Stephen C. Satterly, II – Author, Researcher, School Safety Expert Witness

Heros, one of two Kings of the Centauri, stood on the viewing stand, watching a platoon of the Royal Guards put through their paces. He was flanked by four members of the Guard, who served as protectors. Not that he needed it. He was large, even by Centauri standards. He stood eighteen hands tall, with hooves as large as serving platters. His fur was a uniform golden-brown midway up his upright abdomen. He wore cropped, dark-brown hair that fell to his waist along his upper torso. He had a full, dark-brown beard, brown eyes, and ears that swept up to a point. A golden laurel rested on his head.

Four lines of ten Royal Guards received random commands from their commander, who stood off to the side. They would turn one way, then the other. At one point, they stopped and began backing up. The exercise was called The Dance. They had to move together, with little thought. It emphasized teamwork as an art form.

Heros saw one of the troopers step out of line and pursed his lips.  The commander barked an order, and the four lines halted.  Another command brought the offending Centaur out of the line, to be replaced by one standing in formation near the commander.

The offender stopped in front of the commander and bowed. The commander said something, then called over an older-looking Centaur. The Centaur nodded to the commander, slapped the offending Centaur’s rump, and followed the offender to an obstacle course. Heros smiled at the older Centaur’s invective. Ah, the memories.

“How is our son doing?” a warm, feminine voice asked. Heros turned to see his wife, Reginae, approaching. She was five hands shorter than Heros. Her silver hair and eyes marked her as a servant of Athena. Her hair was plaited, with a golden laurel resting atop it. She wore a blue-and-white breastplate and royal-blue greaves adorned with silver, and she carried the mace that marked her as a cleric of Athena.

Heros held out his left hand to her, and she took it as she came alongside him. Heros tried to keep the pride from his voice as he replied, “He is proving he earns his position as Commander. He sees and hears all and instills great discipline in his troops. He knows when to do things himself and when to…” He trailed off as he saw his wife laughing.

Heros snorted and looked back at his son. “Yes… Well, he’s doing just fine.” He smiled, looking ruefully at Reginae. “I suppose I was about to gush.”

Still laughing, she wrapped her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder. “My love, there was no ‘about to gush.’ It’s fine to be proud. He is a great warrior with his father’s ability to lead!”

They both watched for a while, and Heros grinned as the older centaur returned the now-sweaty Centaur. The younger centaur stood at attention and saluted. The commander called the unit to a halt, turned, and returned the salute. He stepped forward until his face was inches from his subordinate’s. He spoke to him for a moment, then reached up with his right hand, clasped the back of his subordinate’s head, and they touched foreheads.

The commander stepped back, and the two saluted again. The subordinate trotted back to his mates, his upper back straight.

Heros saw the older centaur say something to the commander, who turned to look at him and the Queen. The commander reared on his hind legs, brought his right fist to his heart, and bellowed, “HAIL HEROS!” All the other centaurs did the same. Heros returned the salute, then waved to them. The commander trotted toward them.

Reginae stepped away from Heros and stood to his left, cradling her mace in the crook of her right arm. An official approached from Heros’s right, whispered in his ear, and held out a scroll. Heros took the scroll, frowned at its contents, handed it back, and said something to the official, who then left.

By then, the commander had approached Heros and Reginae. He was a hand shorter than his father but a mirror image of him in every other way. He wore the armor of the Royal Guard, including a leather cuirass trimmed in crimson and ceramic-coated steel greaves painted red with deep green trim. He also wore a full-faced steel helm, similarly coated and painted to match the greaves. An emerald-green crest of hair ran perpendicular to the helm’s midline. 

He had broader shoulders than his father. His troops often gathered around the fire at night to debate who would win a fight between them. Mikhail, the top sergeant of the Royal Guards, overheard them one night and laughed for three days. He never shared the joke with his troops, which only fueled more campfire talk.

The young Centaur saluted Heros, bowed to Reginae, and said, “Mikhail, my First, said it would be wise to come up to give you a report on the Royal Guard’s status. I concurred.”

Heros returned his salute and replied, “Mikhail is an astute First, Commander. How is the Guard?”

Reginae snorted in exasperation. “For Athena’s sake, Heros! Octavius! Come hug your mother!”

Octavius smiled and stepped forward to do just that. Afterward, he returned to his position before Heros and resumed his report. “We have four Guards with minor training injuries, but all are combat-ready. Two squads are on guard at the Temple of Athena, one in the sanctum and the other outside. Two are on active duty as your guards. Four squads, as you saw, are training, and two are on leave.”

