jteroracleverse

[jteroracleverse]

I

The void was quiet. Too quiet, to employ the cliche. The quiet rang through reality. The silence deafened, tore and stabbed and stretched, breaking at his senses until his senses simply shut down in protest.

Nothing made sense.

That was it, wasn’t it?

Nothing.

Nothing was hammering away at his brain, hitting out at him again and again. Nothing was pushing at the edges of his perception, screaming in his ear and yet utterly absent, silent, empty, gone, gone, gone…

Who am I? a thought raced through his mind. His thought? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t know. Why am I here? Where is here? What is here?!

Fear tore at his mind, and he frantically groped about his mind, searching for whatever was left of his sanity, until… until what? What was left? Was anything left?

Was anything left?

Was there anything to begin with, or was it all merely a facade, a lie I told myself?

No! We are… you are…

Who are you?

Who am I?

His mind gave him no answers in the long, dark silence.

***

The Solarin Empire Starship Legacy arrived at the edge of the Great Desolation almost quietly: the space around it empty, silent as the grave.

A poor omen.

The Legacy hung in the blackness of the infinite void like a silver arrowhead floating in a deep pool, a point of glinting metal and red-painted accents in an otherwise featureless space. So small she seemed that a casual observer might have feared that the space around her would just swallow her up. That fear was certainly shared by her crew.

Scuttlebutt throughout the ship had already done its cruel work: rumours of an invasion of dæmons or monsters from the Great Desolation abounded, conveniently ignoring the fact that dæmons were a fairy tale (not to mention that such an invasion would call for far more than a single Valiant-class cruiser as response), and that as much of an unknown as the great Desolation was, it was not officially home to dæmons, monsters or worse.

Still, by the time they had actually reached the coordinates of the distress beacon they were answering, the whole ship was permeated with a sense of unease, one that could even be felt on the vessel’s bridge, and even by her commanding officer.

Captain Reyla Dyjar’s ears were standing straight atop her head, her fur bristling with disquiet and her wide, yellow eyes unblinking as she stared at the observation screen. The Vyde has to force herself not to hold her breath in anticipation.

Next to her, she could see her XO, Commander Omar-3, sitting stiffly, even his normally calm expression tinged with unease. In fact, the dark-skinned, gene-modded human was positively frowning. Such a display was almost unheard-of for a man from the planet Mode, so set they were in creating perfect humans, free from such things as doubt and fear.

If even a damn Modal is scared, then we’re skekked, Dyjar thought, but she didn’t say it aloud. She was the Captain after all. And that means we must be more than merely Vyde, she admonished herself. It was a lesson she had drilled into herself a thousand times. Be aloof, be strong, be ready. Even when you are not. Especially when you are not.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then she spoke, putting as much reassurance and authority into her voice as she could.

“Report.”

“I’m still picking up the automated beacon, Captain,” her comscan officer, another Vyde by the name of Lyrak, reported, frowning at his console. His console let out its usual bleeps and bloops, which – despite their somewhat insistent nature – Dyjar found oddly comforting. “Registers as the SES Babel, a science-corp vessel.”

“The Babel was reassigned last year,” Omar-3 said quietly to her. Trust him to know that immediately. “The research was highly classified, as I recall.”

“Might explain what in the hells they’re doing here,” Dyjar replied, scowling. “I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to come to the Great Desolation unless they were ordered to.”

“I concur,” Omar-3 agreed. He looked back at the screen, frowning. “May I recommend we take the ship to general quarters, Captain?”

“You think that’s a necessary precaution?” Dyjar queried.

“I think we’re responding to a distress signal from a ship at the edge of the Great Desolation,” Omar-3 replied, still speaking softly. “That, in and of itself, suggests caution would be apt.”

Dyjar nodded. “Very well.”

Omar-3 gave a very slight smile, before turning to his own console. He tapped a command.

“This is the bridge,” he said, his words echoing slightly through the Legacy’s comm system. “General quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. This is not a drill. Say again, all hands to battle stations.”

A loud klaxon sounded – once, twice, a third time – and every officer on the bridge stiffened, suddenly acutely aware of exactly how serious this situation had become.

Omar-3 glanced at Dyjar, who nodded at him, before he turned to their weapons officer. She was a Sevine woman named Daun; the stringy flesh-strands that sat where hair did on humans were tied back in a ponytail, and her normally blue skin was turning a shade of mottled grey as her emotions bled through.

