of confusion: “What happened?”

John quietly explained, in detail, what had happened when he went down his path that day. He explained how Brayide had poked the man, how he had nearly shot him with an arrow, and how he had carried the man all the way to town. His parents grudgingly accepted his explanation. He went to bed not long after and slept well during the night.

In the morning, he was woken up early from a rap on his door. His mother opened it when he said nothing and let herself in. She looked down at his half sleeping form. “Wake up, honey,” She whispered lovingly, “Someone has something to tell you.” John squinted from the light and moved into a sitting position.

“Who,” he asked, “and what for?”

Renea didn’t know, so she only shrugged, apparently she hadn’t asked or Palin had done the talking. John changed his clothes quickly and put on his boots. He headed downstairs and looked at the kid who stood in the frame of his door. He was a small, skinny fellow who looked rather weak and pitiful. He was a few years younger than John was, and much shorter, with thinner shoulders.

“Are you the one who rescued that man last night?” the kid asked. John nodded. The man walked forward and shook John’s hand, “Good job, John. I’m Gandor. I came here with that man and I am his body guard.”

John found that unbelievable, as he looked like a very small, weak person.

“Thank you, is that why you are here,” John asked. The man looked a bit shaken, and then shook his head. “My charge would like to meet you. He is still with the doctor. He says he has something important to speak with you about.” John obliged him and rode Brayide to town. Gandor had his own horse, which didn’t appear to have a name or at least one that could be told.

They reached the town without incident, and Gandor walked to the doctor’s home. John made sure that Brayide was safely stabled before walking after Gandor into the doctor’s. The Doctor wasn’t in the room of the man’s, but Gandor was. Gandor spoke softly to the man lying on the bed. He still had his cloak on, oddly, and it had not been cleaned. He wasn’t bleeding any longer, the suture must have worked.

“John, I thank you first for saving my life,” The man said, with a sigh, “I have some very important business with you, child.” John stared harshly at the man.

“I also have some questions,” John retorted.

“I have little time, but ask away,” the man replied. John thought for a few long moments, and then inquired:

“Who are you, and how do you know me?”

The man smiled and looked at John, in his eyes. “I have been called many names, but the one that always stays with me is the name ‘Misery’. I know you because a god told me to find you,” He replied, “But now I must deliver my message.”

John thought that Misery was an odd name, and it made him unsure whether he should believe the man, and misery was the word for horrors and general bad things. That Misery was a name that always stayed with him was more troubling; John thought that perhaps he brought misery.

“And what would that message be,” John asked.

Misery smiled at John, and misery would come to him soon, but so would hope.

“Meet me where you found me tonight, at midnight. Don’t be late. Now I must get some rest,” said Misery. John was confused. Gandor bustled him out of the room.

“You are a lucky man, John. Misery rarely speaks to Humans, especially Empiricals,” Gandor whispered.

“Is he not human?”

“No… he’s misery incarnate,” Gandor said, “He’s something more.”

II

THAT NIGHT JOHN did not sleep well. He thought about what Misery and Gandor had said. Misery seemed very strange in his way, while Gandor seemed innocent, if a bit pathetic. Sweat covered him when a crow cawed at his window. He heard a bell far off toll. It tolled twelve times and John shot up in bed.

He snuck down to the kitchen and grabbed four heavy rags, along with his bow and quiver of arrows. The rags did well to hide Brayide’s clomping hooves against any rocks or cobblestones. He reached the spot and saw Misery and Gandor. Misery was in his uniform black cloak, though it had either been clean or it was another one that looked exactly the same, and Gandor was in light, loose armor, almost like a martial artist. A wide scimitar was in a sheath on his hip.

John also noticed that Misery had a few scraps of cloth hanging from his belt loop. Misery smiled at John again, and Gandor looked happy to see him here.

“Welcome, John,” Misery nearly whispered, “Now let me explain what has brought me here. It is a bit of a tale, would you like to sit down?” John nodded and tied Brayide to a nearby tree, which they sat under. Misery began his story of how and why he had come to the town of Rimmor.

