3 years later

Axes had no way of knowing of whom the prophecy spoke. It had mentioned the woodfolk, however. Nobody was sure where the suffix ‘folk’ had come from in the names of some races, but there were a few examples. The mountain folk, for instance, were a species of large, broad humanoids with strength far greater than that of most adult humans. Some were dark, and lived atop the mountains, making war, while others were pale, living in the mountains, and making weapons of war: siege machines, vortex constructs, and hang gliders. They were also the most skilled smiths on the continent, as if their species had been built to create.

There were also the flower folk, who were like the wood folk but much smaller, roughly the size of a human child when fully grown. They lived in the fields and valleys of the land, luring weary travelers into their lairs. They had minor mind control, a hypnotic voice, and a strange, ethereal beauty. No one was really sure what the shadow folk were, only that they were powerful, secretive, and, above all, dangerous.

The wood folk were a strange, unique species. They did not build weapons, like the mountain folk, nor did they conquer, like the humans. They did not seek to dominate, like the dragons, nor to destroy, like the goblins. They certainly did not eat people, as did the flower folk. Rather, they simply were, seeking to exist without hampering existence. They did not make war, they did not hunt for sport, and they avoided killing in general wherever possible. They were not vegetarians, as any plant in the blackwood small enough to fit in your mouth was poisonous, but they had compassion on the animals they hunted. They did not waste, and they sought unity with the land on which they lived. They were wise and intelligent, often living well past a hundred. They rarely grew past the height of the average human child, and their eyes often glowed with kindness and cunning. They were known for their tree cities, dozens of meters above the ground, and their hunting skills, which were unrivaled and unmatched.

Axes had spent the last three years wiping the wood folk from the face of the Earth. He did not know who this ‘wood folk king’ was, as they hadn’t had a king since the days of Algeberth Runar, when his people fled to the blackwood for reasons unknown. What he did know was that a wood folk king had to be wood folk, and they all lived in roughly the same area. Therefore, he concluded, the way to kill the hero of Ba Unduel was to kill every single wood folk in existence.

This task was almost complete now. There were only a few dozen wood folk cities left in the blackwood. In the last one thousand and sixty-eight days, Axes had personally killed or arranged the death of seventeen thousand wood folk. Every time, they had either died in defense of their people or accepted their fate and awaited death. It was the latter of these that most disturbed Axes, and many times he had been forced to turn away as his ghouls slaughtered the residents of a town, all of whom were kneeling and praying to the spirits to spare their lives.

***

Galvyn crept through the woods, hefting a mighty longbow in his arms. His long, white hair trailed behind him, running all the way down to his waist, although that left it as only about three feet long. He had lightly tanned skin and silver eyes. As he watched the elk traipse through the woods, the sounds of nature buzzed around him.

The hawks soared across the sky; Plants blew in the wind; deer raced across the forest floor. The sun rose red over the treetops, almost the color of blood. As he noticed this, the elk ducked behind a small tree. The front half of its body was moderately hidden, but Galvyn could see its plump elk booty poking out from behind the trunk. Galvyn chuckled to himself at the image, and the elk stood straight in alarm. Galvyn flinched involuntarily, and the elk took off.

“Son of a vulture,” he cursed.

At that moment a greater eagle soared overhead, perching on a branch in front of him. He was about five feet tall, and had a wingspan of almost thirty feet. This eagle was young, as their kind often grew to dwarf ostriches, with the largest of them rivaling wyverns – and sometimes small dragons – for wingspan. His feathers ranged from dark brown to an ambiguous red brown, with a few black feathers here and there. Standing out was his tail, the feathers of which were as red as the setting sun.

“Galvyn and Firetail leave now,” he said.

“What is it, Firetail?” Galvyn asked.

“It is him,” Firetail said.

Galvyn paled, grimaced, then turned and bolted towards home.

“Firetail believes the drills instruct Galvyn to run away,” Firetail said, flying after him.

“I understand, and will not be complying on the grounds that these are stupid instructions.” Firetail seemed nervous at these words, but said nothing, simply vanishing into the treetops.

When Galvyn arrived, he gasped in horror. The once proud village sat in ruins, as if a nasty plague had been to visit. The houses had fallen from where they sat high in the trees, which were either blackened and dead or actively burning. Walking through the ruins were dozens of ghouls, puppets of the Dead.

“Destroy him,” a voice called dismissively. The ghouls turned to face him, more of them walking out from the various houses. Galvyn drew his bow as light from the lanterns they carried swept over him.

He saw bodies covering the ground, maybe fifty or sixty; none much taller than he. Looking at them, he recognized their faces. They were wood folk, to be sure, and their faces had been distorted from their death and subsequent undeath. Even so, he knew the faces. His clan.

“Nooo!!” He shouted.

Galvyn began rapidly firing his bow as he backed away from the Dead, who advanced steadily. They were seemingly unfazed by his attacks, even as he cut them down one by one. Finally, Galvyn looked past them and saw the figure of a man cloaked in shadow. “Who are you?!” Galvyn shouted. “Why have you done this?”