“Charge particle cannons to full, raise defence fields,” Omar-3 said quietly.

“Aye, sir,” Daun replied shakily, checking her console. Her skin turned even darker grey. “Weapons at ready, defence fields at full strength.”

Omar-3 nodded. “Thank you, Daun.” He checked his console one more time, then turned to Dyjar. “All decks report general quarters, Captain.”

Dyjar let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. “Thank you, Commander.”

She tapped her armrest computer, bringing up the manifest of the SES Babel. Right at the top was a report about the Babel’s Captain, Uriel Locke: the image was of a stern man, mid forties, blue eyes, and a blue science-fleet uniform that looked immensely wrong on him. A brief skim-read of his record showed no sign of anything that might have convinced him to go rogue and take his ship into the Great Desolation for skeks and giggles. Then again, as anyone even peripherally familiar with that expanse of space knew, that was no guarantee that he hadn’t just spontaneously gone mad instead.

She straightened, before getting out of her chair. “Scan for the Babel.”

“The ship isn’t coming up on sensors, Captain,” Lyrak said, still frowning. “No debris, either. Correction,” he said, turning a dial on his console, “there is some debris, but not enough to account for a ship. Looks like a couple of destroyed evac pods.”

Dyjar nodded, accepting the grim news. “Any survivors?”

“There’s… I think I’m picking up one intact pod, Captain,” Lyran said. “Just the one. Registering a single life sign, human.”

“Activate tractor field, bring them in,” Dyjar said quietly. She looked at Omar-3, who was frowning. “Commander?”

“Hopefully this survivor will be able to give us some information,” Omar-3 said without elaborating. He looked at her. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I’d like to be there when they pull them out.”

“Of course,” Dyjar said, her eyes now focused on the observation screen.

As Omar-3 walked out of the bridge, Dyjar found herself wondering just what could have happened to the Babel. Her mind provided only the worst thoughts, and she suppressed them.

Do not let fear guide you. She marshalled herself. You are Captain. You guide fear.

It was a lie, one of many, but a comforting one.

***

[jteroracleverse]

Oracle Legends

Bellerophon

By Jed T. E. Rhodes

One: Babel Falling

Februn 3730

Part One

[jteroracleverse]

Like I said, writing has stalled on Exemplar as a serialised prose piece, but if you enjoyed the story, you might be interested in having a look at this:

Exemplar is an RPGmaker MV game that I’ve been working on for the last year. The demo is available now for free on itch.io at the link above. I’m eager to get feedback about the characters, the story and the gameplay.

Let me know what you think!

Jed.

[jteroracleverse]

Been a while since I posted anything. Writing’s stalled a little on Exemplar, I’m sorry to say, but I’ll be posting something new in the next couple of days.

[jteroracleverse]

Exemplar Chapter Two - Hard Conversations

In a forest far away from Ector Village, a hooded figure walked, one hand clasping a gnarled wooden staff and the other hidden beneath a long, ragged brown cloak. 

The woods were silent. 

That wasn’t, of course, strictly accurate. It wasn’t that it was ‘silent’, since there was always the sound of distant birds, the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his boots, the softness of the wind rustling the trees. 

It would be more accurate to say that the forest was quiet: there was nothing out there: no sign of any other human presence.

But of course, the lonely figure thought as he walked, I know better than to believe that.

He kept walking. There was a path, of course, a well-trodden road through these woods that he knew very well, and he knew that said path would most likely lead him to… somewhere. The crunch of the leaves beneath his staff was constant and consistent, and he felt some comfort in that. As much comfort as he could really feel in anything, anyway. 

Never know too much, some small part of him thought, and he chuckled to himself. Knowing too much gets everyone in trouble. 

His chuckle died on his lips. How true those words were – truly, knowing too much had been the cause of more problems than he would have liked. Whatever had happened, he mused, to the thought that knowledge would set the world free?

Unfortunately, he knew the answer to that question all too well. 

He paused, the steady crunch, crunch of his staff on the leaves suddenly silenced, as he realised that the sound of birds and wind had died away. Slowly, he moved his other hand to grasp his staff. Raising it off the ground and pointing it ahead of him in a warding motion, he began walking forward again. The silence persisted.

“I know you are there,” he said, his voice strong and strident, ringing through the empty forest. “Reveal yourself.”