“You may have heard of the ancient land of Limend,” Misery said. John nodded, “If so, then you must have heard about how it sank below the sea nearly ninety years ago. The god of the Kelalen, Xannon of Old, came from his black spire and sank it below the sea using his godly energy. He kept the Kelalen alive within the land of Limend, and they still live. Your parents may have told you different, because it is much disputed, but it is true. Gandor and I came from this long-lost land. I had lived there for my entire, very long, life. Gandor arrived much later.

“One day I was called to the great keep of Herenula, the Kelalen capital city, and made to speak to Arch Mitine, its king. He gave me a list of names and locations. He told me that these people would go on a crusade for a very important task. He told me to tell everyone that they needed to find someone. You.”

John’s expression changed. Why me? He thought.

“You may be confused, but we are in the same boat. My destiny is intertwined with yours, and that of six others. These six people will be joining you soon. Some will be friends, lovers, guardians, or enemies. We will join you for a time. But for now we need to see how well you can fight.”

John stood up as Gandor did. Gandor tossed him a short sword. The foot and a half of steel shown in the small light from the moon that wedged itself through the gaps in tree branches and leaves.

“And now we dance,” Gandor said softly. He took out his own blade, a very wide scimitar with a white trim along the flat and edge of the blade. The hilt of it was the same white trimmed. He swung it through the air and it sang beautifully. He raised it onto his shoulder and threw all his weight into an attack. John had just enough time to evade.

Another attack, but this time John attempted to parry it. It worked; Gandor’s blade rebounded off of his. John suddenly realized that he was very strong, strong enough to block the attack of a scimitar that size and knock the owner back. The sword was swung again, but John swiftly moved to the side. He performed a feint in the air, then thrusted.

The blade penetrated into Gandor’s suit, but did not cut him. Gandor spun his blade around the sides of John’s and knocked it out of his hand with the sword equivalent of an uppercut. His blade flicked away and stuck in the tree that they had been sitting on.

“Continue,” Misery said as Brayide neighed and kicked. John continued to dodge Gandor’s attacks for a time, but then came up with a plan. He waited until Gandor had swung the blade hard down on his head, then dodged. The scimitar was stuck in the loose ground, but barely. So, John stomped on it with all his might on the flat side.

He ran to Gandor’s hands and held them with both hands. He head-butted Gandor, then kicked with all his might and nearly swung his entire body. John’s foot hit Gandor’s stomach with such ferocious might that he knocked him all the way to the ground. As he fell, Gandor grabbed John’s foot and pulled him down as well.

Misery looked down at the two, John panting and holding his head, Gandor panting and holding his gut. Misery laughed at them, and soon they laughed too.

“Listen, John,” Misery said, “We have little time. We will train you as well as we can tonight, but we will only scratch the surface. You will be trained mostly on the road. We must leave by noon tomorrow.”

John stared at him, “Where are you going?”

Misery laughed, then said: “We, you, Gandor, and I, are going along the great road. We will have only a few stops, but it is imperative that you come with us.”

“I’ll think about it,” John said, “I will accept your training and I will speak with you tomorrow about my leaving.” He tried to say that as formally as possible.

“Good,” Misery said.

And so the training began. John was first taught more of the sword, and it lasted about two hours. He could now parry without wasting so much energy and was an equal match to Gandor. Every swordfight between the two would be neck and neck, John guessed.

After that, he was taught about the bow. John was very good at using his bow now, even though he already knew much. Misery officially elected him the group’s archer, and backup swordsman. Gandor then gave John a buckler that fit well on his forearm and used it to deflect sword and bow attacks. It was six in the morning when John finally rode back to his home on Brayide.

He told his mother that he had gone out earlier to try to find any tracks, and didn’t find any. He also said that he was tired and asked her to wake him up at eleven. She said she would so he lay in his bed. The moment his head hit the pillow, he was asleep.

~*~

His mother did not open the door or wake him up at eleven. In fact, she never came into his room when he heard the bell toll off that it was eleven thirty. He thought that he could hear something else, so he strained his ears. He heard nothing so he headed downstairs. The door was open, and there was a small smear of blood on it.

“Mom,” John called, “Dad!”