“I am the master of the Dead, of course,” Axes said. “Now surrender, or I will make you.”

Axes gestured upward, and Galvyn watched in horror as his opponents rose again, followed closely by the wood folk, his people. Galvyn cried in mortal terror as he ran from the Dead. He fired as he ran, but his arrows avoided the wood folk, victims who had once been his friends and family.

He was twenty meters ahead of them when he tripped on something. A sword. As he picked it up, Galvyn heard a hissing sound. A ghoul stood over him, its sword overhead.

In that instant Galvyn barely had time to think I am about to die before the sword fell. Galvyn raised the one in his hand when, bizarrely, his foe’s blade cracked on his, the ghoul hissing in sudden fear. Galvyn watched, confused, as the ghouls, wood folk and otherwise, began to flee. As they did so, the shadowy figure came to stand over him.

“It would seem,” Axes said, sounding oddly delighted, “that I must take care of you myself.”

***

He was the last one. The others had been killed or captured. Those who had been captured were most likely dead anyway. So, he rode. His horse, ‘Faithful’ as he had named it, was among the slowest breeds of horse alive. But it was also the strongest. And so he rode.

The horse in question had been in perfect shape when they set off. But the Elegrin Desert they crossed was unforgiving. As days turned into weeks, the horse went from a trot to a walk to a shuffle. Eventually the horse was exhausted, and was unable to carry him. So they both walked.

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A couple more weeks passed, and the supply of oats began to dry up. And of course there was never any water in the merciless desert. The boy watched, too drained for emotions, as the horse stumbled. It fell to one knee, then two. It lay down on its stomach and it did not move again.

The boy checked his own food storage, although storage might not be the right word. It was contained in a single sack now and, the boy knew, would not be enough to make it back home. He ate the horse. And then he walked alone.

Faithful’s body – much deprived of meat from the journey – was enough to make his food last another week. A couple of days later, the water was gone too. Soon, the only thing propelling him was raw willpower.

“Get home,” he murmured. “Tell them what happened. Get help.”

As he walked, swaying with fatigue, the boy stumbled over something. He turned and looked, and realized he’d tripped over the edge of a path. He looked up, and saw that there was a small town in front of him, which he had somehow failed to notice. He began to walk faster, his pace increasing from that of a turtle with a headache to that of a turtle without a headache, but with a sore leg.

The houses seemed to stay forever far away, however. He chased them, his mind numb, for the better part of an hour. Finally, he collapsed in the sands, unable to walk further. The last thing he remembered was a small shadow passing over him, and a kind voice murmuring something he did not hear.

***

The kingdom of Frarius was the most powerful force on the continent, bar one. They were ruled through a more complex method than most monarchies had. There was the house of the city, which governed local affairs, the house of the king, to which the house of the city representatives answered, and whose purview was national affairs, and the royal family, who had executive authority over anything they wanted, and who alone had the right to conduct international affairs.

Frarius’ king was called Angvar Doverish VI, and he married a woman named Bethedlia Cartheris III. Together they had three sons: Ramses, Algees, and Murgharees.

Ramses, who was the oldest, was also the strongest and the bravest, and could- and did on multiple occasions- stare down a bear without flinching. He had one daughter, Herushi, and a wife, by the name of Sofia.

Algees, the second oldest, was the smartest and the most handsome, and always seemed to have an army of young women chasing him, to the frustration and slight chagrin of his wife, Olive. They had one son, Horagees, who was less virtuous than his father and uncles. His father had once jokingly claimed that he took after his maternal grandmother, Alamie, which resulted in his being loudly scolded by his wife.

Murgh, the youngest, was a combination of the two; nearly as intelligent and handsome as Algees, and as strong and brave as Ramses. He was nearly seven feet tall, with dark skin that was almost blue. His ears were extremely wide, like most of his people, the kergaldi, and tapered to a gentle point. He had brownish green eyes and almost always carried his most prized possession, his leopard skin cape, tied around his waist. It was immaculately undamaged, but for the single thin gash that had been its killing stroke. One day, Ramses went hunting in the Brimstone Mountains and did not return. Murgh was sent to rescue him from a certain orc chieftain who was believed to be the culprit.

***

Murgh, as a matter of fact, was standing in the middle of a group of orcs. There were seven of them, surrounding him. As he looked at them, he felt a brief pang of regret at what he’d done to their home.

“Umm… can we talk this through, guys?”

“No,” said their leader, the chieftain, by the name of Urthunk. “No, we cannot.” They advanced. Murgh attempted to defend himself, but there were seven of them, well trained, strong, and completely ruthless. Murgh was all of those things as well, but eventually, he succumbed to their numbers, and fell to his knees, defeated.

***

Meanwhile, a hundred miles away, a toothling named Thorgal Gildredson stood before the royal court of Frarius. His dark, stormy blue scales glinted in the sunlight of late morning coming through the window, his double lidded eyes shining menacingly. His hands had short claws, and he had a tail, hidden, wrapped around his leg. He was six feet tall, and had golden eyes.

