Derrek slept like a drunken baby, which was at least half accurate. He set his alarm for 5:30, hoping to beat Jeffrey’s wake-up call before he drank two-thirds of that whiskey so he was safe on that front. He carefully set the glass and the bottle on the dresser beside the TV, confident room service would take care of it. He kicked off his shoes and fell asleep on top of the covers in his clothes, snoring like a bear, drifting peacefully off into sleep.
His dream, however, was anything but peaceful. He found himself in the middle of a battlefield with cliffs encompassing it, surrounded by bodies adorned in what looked like Roman armor, maybe Greek. Each one was beaten, mutilated, and bloodied, many missing limbs and even more missing their heads. Fires raged, some burning bodies, some burning what looked like siege equipment. Chariots and catapults were damaged and broken. The entire area was bleak and desolate. It reeked of death. And blood. Definitely blood.
The only break in the carnage was a single man standing in the center of it all, silhouetted against the largest fire on the field. Derrek couldn’t make out many of his details, but his left arm looked freshly amputated, pouring blood out from just below his elbow. His eyes adjusting to the light, he saw the man was drenched in blood, painting him solid red.
The air was heavy with heat and filled with ash falling like snow, but something was off about the air around this man. There were ashes around him, but they didn’t seem to be falling. Rather, they were swirling around him, and they were bright red. They didn’t seem to be embers but red ash.
The scene suddenly shifted, and what Derrek assumed was the same man was lying on a table, surrounded by people in white robes. The room appeared to be a mixture of an infirmary and a forge, with primitive medical equipment covering one wall and blacksmithing equipment covering the one opposite. Several people were pouring molten metal into several small molds, seemingly working to form them into a single piece.
The table was on the infirmary side of the room, and many of the people were focusing on the man’s arm. The wound had been sealed through cauterization, leaving a massive burn mark on the newly formed stump. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he did seem conscious, powering through the operation. Three of the people were tattooing his arm in runic patterns, extremely deliberate in their markings, lightly hammering bone needles into his skin, rubbing ink in after blood was drawn.
The scene shifted again, but the room remained the same. Most of the robed people were gone, save for three, and the man was now sitting up on the table, apparently having both arms once again. Upon closer inspection, however, Derrek saw the left didn’t match the right; it looked like armor. One of the robed figures, a woman, who stood in the middle of the three, apparently the leader, spoke up. She spoke in a language Derrek didn’t understand, Latin maybe, but he understood what was being said.
“We did the best we could,” she said, gesturing to the man’s new arm, “but you will not have the same range of movement ever again.”
“That’s fine,” the man replied, staring down at the hand, which was clenched into a fist, obscuring his face, “the immortals are crippled, and Ormazd is dead—that’s all that matters to me. I only wish my comrades had lived to see that fight.”
The man to the left of the group spoke up. “There was no way victory could have been claimed. The fact that you survived is nothing less than a blessing from the gods themselves.”
The man gave out a bellowing laugh, hitting his knee with his metal arm, causing him to kick violently. After the pain and his laughter subsided, he looked up, revealing a heavily scarred face, and said, “The gods owe me nothing—I learned that long ago. The only blessings I’ve ever received were curses in disguise. I survived, yes, but nobody else did. Had I been Persian, I would likely be the new leader of the immortals!” he said, laughing again, repeating the strike and the kick, both learning and regretting nothing.
The people were put off by this, amazed and horrified at how this man who had just lost an arm, who was still covered in the blood of friend and foe alike, who watched as his comrades were cut down before his eyes, was still able to laugh. Unsettled, they took their leave, the woman in the middle straggling behind.
Before she was out of the doorway, she turned to the man and said, “You have a home in Argos for as long as you wish. We and our people see you as a war hero and will treat you as such. There’s an inn a few buildings over, we will cover your rent should you choose to stay there.”
“Thank you. I accept your offer. I have to gather some supplies before I leave, namely, a new sword, a good pair of sandals, and your city’s entire supply of wine.”
The woman flashed a smile before leaving as her compatriots had, leaving this man alone. He stared at his metal hand, attempting to open his tightly clenched fist to no avail. He sighed and stood to gather his belongings, which were laid out beside the medical table. His clothing had been torn to shreds and his sword was broken, leaving a jagged piece of the blade and a heavily scratched hilt. The robed people had provided some clothing: a simple tunic and a set of the robes they wore, which he was wearing.
He picked up his sword, which was now the length of a dagger, and inspected the damage. From where Derrek was standing, it seemed irreparable, and the man came to the same conclusion. He put his scabbard at his side and sheathed it regardless, then started to adjust his robes to cover his metal arm.
Before he could leave, there was a voice from behind where Derrek was standing. He stepped aside to see the whole conversation.
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“Another day, another war. How is your arm?”