Heros nodded. “So, twenty are on leave and twenty are on guard at the temple. Recall all Royal Guards from leave and double the temple guard. I just learned that orcs have been seen outside the city walls.”

Octavius started. “Orcs? Just outside the walls? I will carry out your orders immediately!” He saluted, then galloped off toward Mikhail. 

Reginae told Heros, “I must go to the temple to inform my sisters.” Heros nodded, and Reginae galloped off.

Telemecus, Heros’s aide, approached. “Will His Majesty need his armor?”

Heros shook his head. “No, but I will want my sword for now.” Telemecus nodded, left, and returned with it.

He started helping Heros by buckling the sword onto Heros’s torso. “I hope Your Majesty won’t need it.”

Heros smiled grimly. “Ares seems to be calling for blood today!”

#

The woman was mostly silent now, which suited Mordred. He enjoyed the sound of screaming as much as anyone, but even he had his limits. He admired the woman’s stamina, though he had research to do, and her screams were beginning to distract him.

Mordred was tall and muscular. His long black hair framed a slender, handsome face with an aquiline nose, a square chin, and a constant shadow along his jawline. His pale skin made his blue eyes seem to glow.

The woman floated in the air in front of him. She was inverted, naked, with her upper back facing him and her feet pointing up and away from him. The skin and muscles along her spine had been peeled back, using his magic. His skill was such that there was little blood. Cutting the backs of the vertebrae off took even more skill, as he didn’t want to damage the spinal cord, the object of his research. 

He would find an unsuspecting person, usually a woman, expose the spinal cord, and map the nerves. The lack of anesthesia didn’t bother him. He loved a little screaming, and they usually passed out for long periods. This one was different, which annoyed him. She had finally passed out, so he could finally map the nerves.

He used a thin metal probe to touch a section of the spine and observe the results. Once the victim died or he was finished, he would dump the body in some out-of-the-way place. He currently has a string of 40 victims. This time, an enterprising journalist dubbed him the “Spinal Tap Killer.” Mordred was sufficiently annoyed that the journalist became part of his research.

The Behavioral Analysis Unit labeled him a “highly organized, skilled, psycho-sadist.” When he saw that on the news, he smirked as he worked on his current victim. The truth was, Mordred was all those things and more. 1400 years ago, when he began hunting Arthur and Gwenhyvar’s progeny, he only killed. As the royal descendants became harder to find, he hunted anyone, raped them, then killed them. That quickly grew boring, so he shifted to psychological torture before killing them. Later, he moved on to physical torture before killing them. He became very good at killing. Having spent centuries honing his hunting skills, he still found the chase exhilarating. But just killing was so boring.

            Ten years ago, he came up with the idea of conducting research and began mapping the central nervous system. He had collected extensive notes, including detailed maps showing which nerves control which muscle groups or sensory inputs. He thought that alone would win him a Nobel Prize in medicine.

As if he truly cared for such things.

He shook his head to dismiss such thoughts and leaned forward, pressing the probe against the woman’s spine. He glanced at her legs and noticed the telltale twitch. Turning away, he jotted the note in his notebook. As he looked back at his victim, who was beginning to moan, he felt a sensation he hadn’t felt in over 300 years.

The air around him dropped by 60 degrees. His breath clouded in visible steam, and he noticed his victim’s skin tighten and break out in pimples. The back of his neck tingled, and he saw a black line appear in the air to the right of his suspended victim. What happened next always unsettled him, yet excited him.

The black line pulsed, and a glob of black bulged from it. It writhed and stretched, making Mordred nauseated. It began to take the form of a woman, and Mordred steeled himself for what would come next. The woman’s form sharpened, and suddenly she was there. She was as tall as Mordred. Her skin was pale green, mottled with black. Her hair and eyes were black. Her teeth were pointed, like a shark’s, yet her face and body radiated a stark beauty that always stirred Mordred. She wore a gossamer dress with moving, opaque patches that both revealed and concealed everything. He felt his manhood harden, and he hated himself for it. He wanted her, hated himself, hated her for making him feel that way, and was hopelessly enthralled by her.

He took a deep breath, and with the cold searing his lungs, he rasped, “Mab, my Queen. How may I serve you?”

The black line behind Mab vanished, letting the air warm slightly.