The silence seemed to mock him. For a moment, he almost imagined he could hear her voice again, chuckling at him from the shadows.

Still jumping at shadows, old man? How low you have sunk indeed.

And yet, he would always reply when that voice entered his thoughts, not nearly as low as you.

He could almost see the feral grin and hear the cruel laughter again, and the trees seemed to rustle in reply to the imagined laughter.

“Reveal yourself!” he said again, more insistently. 

There was no reply, but a few seconds later the man lowered his staff again, and the sounds of birds and other creatures returned to the forest, almost as though they had never stopped. Perhaps they never had, and all this was merely premonition.

Sighing, the man began walking again, moving faster, as though filled with renewed purpose.

The time has come again, he thought as he walked. And here I am, with so little time left to prepare. Typical, really. 

What time do you really think you have? that voice seemed to incessantly whisper.

But he only smiled. Time enough, old foe, old friend. Time enough.

***

It had been a long night. Tristan had slept soundly, but the girls had stayed awake, listening to the sounds from the village. There had been shouting, and through their windows they could see distant fires being put out. It didn’t look like any of the attackers (whoever or whatever they were) had gotten into the village itself, but there was a lot of smoke.

Bors had been as good as his word, staying the night and keeping watch over their father. 

“I’ve seen many men slip into the endless sleep from head wounds,” he’d said to Evie and Tora, which hadn’t exactly calmed their nerves. “Best to have an eye on him, in case he tries to slip away.”

Fortunately, Tristan had woken up with nothing but the nasty cut on his head and a blinding headache. The morning found him nursing a cup of hot tea as Evie and Tora entered the kitchen.

“Girls,” he greeted with a strained smile. “You alright?”

Tora nodded, taking a seat opposite him. Evie went to their fridge to grab a milk bottle, and poured herself a glass.

“Are you?” she asked Tristan. She’d never seen him hurt like that before: while there had been attacks on occasion, and he’d always served with the guard, he’d always come out of them unscathed.

He waved a hand airily. “I took far worse hits than that in my younger days.”

“Emphasis,” came Bors’ voice as the older man entered the kitchen, his sword slung over his shoulder once more, “on ‘younger days’, young Paladin.” 

“Oh, hello, Mr Bors,” Evie said in greeting as he came in. She could see Tora still giving him a look, but as far as she was concerned, he’d saved their father. 

“Mornin’, kids,” Bors replied gruffly as he walked past them. He stopped, putting a hand on Tristan's shoulder.  “Will you be alright, lad?”

“Yeah,” Tristan said, nodding. “You get yourself home, rest. It was a long night.”

“I’ve had far longer,” Bors replied without missing a beat. 

Tristan chuckled, though his expression wasn’t as simple as amusement. 

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I guess you have at that.”

Evie watched their exchange with a small frown. 

I didn’t know they were friends, she thought. I always thought Mr Bors was just the crazy guy who lived near the town hall. How do they know each other?

Bors frowned, before looking at the girls.  He pursed his lips.

“You might want to have a talk with your girls, Tristan,” he said quietly. Without another word, he walked out of the room, leaving Tristan and his daughters alone. 

“So,” Tristan said after a brief, awkward silence. “You wanted to talk about something?”

Evie and Tora exchanged a look, and then Tora sighed.

“Uh, yeah, we have been meaning to chat about stuff,” she said, scratching the back of her head. “It’s just… well…”

“Finding time?” Tristan asked, chuckling. “Don’t worry, I get that. It happens to me, too.”

“Dad,” Evie put in, “we want to help.”

Tristan’s smile faded. “Help.”

“Help with the village, help the sentries, help the scouting parties,” Tora added. She looked at Evie, before sighing. “You know I’ve been training. I’m ready.”

“And I want to help,” Evie said. She hesitated for a moment, before pulling her glaive from behind her cloak where she’d stowed it. “I’ve… I’ve been practicing with this.”

Tristan blinked. “Where…”

“You left it in the back room with a bunch of other things,” Evie said quickly. “I… I thought -”

“I seem to recall telling you both to never go in there,” Tristan said, his voice dropping in temperature by degrees. 

Evie swallowed, stepping back, and Tristanms expression softened. Before he could speak, however, Tora had put a hand on Evie’s shoulder.

“She wants to help,” the older girl said, “and I do too.” She scowled at Tristan. “What exactly is wrong with that?”