No response. He went to the door and saw droplets of blood all over the ground at the front door. He grabbed his bow and his sword, which he just now realized that he had kept, and hopped on Brayide. The horse rode like the wind. John sat, sword in hand and his bow and quiver over his back. Now he could hear it. He heard the crackling he flames, the firing of bows and the drawing of strings, the swinging of swords. Then, as he got closer, he could hear the screams.

The string of his bow was drawn in an instant. He kept Brayide moving, and shot the first Man-Croc that showed itself. His arrow flew true into the chest of the creature. It made an exit wound as the thing fell to the ground, stone dead. John fired off a few more, hitting most of his targets. The Man-Crocs suddenly realized he was more of a threat than most of the lazy, fat, or untalented guards who had never had to fight in their entire lives.

John was able to kill one more before swinging himself off of Brayide and drawing his sword. He looked at the reflection of the blade just in time to see his own mother, Renea, killed just behind him. He screamed in a wild fury and ran at the Man-Croc. His sword stabbed through its chest. He ripped the blade out and sliced off its feral head with one swing.

Footsteps sounded behind him, so he spun around and blocked the incoming blade. His sword thrusted almost on its own and killed the Man-Croc. He blocked another and killed it. The amount that he had killed was lost to him, along with pain as his eyes and his body glazed over in pure hatred and rage for these disgusting things. He was covered in a mix of his blood and Man-Croc blood.

Death was coming for him as they began to surround him. He would kill as many of them as he could before he died, if possible. Suddenly, a bolt of fire shot out from between two tress and scorched one of the Man-Crocs that were around him. Gandor tore through the underbrush and helped John in the battle. Misery was somewhere nearby, John knew, and he fired spell after spell into the monsters.

They were all dead, but the town was in ruins. The temple was destroyed, the housing in shambles, and the town center aflame. Bodies littered the streets, hundreds of innocent people had died, but more Man-Crocs had been killed. John’s father, Palin, stood over the body of his wife. In tears. He had a slash along his back with blood pouring out of it, but he did not care. The doctor tried to take him away so that he could be helped, but he wouldn’t leave. Finally, guards had to force him into the doctor’s home.

Few guards had died; perhaps they were better warriors than John had thought. The graves were already being dug. John walked over to Misery and said:

“I will go with you, Misery; nothing is left for me here. But first, I must know what my ‘Crusade’ will eventually lead to.”

Misery grinned, then said, “To slay a god”

III

THE JOURNEY HAD begun. John rode Brayide, something he had always hoped to do one day, go on a journey with his favorite horse. Gandor rode on his horse whose name turned out to be Kendla, and Misery rode on a horse called Meekon.

Meekon was a beautiful black horse, most likely purebred. Kendla was a brown Mustang, while Meekon was a black stallion. These horses were not beasts of burden, so each person carried their own things. John only had his sword, bow, quivers, and a small bag with clothes and a bit of food, along with a tinderbox. Misery carried his cloths, his cloak, and a walking stick. Gandor had his sword, two bucklers, a bow and arrows, and a bag with a few changes and of clothes and lots of food.

They took the Great Road, because it was the fastest path to anywhere that you could possibly want to get to on Kell.

“This road was built during the Time of Fairey,” Misery explained, “The king back then, Malkus Horunus, decided that trails and paths were not enough to get around his country. So he had this built. It took nearly fifty years, but it was well worth.”

John looked down at the cobblestone road that they traveled; it went on as far as he could see.

“It goes to every town in the Valley of Qelav, and to every major city in the Empire. It is the only path past the Mighty Wall, besides river routes. From here, it leads to Hytop, the capital, and to Restwater. From there, it leads to all the major cities of the Vile Shield and Deep Wall area. It also leads to the Nooric Keys, and into Elfish Country.

“In the Elfish Country, it leads to Myrmid III, Thunderstorm, Fairisdon, Natherin Port, Fleestone, and the Wetlands. The Wetlands is not a very safe place, so it only leads to the Peninsula, and follows the river. It dodges most of the towns, as well. Our first objective is to reach Hytop. We will take the Great Road to the first split, which leads to the next split, or to Brackstone. We will make camp there; it’s about forty miles, as the crow flies. And then after that we will go on to the city of Hytop, another thirty miles as the crow flies; but probably about forty-five if we walk.”