Queen Mab looked Mordred up and down, lingering on his erection. She looked up at him, a cruel smile on her face, and said, “Someday I’ll have to do something about that.”

Mordred shuddered, recalling what had happened centuries earlier, the last time she’d “done something about it.” He remembered overwhelming sensations of revulsion, pain, and intense pleasure. He dreamed of it every night, which was why he stopped raping people. He kept trying to recreate that moment but couldn’t, so he eventually gave up.

The words came unbidden from his mouth, followed by a wave of self-loathing. “W-w-why not n-n-now, my Qu-qu-queen?”

Mab leaned her head back and laughed. Waves of cold radiated from her, heightening Mordred’s revulsion and desire.

“My dear Mordred,” she purred. “Even as we speak, armed men are outside this place, preparing to burst in and capture you. I would normally enjoy watching you handle the situation, but you and I have business in Byd Hud.”

His eyes widened.  “You’re taking me there?  Yes, my Queen!  Of course!”

He opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment, the door to the house cracked open, and a canister was tossed inside. The irritated look on his face amused Mab, and her laughter only made him angrier.

With his right hand, he siphoned the life force from his experiment, killing her and causing her body to shrivel. He made a motion with his left hand, freezing the flash-bang grenade mid-explosion. Six FBI agents in tactical gear entered through three separate doors. Mordred made the same motion, and all six agents froze.

Mordred bowed to Mab, then approached the nearest agent. The agent’s eyes widened in fear, and they followed Mordred as he drew near. Mordred met the agent’s gaze, shook his head, and turned away. As he did, he snapped his right fingers, and the agent’s body vaporized into red mist that hung in the air.

He moved through the room, approaching each agent and repeating the process until five clouds of red mist hovered over each door. He reached the surviving agent and saw ‘Murphy’ on a nametape beneath his body armor. When he looked into the last agent’s eyes, he saw no fear, only rage. He smiled and whispered, “Good, Murphy. It’s always good to find a warrior among the sheep. You, I’ll let live. You’ll tell people what happened here, and they won’t believe you. They might hospitalize you or put you in prison. Anything but believe the crazy shit you’ll describe. All they’ll know, Murphy, is that your team died gruesome, terrible deaths. You didn’t rescue the victim; you alone survived, and you let the Spinal Tap Killer get away.”

The agent’s fury intensified, and his right hand twitched. Mordred saw it and said, “Impressive! I’ve only seen one other person show such willpower! I killed him and his wife. You’ll survive, kind of.”

He turned and saw Mab run her finger down the back of his victim. Her nail split the skin, drawing a trickle of blood.

Mordred sighed and said, “My Queen, playing with your food is beneath you.”

Mab purred maliciously, “No, it’s not.” She used her fingernail to slice a strip of flesh from the dead victim’s thigh and began to eat it as the black line reappeared beside her. She placed one shapely leg into the line, then held out her hand. Mordred took her hand and stepped into the blackness.

The black line vanished, and five clouds of red mist splashed across the floor. The woman’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground. The remaining agent dropped to his knees, taking in the chaos. He raised his clenched fists to the ceiling and yelled, “Mother fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

#

Octavius galloped back to the training ground. Mikhail saw him, sensed the urgency in his gallop, and called for the Guards to form up. They were already in formation when Octavius arrived. They wore light leather armor, carried composite shields emblazoned with a Lambda, wielded longswords, and bore three spears. Each wore a helm with crimson hair along the midline.

Octavius briefed Mikhail on what he had learned and what was needed. Mikhail turned and bellowed, “First-rank Leader, take the first and second squads to the Temple, one squad in the sanctum, the other at the entrance. No one gets in!”

At the right end of the first line, the centaur struck his spear against his shield and shouted, “Follow me!” He galloped toward the Temple of the Gods. The rest of the line moved in unison, turning right to follow him. As they passed Octavius, he said, “We are the spearpoint!”

The Centauri, both those who left and those who stayed behind, yelled in unison, “Ares!”

Octavius turned to Mikhail. “Recall all Centauri from leave. Once assembled, have their Leader take them to the Palace and post them there. Make sure it’s clear that they prevent anyone from entering except the King and the Queen. I’ll join those two squads to guard the Temple entrance. Any questions, First?”

Mikhail saluted. “None, Commander!” He started to turn, then stopped. He called out to Octavius. “Hey, Octavius!”

Octavius turned to him. “Yes, First?”

Mikhail’s grin was feral. “Don’t get dead, boy! Your daddy would gut me!”