Tristan scowled, before pushing himself to his feet and slowly waking over to the weapon’s rack. Once there, he picked up his axe, which had been loosely placed there, and in a single motion he picked it up and dropped it on the table with a hefty thunk. The edge was notched, and it was covered in dried blood.

“You think you’re ready, huh?” he said flatly. He met Tora’s eyes, and she looked away. Then he met Evie’s, but she held his gaze.

“We have to be ready someday,” she said quietly. 

“‘Someday’,” Tristan repeated scathingly.

“Dad,” Tora said quietly, meeting his eyes again. “We want to help. You got hurt yesterday. You’re telling us we have to stand by and just… what? Wait for you to not come back one day?”

Tristan pounded his fist against the table. “I’d rather not come back than have to be the one left waiting for you! I can’t deal with that again!” 

There was a long pause, the shock of his outburst hanging in the air. Evie’s eyes widened in horror at his expression: there was something broken in his eyes, a look of utter desperation, terror even. Tora had stepped back, apparently realising she had crossed a line. She reached out and squeezed Evie’s hand.

“Dad,” Evie said after a moment. “We didn’t mean to upset you. But after last night…” She trailed off, before shrugging, feeling suddenly awkward. “We… we just want to help you. That’s all.”

Tristan’s expression softened. “Yeah. I guess you do.” 

Sighing, he took the axe and put it back on the rack, before leaning heavily against the wall. Evie and Tora exchanged a look.

“I’m going to go talk with Bors,” he said after a moment, his tone one of resignation. “You two stay here.” He paused. “Or go in the yard. Practice. If you’re serious,” his tone seemed to imply that he doubted that, “then more practice is always a good idea.”

Without another word, he walked out of the door, leaving Tora and Evie alone. 

“I think we upset him,” Tora said quietly after a brief silence.

Evie nodded, her mind still full of questions. Sighing, she turned and went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of milk, and poured herself another glass. There had been something about what he had said that had struck a nerve, and with a brief glance at Tora, she knew her sister understood what their father had meant as well.

***

Tristan walked along the street’s of Ector, his mind lost in thought. The previous night was a blur, and all he could see when he thought back to it was… images. Fire, screaming, the bells ringing, the town guards and militia fighting against…

Faceless helmets on silent soldiers, only a handful, backed by those blood-soaked cultists screaming bloody murder, the yells in obscene tongues that he’d long since forgotten… 

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the images.

I thought the bad old days were over, he thought grimly. 

Almost unconsciously, he ended up walking to Old Bors’ house. The old man was sitting on his front porch, cleaning his sword with a wistful expression. 

“Forgot to get this done while I was watching you,” he said to Tristan by way of greeting, looking over the gleaming metal with a small, satisfied smile. He looked up. “How are you feeling, boy?”

“I’m good, Bors,” Tristan said quietly. “Just… thinking. About last night.”

Bors gave a smile. “I don’t blame you. It wasn’t a good experience.”

“Yet another contender for understatement of our age,” Tristan said, chuckling, though his amusement quickly died. 

Bors patted the porch floorboard next to him, and Tristan went and took a seat next to him.

“You spoke to them,” the old man said.

“Yeah,” Tristan replied quietly. He looked at Bors, who was gazing expectantly at him. “Didn’t go brilliantly.”

Bors nodded, looking entirely unsurprised by this.  

“My children, Bors,” Tristan continued, his gaze slipping off into the distance. The South Tower was visible from here, smoke rising from the side. “They want to fight, to help protect the village, but…”

“But you don’t want ‘em to fight the things we fought in the old days, the things we fought last night,” Bors finished quietly. “You want ‘em safe and sound and happy, right?”

Tristan nodded, his expression morose. “But I can’t keep them safe, can I?”

“Not forever, no,” Bors said evenly. “Every parent has to learn to let go. That’s what your Dad had to learn, and what you’ll have to learn soon, too.”

Tristan sighed, putting his head in his hands. Images seemed to flash past his mind’s eye: pale soldiers in faceless armour, cultists, lunatics. Blood, yelling, the sight of old friends falling…

“Should I?” he finally asked.

“You’re asking me?” Bors replied incredulously. “Your father and Tiberius were the marrying-with-kids types. Not me.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not here,” Tristan said, crossing his arms. “You are.”

Bors’ expression softened to a warm, sad smile that barely crinkled the lines around his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I am that.” 