Before him stood a tall woman, around eight feet tall, with swirling gray eyes, adorned in battle gear and a large helmet, holding a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. The man seemed unfazed, giving Derrek the impression that he either expected her or was far too used to this type of thing.
“Doing about as well as your spear.”
The woman scowled. “Lost and replaced, then?”
“With a less useful replacement, yes.”
“I will get that spear back from you, but that is not why I am here.”
“Then speak, god of wisdom. The Sumerians were boring, but at least their gods got to the point.”
The woman thrust her spear toward the man, who didn’t flinch as the point pierced his neck, barely breaking the skin but still drawing blood.
Unshaken, the man said, “I would have thought your father had taught you better. Threats do not affect me. State your business. I have copious amounts of wine to imbibe.”
She pulled back the spear and put it back at her side, her scowl never fading.
“Despite your efforts, the war is lost, drifter. Sparta will fall.”
“What a shame,” the man said, pocketing a few odds and ends from the medical table—several small blades and a few bottles with what Derrek assumed were some kinds of tonic. “If only I cared.”
The woman was taken aback by his nonchalant attitude. She gripped her spear tightly and said with anger in her voice, “How dare you? Hundreds of your allies were killed, the city will be razed, and the people will be slaughtered! Yet, here you are, bothered more by your arm than the result of your failure!”
The man only turned his head, barely even looking at her. “If you were that troubled by it, perhaps you should have stepped in since I obviously didn’t meet your expectations.”
“I did not come here to be lectured by you, of all people! I should smite you where you stand!”
He turned, fully facing her. “Then have at it. I have no solid plans for the night. It might be fun. I do ask that you spare the city, however. They have been very hospitable, and it would be a shame to burn them in another of your tantrums.”
The woman was fuming with rage, her shield and the tip of her spear now glowing dimly, her face red and her eyes shifting to a darker gray. Her voice was filled with anger, but she remained restrained. “You forget yourself, mortal. You may have my brothers and sisters fooled, but I see what you truly are.”
The man slowly approached her, death in his eyes, and even though she was at least two heads taller than him, his presence seemed much larger. He was inches away when he finally spoke, and his tone chilled Derrek to the core.
“Ironic, is it not?”
“Excuse me?” she asked, confused and still furious.
“Is it not ironic that you, the god of wisdom, seem so keen to anger the one mortal capable of killing you?”
Derrek could feel the tension in the air. Neither of them said anything for several seconds. They just stood there, staring at each other, refusing to be the first to flinch. The man eventually cracked a smile and gave a small laugh, turning away from her and heading toward the door.
“You will regret this, drifter,” the woman said. “The time will come soon enough.”
The man laughed. “This empire will not stand forever, and when it falls, so will you. For what is a god with no followers?”
“Is that a threat?” the woman asked through clenched teeth.
“No, I only speak from experience,” the man said, his good hand on the doorframe, ready to leave. He turned and gave one last look before saying, “As the Sumerians fell, as the Mesopotamians fell, so the Greeks will fall. Those gods are now scattered in the winds, so will you someday. But life will go on, and so will I.”
He exited, leaving Derrek and the woman behind. She stood for a brief moment, staring at the empty door frame before vanishing without a trace, leaving him alone.
The scene changed once more to an aerial view of a burning city. Derrek was floating above it, feeling the heat and choking on the smoke. He saw carnage—people being murdered indiscriminately, blood-soaked streets, limbs and corpses littering the roads. He heard a sick mixture of screaming, burning, and laughter.
Among the violence, he saw a single man calmly walking through, sword drawn, cutting down the citizens of this town as he passed. Effortlessly, he sent heads rolling with a casual swipe, seemingly in no hurry. The heat grew more and more intense with every passing second, the fires raging as the city burned.
The man stopped in his tracks and looked up. It was the same man from earlier. The man was looking directly at him, or maybe through him. There was a look of boredom on his face, and he appeared to sigh before a large wave of smoke temporarily blinded Derrek. He rubbed his eyes, but when he regained his vision, the man was gone.
The heat grew, but it felt like it was coming from behind him. He struggled for a few seconds to turn around from his suspended state to see what was going on and was stunned at what he saw. A volcano towered above the city, massive amounts of ash spewing from the top, lava running down the side, bellowing deafening roars as it erupted over and over again. How he had missed it before eluded him, but he saw it now. He saw the destruction it was causing. The riots were out of desperation. The fires stemmed from the molten rock that slowly engulfed the town.
Those revelations rushed through Derrek’s mind as he stared at the mountain, completely unaware of the giant flaming rock heading toward him. He felt the impact along with brief excruciating pain, then felt nothing at all. He was still partially aware of his surroundings and felt as if he were falling rapidly, but he felt no pain. In the few seconds before he hit the ground, he wondered why these dreams always ended with his painful death and why he could never remember the dream when he awoke, but the thought was cut short by a sudden impact.