Octavius’ grin mirrored Mikhail’s. “Old man, if I get killed, I’ll gut you for training me so poorly!” He turned and galloped toward the Temple. Mikhail’s laughter followed him as a series of three horn blasts sounded, recalling the Centauri from leave.

#

2023 circa Year 10,232 Byd Hud

Crwydryn wandered the streets of Indianapolis in a world he perceived as dying. Sure, there were hundreds of people bustling around Monument Circle in the heart of the city. The weather was warm, and people wore short sleeves, sundresses, jeans, or T-shirts. Monument Circle had stores, a symphony hall, bars, restaurants, and a few other businesses. The people moved about, unaware of the casually dressed old man with a patch over his left eye. A few passersby cast him curious glances but otherwise ignored him.

As he looked with the Sight, there were no lines of connection among any of the people. In fact, most of the people he saw avoided contact with others. Without these connections, people could not move forward, and the environment was ripe for Evil to grow and flourish. In his other travels, he had already seen Evil spreading. Free will was a fine, double-edged sword, and humans were feeling the collective consequences of poor choices.

He remained unfazed by others’ indifference, which made his journey smoother. He was here on two missions and was glad no one paid him any mind. He stopped in front of the symphony hall and looked around. He noticed a tall, white-haired woman in a white business suit and dark sunglasses standing in front of a candy store, and he approached her. She was enthusiastically licking a multicolored sucker.

She was a head taller than his 6-foot frame, and he looked up at her and smiled. “Could you be any more conspicuous?”

A corner of her mouth lifted as she replied, “I thought it would keep people from asking questions. I was right. He’s over there.” She nodded toward a man huddled against a building down the street, then dropped the sucker into a trash can.

“Ah, yes.” Crwydryn approached the man. A woman passed by, and Crwydryn caught a flash. A bright white line stretched from the woman to the man. She leaned over him, slipped a folded bill into one of his pockets, and bowed her head. Her lips moved. The line brightened, then faded as she straightened and walked away.

Crwydryn nodded.  Yes, there were still a few left.

The huddled figure wore a green military coat, even in the warmth, paired with jeans that looked like they hadn’t been washed in quite some time, scuffed, dirty boots, and a rumpled green polo shirt. He had disheveled hair and a scraggly beard, and his odor made the woman’s nose crinkle. He looked like he was passed out. Crwydryn didn’t mind the odor. Once you’ve smelled the pits of Hell, simple body odor has no power.

He knelt before the man, his staff in his left hand.  He reached out with his right hand and flipped open the coat.  Inside the coat was a faded red, white, and blue ribbon with a silver star beneath it.  He glanced up at the woman, who nodded once.

Crwydryn cupped the man’s face in his hands and spoke softly. “Sergeant First-Class George Emmick!”

The man stirred and opened his eyes.  They were clouded, with scars around his eye sockets.  His voice sounded as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.  “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Sergeant Emmick.  I’m here with Svava.  She has come to take you home.”

Emmick shrank back against the building. “No,” he said, his eyes widening. “I don’t want to go.”

Svava knelt on the opposite side of Sergeant Emmick. “Sergeant Emmick, my name is Svava. My job is to take heroes like you beyond the Veil. You have earned your place there.”

Emmick shook his head. “No, I’m no hero. I fucked up. I got my men killed. I got Billy killed!” Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed.

Svava put an arm around Emmick.  She put her head close to his.  “No, Sergeant Emmick, look, Billy is right here!”

Emmick looked up, and his eyes cleared. He saw a young man before him, blonde-haired with a freckled nose. The young man wore a mischievous grin as he said, “Hiya, Sarge!”

A smile lit up Emmick’s face. “Billy? Well, I’ll be damned!” His smile shifted to a mock-stern look. “You know I hate that name, Sarge. He’s a fat man with a dog named Otto.”

Billy laughed. “I know, Sarge. It’s good to see you, too! Say, you should join us!” He motioned behind him.

Emmick looked and saw a group of young men behind Billy, all smiling at him.  They raised their hands and waved.

Emmick lifted a hand to them, smiling, but his face fell. “No. I can’t. I got you boys killed!”

Billy shook his head. “No, Sarge. You had orders to clear out that village. You ordered my squad in.” Billy pointed at a skinny black man. “Jethro there set off the booby trap, but even that wasn’t his fault. He just didn’t see it. The explosion killed him, Anthony, and me. The other six were wounded. The Vietnamese used the explosion as the start of their ambush.”