The roof of the area he was standing in was several dozen feet high, and immaculately decorated with murals and paintings. There were suits of armor and displays with ancient, legendary weapons inside.

“He says that the Perilians are coming. They cannot be stopped, delayed, or reasoned with. Their armies are unfearing and uncaring, merciless and plentiful as the sands of the sea. The city of Borad Din will be gone within the week.”

“You think that you can frighten us with your words, sorcerer?” Angvar asked.

“I am not a sorcerer, but a servant. A messenger. A prophet. And I assure you that if I cannot frighten you with my words, I am the only one in this room who will live to survey the consequences.”

“And, messenger, what would you have us do?”

“Only as one can the Perilians be defeated,” Thorgal pronounced. “Your allies in Haflinor, Undul, and Wulfa. Flee from this place and leave them an empty city to conquer.

“You would have us, Frarius, the most powerful and civilized nation on the planet, flee from an army of savages?” Angvar asked.

“Father,” Algees warned. “Perhaps we should heed this man, rather than rely on the arm of our own flesh to preserve us. For all that Frarius is grand, Borad Din is populated by a relatively small number of people. We could leave here and be gone within the week.”

Thorgal smiled. “Your highness is wise,” he said. “I advise that you do as he says. Rely not on the arm of flesh to preserve you, but on the arm of a god. He is above pride… which is ironic, admittedly. He does not have short-sightedness, or selfishness, or limits. My Master permeates the world. My Master runs this kingdom.”

“You dare-” Angvar roared, but was cut off by his wife’s hand on his arm.

“It costs us nothing but pride, husband, to flee the city.”

“The pride of Frarius is everything,” Angvar said. “Our strength is unmatched and our armies have valor aplenty. Should we die this night, let it be for the betterment of Frarius. Let it be that our people should avenge us, sharpening their might as a knife on a whetstone. Let Frarius rule!” He turned to Thorgal and scowled. “Leave us!” Frowning, Thorgal left the throne room.

***

“They didn’t listen,” Thorgal said, unhappily.

“I know,” he heard a man reply.

“What now?” Thorgal asked. “How do we save them if they refuse to be saved?”

“We don’t,” the man replied, patiently. “Saving them was preferable, but was not completely necessary. There is one piece I have placed elsewhere, that when the killers come knocking, he shall be spared.”

“Is he ready for that?” Thorgal asked.

“He’ll have to be, if he wants to save his people. And avenge his father.”

***

Six years had passed since the day Laktuk arrived at the institute of Champion’s Rest. He had grown into a strong and handsome man. Twenty one years of age and five foot seven, he had white skin, although he was not pale, and gorgeous blue eyes. His skin rippled with muscle, and he had an easy smile that had made many a woman lose her mind. His hair was a rich black, and his skin was so smooth it was almost annoying to those who knew him. As he looked in the mirror, he reflected on this. It had become part of his morning ritual to acknowledge to himself one of his good qualities, and one of his bad ones. Physical strength required mental strength, and emotional strength was the foundation of both.

“You know you look kind of conceited, grinning into the mirror like that,” noted the other man at the end of the room.

“I am conceited, Bartholomew, my friend,” Laktuk said cheerily.

“Is that so?” he asked, giving Laktuk a smirk. “That isn’t what you told Sheila.” Laktuk’s smile vanished.

“What do you know?” he asked, giving his friend a suspicious glare.

“I know that you know that Bob has the biggest crush on her.”

“Yes, Bart. Everyone always thinks Sheila and I are a thing, though, and I’m really just not attracted to her. Like, at all.”

“So you’re not going to…”

“No,” Laktuk laughed. “I thought you knew me better than that, man. Sheila and I? We aren’t even friends.”

“Fascinated as I am by whatever gossip you are once again the center of,” Professor Erik said from the doorway, his tone heavily implying that he was not, “it is time to be gone.”

“Yes sir,” Laktuk and Bartholemew chorused. They followed the professor out of the dormitory, walking down the hallway towards their morning classes. Everyone began the morning with running and weights training, which served to wake them up. They ran around and around the school for about an hour before going to the weight room and doing curls, pushups, situps, bench presses, and pretty much whatever popped into Mistress Rachel’s head.

Then was history and writing with Professor Matthew, followed by lunch. After that was military strategics with Master Erik, who actually insisted they just call him Erik, followed by wrestling and fencing, which alternated days.

Finally, they had basic mathematics with Professor Ivet. Then, at the end of the day, they had combat training in all of the different martial arts the school taught. Laktuk learned the Way of the Steel Fist, taught by Master Erik, while Bartholomew studied the way of the mountain, taught by Mistress Rachel. After school, there was assembly, which was normally lumped in with dinner, where they were addressed by Headmaster Harrison. This had been the routine almost all day, every day, for the last six years. That was, until that day…