He looked up at the sky, apparently lost in thought, and Tristan followed his gaze, looking up at the pale clouds and the grey sky.

“Dark days are comin’, lad,” Bors said after a moment, his voice soft and tinged with a melancholy that Tristan had never heard from him before. “Dark days, full o’ fear. The old age of heroes is over: we’re gonna need all the brave lads and lasses we can find if we’re going to bring it back.”

Tristan snorted. “The old age of heroes has been over for fifty years, Bors. Nothing can bring it back. You’d have thought the last time someone tried would have taught you that.”

Bors winced at his tone. Tristan sagged, regretting what he had said almost immediately, but Bors said nothing for a moment, instead apparently pondering those words.

“Aye, that might be true,” he finally said, nodding slowly. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t at least get people ready for the new age. Whatever it’s going to hold.”

“We were trying to be ready for a new age before,” Tristan pointed out. “Look where that got us. Me, Thad, Tanja, Angie…” He closed his eyes. Faces of friends long gone seemed to come to the forefront of his mind, and he swallowed, trying not to choke on the sudden emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “We thought it’d be us, and all it brought us was pain.”

“Aye, true,” Bors agreed. At Tristan’s dirty look, he shrugged. “You expect me to sugarcoat it for you? Half your lot are gone, and the other half might as well be. I think that you and Thaddeus are the only ones I know still knocking about.”

“If he even still is,” Tristan grouched, thinking of his far-too-enthusiastic brother-in-law. “Probably his sodding influence that got them wanting to be guards in the first place. He always made his fighting stories seem so bloody romantic.”

“Oh, you know that boy’s far too stubborn to die,” Bors said with a dismissive wave, ignoring Tristan’s other comment. “But just like your lot weren’t bound by what happened to the last age, your children aren’t bound to your fates, either.” He gave Tristan a wry smile. “You never know. They might surprise you.”

Tristan sighed, leaning forward contemplatively. Finally, he nodded.

“Alright, then,” he said. Did he even have a choice anyway?

***

Evie and Tora tried to train, Evie with her glaive and Tora with a longsword  she had picked up from the main rack, but with the smoke hanging over the southernmost side of the town still visible, it was difficult to keep focused. Evie had spent most of that time worrying about their father, worrying about what he had gone through. 

Eventually, both of them had come to a mutual agreement that they might as well give it up for a lost cause. 

“I need something better than… this thing anyway,” Tora had said, dropping the longsword.

“What made you pick a sword, anyway?” Evie asked, frowning at it.

“I’unno,” Tora shrugged. “Isn’t that the thing everyone uses?” Evie raised her glaive with a pointed expression, and Tora chuckled. “Alright, everyone else, then?” 

“Dad’s got an axe,” Evie pointed out. “You could try that?”

“Nah,” Tora said, shaking her head. She moved to the back porch and sat, scowling. “I just need to get better, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Evie said slowly, moving to sit next to her, making sure not to sit on her cloak. “I guess so.” She held the handle of her glaive in her hand. “I… I just picked this because it looked cool.”

Tora chuckled at that. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that. I dunno.” She sighed. “D’you think he’ll really let us train?”

“I don’t know,” Evie replied, shaking her head. She frowned. “I hope so, but…”

Tora nodded. Both of them knew too well what their father thought, even before their recent conversation. 

“C’mon,” Tora said after a moment. She picked up the sword. “Let’s try it again.”

Evie murmured her assent, though her heart wasn’t really in it. She held her glaive in both hands and waited for Tora to make her move. 

***

It was only a few hours later when Tristan finally came back to his house. When he did, however, Bors with him. The old man was standing straighter than he had before, a serious expression on his face. His sword was still slung over his shoulder. Their father, meanwhile, looked more sombre.

“Alright,” he said without preamble. “You two want to help, right?”

“Right,” Tora said at once, and Evie nodded as well.

“Right, then,” Tristan said quietly. He motioned to Bors. “Then Bors will oversee your training.”

Tora blinked, clearly surprised, and Evie did her best to not immediately blurt out ‘what?!’ at the top of her lungs. 

“Uh… why him?” Tora asked after a moment, clearly trying very hard to not sound scathing.

Bors snorted at that. “You think I was always just the madman who lived at the edge of this crappy village? I used to know a thing or two. I’ll wager I still do.”