Billy’s smile faded. “You came back for us, Sarge. There were 200 Vietnamese regulars firing on the platoon. You got our boys to lay down fire, went in to get the wounded out, then went back to recover our bodies. You did all that with only three minor injuries among the rest of your soldiers during the withdrawal.” Billy pointed to the Silver Star on Emmick’s coat. “That’s why you got that, Sarge, and the Purple Heart for losing your eyes when that grenade exploded. You saved the rest of my squad, the other 45 soldiers in the platoon, and over half of them while you were blind! Shoot, Sarge! That Silver Star should’ve been a Congressional Medal of Honor, and you know it!”

Jethro nodded, “That’s right, Sarge!  Shit, if anyone killed us, it was me!  But nobody here cares about blame. They just care that we fought the fight that needed fighting. Hell, Sarge, they even have some of them Vietnamese soldiers we fought here! They’re right nice, too! They talk about you all the time. They call you the “Crazy American.” They’d really like to meet you!”

The others chimed in, “Yeah, Sarge!” “Come and join us!” “We miss ya, Sarge!” Crwydryn patted Emmick’s leg. He said gently but firmly, “Sergeant Emmick, it is time to go. Svava here will accompany you and help you get settled in. Your friends will, I’m sure, help you get the lay of the land.”

He stood and extended his hand to Emmick, who reached up and took it. When Crwydryn helped him to his feet, a young man stood before him-six-foot-four, blue-eyed, with a crew cut. He looked down at the body at his feet, then at Crwydryn. “What about my body?”

Crwydryn replied gently, “I’ll take care of it.  Go be with your friends.”

Sergeant Emmick nodded. Svava took his arm and said, “C’mon, shorty! It’s time to go!” She led him to the group of young men. Crwydryn smiled at the backslapping and hugging, then turned to the body at his feet. He knelt beside it, straightened the clothes, placed the Silver Star on the chest, and dialed 911. After reporting the body, he stood and crossed the street to the Soldiers and Sailors Monument steps, where he sat down.

Shortly afterward, Svava returned, much shorter, wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans. She sat down next to Crwydryn. They watched as a police car pulled up in front of the body. A few minutes later, an ambulance arrived. Svava stayed silent as the body was loaded into the ambulance. Crwydryn caught a bright flash as a police officer saluted as the body passed by. He smiled. Another good one. Too few.

He and Svava sat in silence for a while, watching the people pass by.  He watched a light flare as a mother caught up her son and swung him around.  He smiled and said, “Svava, use your Sight.  What do you see?”

She looked around and frowned.  “It is dark.  I can see occasional flashes, but there are so few lines connecting them.”

Crwydryn nodded grimly. “Yes. It’s like this all over the world. I -” He paused as a chill swept over them. He looked past Svava and saw a man walking by. The man wore a polo shirt and khaki slacks. His right hand kept moving, scratching at different spots on his body, and his eyes were bright, as if they were dancing in their sockets. What he and Svava saw was a body surrounded by a dark halo, as if a shadowy form were trying to move in sync with it. That, along with the red, glowing eyes, made for a very sinister scene. 

Suddenly, the man’s eyes locked onto Crwydryn’s, and a grotesque shadow-head split from the man’s skull. It let out a piercing, despairing wail, and the man scurried away.

Svava started to stand. “I’ll take care of…” She paused as Crwydryn placed his hand on her arm.

“No, Svava.  We don’t have the time.”

She sat back down, looking quizzically at him.

“I wanted you to see for yourself what is happening to this world. It’s dying.”

Svava’s eyes widened as she looked around. “But Father, you love this world!”

He nodded.  “True, but there is always a price to pay for Free Will, and this world is ready to pay it.”

Svava looked crestfallen.  “What will happen, Father?  There are still good people here!”

“There are,” he replied. “I have plans for them, but preparations are required. That’s where you come in, my dear.”

Svava smiled. “Yes, Father?”

His face grave, he said, “My dear, I am going to ask you for something I’ve never asked before, and it will require you to become mortal.”

Svava sat up straight. “Mortal?”

Crwydryn looked into her eyes. “There are reasons, my dear.  Do you trust me?”

Svava sighed, “You know I do.”

He smiled and patted her hand. “Good. I am sending you to Byd Hud as a Dwarf Seeker. You will seek a young dwarf with berserker powers. He will need your help but be careful! You’ll be mortal and can die as they do. When this is done, you and I will have a long talk.”