Five hours later, they had made it to the “Split” as Misery called it. And it was a good name, because the road split into three branches; one to Rimmor, one to Brackstone, and one that went on to the next split. It was getting dark, so they set up their bedrolls, and John built a fire. John and Gandor fought each other with the flat edges of their blades, and they were greatly bruised afterwards. John slept better than he had expected considering he had rarely gone camping back home.

~*~

The next day, they made it to the next split in just about four hours. It was early afternoon, so they decided not to stop yet.

“Another fifteen miles to Hytop, we shouldn’t go yet,” Misery said, “I have reason to believe that others are trying to stop your crusade, so we need to wait until night.”

And so, they made camp and waited until night fell.

~*~

The night was darker than most so far that year, so it took a bit longer for their night vision to get going. After it did, though, they put rags over their horse’s hooves and snuck towards Hytop. It was the dead of night, so the sun wouldn’t be up for quite a while.

It took about an hour before they could see the gates of Hytop. It was still a long way off, but it was on the horizon. They reached a particularly dark area because of a canopy of trees over them. A Man-Croc slunk out of the trees and slowly drew out a horn. John had heard that Man-Crocs were amazing trackers and very vengeful. Had they let one live? If so, how?

John and Brayide slowly backed away, along with Misery, Gandor, Meekon, and Kendla. The Man-Croc blew his horn with a fury. Slowly, nearly two hundred Man-Crocs came out of the trees. John hopped off Brayide; he didn’t want anything to happen to him. Gandor and Misery got off of their horses and well, and Gandor made Kendla run far away.

“You too, boy, get going, Brayide,” John said to his beloved horse. Brayide followed after Kendla and then Misery looked sadly at his black stallion.

“I’ll miss you, old friend,” Misery whispered, “Go on, I’ll see you again.” Meekon looked on the verge of tears, and so did Misery. Then Meekon ran off into the night, like just another shadow.

“John, listen to me,” Misery said, staring at John hardly, “it is of the utmost importance that you get to Hytop, no matter what happens to us, get to Hytop. You will find friends, other than us, do whatever is necessary!”

Gandor nodded, as if he had known this truth from the beginning. Gandor charged forward into the Man-Crocs, with John at his heels. The three of them were able to cut them down in the thick of war. John fought with ferocious fury against any Man-Croc he faced, using his signature thrust to the heart. Gandor fought like a highly trained warrior. He killed them by any means necessary, using the environment to his advantage as well. Bolts of fire and lightning killed countless Man-Crocs as well, but there was no way that they could survive.

Blood stained the battlefield when a Rothhar, a pit beast, was brought out in chains. The Man-Crocs scattering, howling wildly. The Rothhar moved over towards the group and stared.

Rothhars were pit beasts of a very dark kind. John had heard the tale of Kimalio, and the Rothhar was said to be the descendants of the Final Guardian that Kimalio had fought. Kimalio failed, of course, but Rothhars were much weaker than the Final Guardian. The Rothhar was utterly stone, rock and Hellfire incarnate. It lumbered and small fires appeared where it stepped.

“A Rothhar,” Misery almost laughed out, “I’ve fought plenty of these. The key is to go for their chest.” He pointed at the ring of fire at the heart of the Rothhar, and then continued: “They are weakest there. If we manage to break the ring, it’s dead.”

Gandor drew his sword and prepared to strike, while John put his away and grabbed his bow. He drew the string back with an arrow and aimed it at the monstrous Rothhar. Misery fired a bolt of lightning into the leg of the Rothhar, and it lit up momentarily with Hellfire. John let loose his arrow just then and it plunged forward into the edge of the ring. Hellfire shot out and burned a few of the Man-Crocs.

Gandor decided against attack, after seeing the spouts of Hellfire. He drew his bow and followed what John did. These pitiful humans angered the Rothhar, so it moved forward and spat Hellfire in their direction. The Man-Crocs merged on them.

The last thing John saw was a smear of blood where Misery had been. He charged onto the Man-Crocs and attacked. Gandor was quickly overwhelmed as well, but by the Rothhar. John fought like a madman, but he was surrounded as well. Then from the sky, his guardian angel came down to him.

She scooped him up and took him away to the east, fire licking at the air before her mouth. Her wings flapped like mad things, and they were gone.