“He’s probably the best teacher either of you will have here in Ector,” Tristan added, nodding, “and he’s got more time on his hands than I do to be teaching you how to fight, really teaching you.”

Tora and Evie shared a glance, and then Evie nodded.

“Alright,” she said. 

Tristan smiled. “Good.” He took a breath. “And starting as soon as Bors says you’re ready, Tora, you’ll join the sentry guard.”

Tora grinned. “Really?” 

“Yes,” Tristan said. He looked at Evie. “You too, Evie, when you’re eighteen.”

Evie nodded. She didn’t feel entirely happy with that, but she wasn’t about to push it. 

Dad’s agreeing to let us train and let me join when I’m old enough, she thought. That’s probably the best deal we’re ever going to get from him.

“Right, then,” Bors said, a resolute expression on his face. “Go get some rest, you two. Tomorrow, we’ll start doing this properly.”

Evie and Tora exchanged another glance. Evie saw Tora’s eyes widen in something resembling apprehension.

What have we just gotten ourselves into?

[jteroracleverse]

Exemplar Chapter One - The Beginning

In a village, many years after the battle of Calenhad…

A girl in an ultramarine cloak sat at the edge of Ector Village, her hood up, concealing her face. Beneath her cloak she wore a pale blue set of practical work clothes, with long grey boots coming up to her knees. She was looking up at the blue sky, watching a cloud drift by lazily.

“Sis? Hey, sis?!”

The cloaked girl shook her head, looking from the clouds to another girl walking up to her. Pulling her hood down, Eveline Paladin smiled, her wide blue eyes shining brightly beneath her short, spiky blonde hair.

“Hey, Tora,” she said.

Tora, her sister, folded her arms and gave her a wry smirk. She was a tall, well built girl, a couple of years older than Evie. She wore a pale blue tank-top and a pair of sturdy brown trousers, over which she had a dusty brown leather coat that reached her knees. Her long blue-black hair was tied behind her head in a tight ponytail, only a pair of bangs hanging over her face. Her eyes were smaller and ever-so-slightly narrower than Evie’s, but their smiles were almost identical.

“Hey yourself, Evie,” she said. “Daydreaming again?”

Evie gave a small, nervous chuckle. “Yeah. Kinda.”

Tora looked up at the sky. “Cloudwatching isn’t exactly the most exciting hobby, sis.”

“Guess not,” Evie said, smiling and looking up at the clouds. She stood up: she was at least a head shorter than Tora, her cloak trailing along behind her on the floor. “But, uh, well…”

She reached behind her cloak and pulled a small red handle from her belt: it was mostly quite thin, save for the ends, giving it the impression of an elongated hourglass. She held it up, and her sister’s eyes widened.

“You pilfered that from Dad’s weapon rack,” she whispered, before bursting out laughing. “You canny little… how’d you do that?”

“It wasn’t on his rack, it was in the back room,” Evie explained, clicking a switch. A pair of slightly curved, single-edged blades shot out from the bulbous ends of the cylinder. “I… I figured we could practice, y’know? You’re training to join the town guard; maybe I could… help. Or something.”

Tora chuckled. “Yeah, I guess we could.” Her smile faded slightly. “Think you’re ready?”

Evie’s smile disappeared too, and she ran a hand through her hair.

“I’m… I’m not the one we’d have to ask,” she said quietly after a moment.

Tora whistled. “Well… I dunno. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.”

Evie smiled sadly. “Me neither. But… it’s important, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Tora said, nodding. She sighed. “Come on, eh? Let’s get back home. Dad’ll probably want us to run a couple errands.”

“Yeah,” Evie agreed, retracting the glaive and stowing the handle back behind her back, “probably a good idea.”

“Hey,” Tora added, “and afterwards, we can totally go practice some moves in a field, okay?”

Evie grinned. “Sounds great.”

***

Ector village never changed.

From where Evie and Tora had been standing, there was a small set of stairs that led down to the lower section of Ector’s west district, and a small series of houses made from stone and old redbrick. Most of Evie and Tora knew most of the people in this village and – sometimes unfortunately – the people here knew them too.

“Tora Paladin!” one such villager called as they walked. Tora winced, before turning to look at the speaker – an old woman in a yellow dress, hunched over her walking stick.

“Mrs Hoggins,” she said, smiling brightly (too brightly, Evie thought with a small smile of her own).