She sighed, looking away. “As you wish, Father.”

Crwydryn reached out to hold her hand. “We’ll see how long that lasts, my dear.”

#

Heros noticed his son leading two squads away, presumably toward the Temple. That’s where he would go. Lionel, his fellow King, oversaw the City’s defenses. Under these circumstances, Heros was to remain aloof, gather information, and keep the big picture in focus. But passivity did not suit him.

Even now, runners from across the city arrived, reporting that orcs were inside the walls. Lionel’s forces were working to clear the city of them.

Heros’s brow furrowed. Something was wrong. Orcs never entered the city. They rarely launched frontal assaults. They were ambushers who avoided settlements. It seemed as if someone were directing the attack. What was happening?

At that moment, a loud explosion echoed nearby. Heros turned and saw a cloud of dust and smoke rising from a market area about ten blocks from the Palace. Another explosion came from ahead, then another. Faint cries could be heard.

Heros could look down from the Palace and see most of the city. He noticed the explosions were evenly spaced and equidistant from the Temple of the Gods. He turned to Telemecus and said, “Their goal is the Temple! Myrddin!” He bolted through the door and headed down the road toward the Temple.

The surprised aide watched as the four Centauri assigned to protect him took off after him.

Octavius was nearly at the Temple when he caught up with the two squads. He heard the first explosion from a few blocks away. He turned and saw a dust cloud rising from the market area, then two more blasts in quick succession. The blasts unsettled him, as this didn’t seem like a typical orc attack.

He hesitated, unsure what to do next. He had seen personal combat before, but never within the city walls, and this was his first as Commander of the Royal Guards. The cries of the wounded echoed from the explosion sites. Should he go to the market to help? He paused, then heard Mikhail’s voice in his head. “Boy, combat is chaotic and overwhelming. You overcome that by focusing on the mission and remembering your training! Stay on mission; remember your training!”

Octavius took a deep breath. Yes. The Temple was his mission. The Centauri at the explosion sites would be another Centaur’s problem. He looked around and saw uncertainty on his troopers’ faces. He slammed his spear against his shield. “Royal Guards, eyes on me!”

They all looked at him. Good. He still saw uncertainty on their faces. “Our city is under attack, but our mission is to defend the Temple. That is where we are going. King Lionel’s forces will take care of your loved ones if necessary. Once the Temple is secure and we are relieved, I will grant you leave to check on your clans. In the meantime, our mission is the Temple!”

He struck his spear against his shield again and called out, “We are the spear point!” Twenty Centauri struck their shields together in unison and shouted, “Ares!”

Octavius lifted his spear and shouted, “Follow me!” He galloped toward the Temple, followed by his Centauri.

#

Heros was at a full gallop, about halfway to the Temple. His speed outpaced his protective detail, leaving him alone. He turned a corner and found a group of eight orcs and a figure in full black armor, bent over a fallen Centaur, hand on its chest. He skidded to a stop, drew his sword, and surveyed the enemy.

The Orcs stood ten hands tall. They were bipedal, stocky, and black. Their bristly fur was covered in leather armor, and they wielded curved swords stained with blood. Their red eyes locked onto him, brimming with malice. Their long, wolf-like snouts were lined with sharp, curved teeth.

The armored figure, at least a few hands taller than the Orcs, stood and pointed at Heros, commanding in a deep voice, “Kill him; bring his crown to me!” Then a black slit appeared beside him. He stepped through it and vanished.

Feck, thought Heros. A magic user! He wondered when orcs had started using armor and weapons but set the thought aside for now. Instead, he raised his sword to a mid-guard position as the orcs charged.

He lunged to meet them, and one of his forehooves struck the leading Orc’s head, crushing it. His sword lashed out at a second Orc as he charged through the group, severing the Orc’s sword arm and making the Orc shriek.

At the group’s rear, he suddenly planted his two front hooves and kicked out with his hind hooves, striking two more orcs with bone-shattering force. He bounded forward a few paces, then spun to check himself. He had a couple of shallow cuts from their attacks, but nothing serious. Clearly, they weren’t skilled in swordplay, he thought. 

As if reading his thoughts, the remaining five screamed, dropped their swords, and charged at him in their usual swarm tactic. The one missing an arm grabbed his arm from the ground and held it overhead, planning to use it as a weapon.

Four Royal Guards charged at them from behind. A quick flash of steel felled the orcs. One of the guards, Claretus, saluted Heros and asked, “Are you all right, Your Highness?”