“Don’t you ‘Mrs Hoggins’ me,” the old woman said angrily. “I distinctly recall that you promised to help with my back garden last week, but I have not seen hide nor hair of you coming ‘round!”

“Busted,” Evie whispered, her face split into a grin.

Tora kept smiling. “I’m really, really sorry, Mrs Hoggins. It’s, uh, been -”

“I’ve already spoken to your father, young lady,” Mrs Hoggins said, waving her stick at Tora. “So you can forget trying your excuses out on me! Now I want you to come to my house first thing tomorrow morning, and we’ll see about weeding my flowerbed.”

Tora’s smile was definitely starting to look strained as she nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry, again.”

“Humph,” Mrs Hoggins grunted, before wandering off.

“So busted,” Evie whispered, still grinning.

“Oh, sod off,” Tora hissed, mock-punching Evie in the arm. “You’re so lucky people like you.”

“Well, I didn’t throw up on Mrs Hoggins’ favourite begonias,” Evie pointed out, giggling. “I mean, you were already going to be in trouble with Dad for being drunk at all.”

“I’m seventeen,” Tora pointed out. “I’m allowed to drink.”

Evie snorted, but said nothing. Privately, she thought that just because Konrad at the Old Priory has been stupid enough to sell Tora beer (or whatever that stuff had been, and frankly Evie really didn’t want to know), that didn’t mean Tora was ‘allowed to drink’. No point saying it, though.

“Anyway, c’mon,” Tora said after a moment. “And let’s hope Dad doesn’t have anything too bad for us to do.”

“Yeah,” Evie agreed.

***

The Paladin house was nearer the northern edge of Ector village, within a few minutes walk from the town hall. It was less a house, more a small smithy, with a rack of standard weapons on display outside the shop. A sign read Paladin Smithy: Custom Standard And Energised Projectile And Close Combat Weapons Available. Unwieldy as the text was, it suited the owner perfectly.

“Girls?” a voice called from inside.

A tall, blonde-haired man stepped out of the Smithy, smiling as he saw them. He wore a coat like Tora’s, but shorter, and a single short battleaxe was girt at his side. Across his shoulder he had slung an unfamiliar long greatsword in a battered leather scabbard.

This was their father, Tristan Paladin.

“Hey, Dad,” Tora said with a smile.

“What you been up to?” Tristan asked. “Having a walkabout?”

“Something like that,” Tora said, folding her arms. “Did you rat me out to Mrs Hoggins?”

Tristan chuckled at that. “I did. And you should have already done your chores for her, so you shouldn’t be giving me that look.”

Tora rolled her eyes. “Dad, I am not a gardener, I -”

“Much as this topic is fascinating,” Tristan cut her off, still smiling, “I need your girls to do me a big favour if you can.”

Tora sighed. “Sure Dad, what is it?”

He took the sword from across his shoulder. “I fixed this up for old Bors, but I’ve got a bunch of other orders to work on and I need to swap the crystal in our generator again. Can you girls take it?”

He tossed it to Tora, who caught it with both hands, grimacing slightly at the weight of it.

“Yeah,” she said, sharing a glance with Evie. “I guess we can.”

“Is he at the Old Priory?” Evie asked gently.

Their father shrugged. “There or his house. Try his house first, though: don’t want to be making assumptions.”

Tora and Evie shared a glance. Bors being at the Old Priory wasn’t exactly an unfair assumption, as everyone in Ector tended to know.

“Will do, Dad,” Tora finally said, throwing her father a mock salute before slinging the sword over her own shoulder. “Don’t work too hard. I’m pretty sure David and Harold don’t need their spare hoes de-rusted that badly.”

“You never know,” Evie said quietly. “For all we know they’re at war with the same weeds Mrs Hoggins wants rid of. Maybe there’s a conspiracy.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, though he was grinning too. “You’re both training for the wrong job. You should be comedians.”

“I can just see that now,” Tora chuckled, crossing her arms. “Tora and Evie Paladin, journeying jesters.”

Even as she said it, though, she must have realised her mistake, her face falling as Tristan’s expression cooled. He folded his arms, and Evie looked away, feeling a wave of embarrassment on Tora’s behalf.

“Less of the journeying, thank you,” their father said, his tone empty of mirth. “Anyway, get going. You don’t want to miss Bors if he is at home.”

With that, he walked back into the shop, and Evie sighed.

“You just had to say that, didn’t you?” she said.