Heros nodded. “Yes, thanks to your timely arrival! Good job catching up!”

Claretus grinned. “If we hadn’t gotten here when we did, you wouldn’t have left us any of it!”

Heros smiled grimly. “No worries. I feel Ares will have plenty for all of us at the Temple. Let’s go!”

#

Octavius and his two squads arrived at the temple. Fortunately, the squads posted outside the central sanctum were alert and prepared, with swords and shields at the ready. It didn’t seem the orcs had been here. Hector, the squad leader, took a squad and entered the inner sanctum. He returned, trotting over to Octavius.

“Nobody but Myrddin and a squad of Royal Guards is inside, Commander.”

“Thank Ares! Post to your squad.”

Hector saluted, then turned to leave. “Hector?” The squad leader looked back at him. “See if there’s another way in.” Hector flashed an admiring grin, nodded, and trotted off.

The main entrance to the Temple of Athena was wide enough for four armored Centauri to walk abreast. The path from the entrance to the sanctum stretched about 600 feet.

Octavius shouted, “Platoon! Double phalanx!” The three squad leaders replied, “Yes, sir!” Within twenty seconds, the three squads lined up facing the entrance, with the second squad filling the gaps between the first and third.

Octavius called out, “Spears!”

The Centauri sheathed their swords and grabbed one of their three spears. Almost in unison, they struck their shields with their spears, making them ring.

Octavius positioned himself before the first squad. “Centauri! Orcs are inside the city walls. They might be coming for Myrddin. We won’t let that happen. We are the tip of the spear!”

Twenty voices shouted, “Ares!”

Octavius noticed a sharp drop in temperature as a black slit opened in the air at the entrance. 

He turned as he saw a black, armored figure step out of the black slit. Behind him, about a hundred orcs began gathering in the street leading to the temple. Octavius noticed the magic user and was surprised to see the orcs wearing leather armor and carrying swords, many of them bloodstained. 

Uncharacteristically, they were quiet.  Of all he’d experienced, this bothered him the most.

Octavius stepped forward and planted the butt of his spear firmly. He looked at the black-armored figure and called out, “I am Commander Octavius of the Royal Centauri Guard. This is the Temple of Athena, and you are not welcome here!”

The figure spoke, his voice deep, low, and mocking. “Hello, Commander Octavius of the Royal Centauri Guard. My name is Mordred, and I don’t give a shit whether we’re welcome or not. We’re here for the man you guard. Drop your spears or die!”

Octavius planted his feet, raised his spear, and struck his shield, making it ring. “Molón labé! (Come and take them!)”

Mordred raised his right hand and pointed at Octavius. A ball of flame shot from his hand and streaked toward Octavius. It struck Octavius’s shield, knocking him back a pace. As the flame faded, Octavius was smoking but otherwise unharmed. His Centauri tapped their shields twice and chanted, “Ares! Ares!”

Mordred’s helm tilted sideways as he said, “Interesting.” He pointed at the Centauri and commanded the orcs, “Kill them all!” The orcs surged around him, shrieking, then charged the Centauri.

Octavius wheeled around and returned to his position behind the lead phalanx. Hector was there, grimly watching his still-smoking body. He spat. “Magic users!” he said. “There are two other entrances, guarded by priestesses. No orcs will get through there!”

Octavius nodded. The lead squad of Centauri raised their shields and planted their hooves in the ground. The mass of orcs slammed into the lead squad with a loud crunch, followed by shrieks as Centauri spears thrust. The orcs flowed around the front squad as bodies began to pile up. 

Mordred pointed both hands at the lead squad. A bolt of concentrated energy shot from his hands and struck the ground beneath them. The resulting explosion hurled several Centauri into the air. They landed on their sides and were swarmed by Orcs. The second squad filled the void left by the blast.

Mordred raised his hands again. Suddenly, a beam of white light struck him, knocking him to the ground. He got to his feet and saw a female Centauri in white-and-blue armor, her glowing mace aimed at him.

Reginae shouted, “This is the sacred house of Athena! You are not welcome here!”

Mordred tilted his head again. He bent down and touched a wounded orc, who seemed to shrink and then die. He stood and said, “I get that I’m not welcome. I guess I’ll leave, then!” A black slit opened in the air beside him. He stepped through it and vanished.

Octavius frowned. A necromancer! A second thought crossed his mind. That felt way too easy. He turned to Hector. “Take over! I’m going into the sanctum. It’s a straight-up fight now!” Hector nodded.

Octavius turned and saw his mother strike an orc with her mace. He shouted over the din of combat, “He’s going after Myrddin!” She nodded, and Octavius galloped toward the sanctum.

At that moment, Heros and his bodyguards charged the Orcs from behind. Their terrified victims screamed, and the remaining Orcs scattered in panic.

Octavius entered the sanctum to the Centauri’s cheers behind him.

At the entrance, he stepped aside from a spear thrust from one of the Centauri. The scene that greeted him was troubling. Myrddin’s sleeping body lay on a dais at the center of the sanctum. Half the squad was fighting the other half. One Centaur was on the ground, and another seemed frozen over Myrddin’s body. 

Mordred stood next to the frozen Centaur, his left hand outstretched, pointing at the Centaur.

The nearest centaur to Octavius thrust his spear at him again. Octavius caught the spear under his left arm and struck with his spear hand. His fist slammed into the centaur’s face, and its front legs buckled as it fell unconscious. Octavius released the spear from under his arm and charged toward the dais.

His horse-chest slammed into Mordred, hurling him across the sanctum and into the wall.  Octavius turned toward the centaur standing over Myrddin’s body.

The centaur’s face was twisted in agony, a grimace. Sweat slicked his brow. His right hand held a raised sword, but his arm trembled. Octavius tried to recall the centaur’s name. Flavius. “Flavius, lower your sword!”

Flavius’ voice came out as strained as his face looked. “My… Lord Commander… I cannot! I… am… held in a spell… of some sort!”

Octavius rested his left hand on Flavius’s shoulder. “Do you know what I must do?”

Flavius gasped in pain. “Yes, Lord Commander, quickly! It is so hard!”

Octavius dropped his spear and drew his sword. He set the tip just above Flavius’ right shoulder.

Flavius gasped again.  “My… Lord… free my clan from dishonor!”

Octavius sighed. “Flavius, on my word as the Lord Commander of the Royal Guard, you’ve acted honorably today!”

“Thank… you… My Lord!”

Octavius drove his sword into Flavius, who collapsed onto the dais. Octavius withdrew his blade and stepped between Myrddin and Mordred, who was rising after Octavius’ strike.

Octavius braced himself, then felt a warm sensation to his left. Reginae stepped beside him, glowing with silver light. Her eyes shimmered silver, and Octavius felt a wave of relief. Athena was there.

Reginae spoke, her voice like two voices in unison. “Mordred, necromancer from another world! You are not welcome in my house! Stay and be destroyed, or flee and live! Choose quickly!”

Heros appeared on Reginae’s left, sword at the ready. “Mordred! Please stay! Ares needs another sacrifice today!”

Mordred stood tall and removed his helmet. Octavius examined his face. He had long black hair, pale blue eyes, and a shadow along his jawline. Octavius would recognize him anywhere now. His pale blue eyes regarded them with malevolence.

His deep voice rang out. “You Centauri have taught me much today. I look forward to examining one of you to see what makes you tick!” He pointed at Myrddin’s body. “He will be the cause of this world’s destruction! Stand with him, and you will all die painful, wicked deaths! This I swear!” A black slit appeared beside him. He stepped through it and vanished.

Octavius looked at his father. “Who the feck is Mordred?”

Heros frowned. “Language, Lord Commander.”

Octavius made a face.

A raspy voice from behind them said, “Mordred is my son. He needs to be killed, but it is my responsibility to kill him.”

Heros, Reginae, and Octavius spun to see Myrddin seated on the dais.

With Mordred’s disappearance, the ensorcelled Centauri regained their senses. Crestfallen, they looked around at the carnage surrounding the dais.

Heros, Reginae, and Octavius bowed to Myrddin. The other Centauri followed suit. With his head bowed, Heros asked, “My Lord Myrddin, how may the Centauri serve?”

Myrddin croaked, “I could use some wine! And an escort to the lands of the Tylwyth Teg. Lots to do, so little time to do it!”

Octavius quickly went to a nearby table, grabbed a wineskin and a cup, and offered both to Myrddin. Myrddin ignored the cup and drained the wineskin. He then looked forlornly at the empty wineskin.

His voice sounded much more solid as he repeated, “Yes. An escort to the lands of the Tylwyth Teg. So much to do, so little time!”

He looked around the sanctum, his face scrunching in thought. “What year is it?”