“Yeah, well, he’s too touchy about that,” Tora replied nonchalantly. “C’mon, sis. Let’s get this delivered.”

***

As much as their father had said not to try the Old Priory first, Tora has immediately set off that way. Evie had tagged along, not really feeling particularly inclined to go to that end of town.

Not like I can stop her, Evie thought, rolling her eyes but saying nothing as they travelled through the village.

As they walked on, they passed an old fir tree, and Evie stopped, smiling at it. It was almost twenty feet tall, and a healthy green.

“Been a while since you’ve tried to climb that thing, huh?” Tora asked, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Just… thinking about it, I guess,” Evie said, giggling. “I remember when we planted it.”

Tora blinked at her. “Wait, you do?”

“Yeah?” Evie said, frowning. “Don’t you?”

“Well, barely,” Tora said, frowning. “I mean I was like – what, five? You can’t have been more than two.”

“Think so,” Evie said, smiling. “Dad was cutting the tree down – y’know, the old one? What was it? A willow?”

“I remember,” Tora said, chuckling now. “Then the damn thing nearly fell on me. I remember Mum screaming her head off at Dad, you were crying, and I was just like… ‘what? That was cool’.”

Evie laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s how it went.”

Tora sniffed. “Well, probably not exactly how it went, no.”

Still laughing, Evie walked off, Tora behind her.

The Old Priory was near the northernmost wall of Ector village, right by the all-but neglected North Tower. The north of the village had once, according to some older villagers, faced a great port. Now all there was there was a cliff and the sea, stretching out for miles and miles, all the way to… to whatever was out there. The Priory itself had once been a church, but now was little more than a run down old inn, a battered wooden sign creaking as it swung gently above the door.

Other countries, their father would say dismissively when asked. Not our business.

He says that about a lot, though, Evie thought, frowning for a moment as she looked towards the North Tower. It stood surprisingly tall, even despite everything that it had supposedly been through (not to mention the lack of love and care).

Tora walked up to the Priory’s door and went in. Gingerly, Evie stepped in after her. The space inside was no less decrepit than the exterior, and Evie found herself wondering whether alcohol was really so desirable a thing as to explain why one would wish to spend time here.

Most of the men inside were guards, clad in their basic tunics, most with at least their shoulder armour on, though few had their helmets on.

“Girls,” one such guard said, waving.

“Bert,” Tora said easily. “You off duty?”

“Sure,” the man shrugged. “It’s this or stand outside the door to the undercroft, and nobody’s got time for that bollocks.”

Tora rolled her eyes, giving Evie a small grin, and she returned her sister’s smile with a little uncertainty.

“We’re looking for Bors,” Tora said, tapping the sword’s hilt. “Dad finished this for him.”

Bert shrugged again. “He’s not here. He’s either at his or passed out somewhere on the way there.”

Tora nodded. “Thanks, Bert.”

“No problem,” the man said, returning to his drink.

Tora turned and left without another word, motioning for Evie to follow her. Judging from her expression, she wasn’t altogether happy with Bert’s answer.

At least we don’t have to stay here, Evie thought, letting out a sigh. It wasn’t her favourite environment.

“Thirteen, those guys smell in there,” Tora said as they walked off.

Evie let out a small laugh. “Yeah, they do a bit.” She paused. “You don’t really have room to talk, though, Tora. I mean, you drink.”

Tora scowled. “I don’t make it my only damn hobby like those guys do.” She shook her head. “Anyway, we need to get this sword to Bors’. It’s not as heavy as I’d’ve thought, but it’s still not light.”

“How heavy is it?” Evie asked, holding out one hand. Tora just looked at her hand and laughed.

“Heavy enough that you’d probably need both hands, Sis,” she said. “There’s a reason Dad gave it to me.”

Evie huffed, but said nothing more as they walked.

One day, she thought, I’ll be that strong.

***

Old Bors’ house was a run-down little shack near the town square: the square stood at the southern end of the village. It was a large, circular space with the town hall in the centre. The town hall was tall, made from strong grey stone, and a single clock tower sticking out high into the sky, and stone steps leading up to the double doors. By contrast, Bors’ house was unimpressive, with stone walls, battered, broken tiles, and nothing much else.

The two girls approached the small house, stepping up to the porch and stopping. The windows of the shack were dark, betraying no sign of life within.

“Think he’s in?” Tora asked, frowning skeptically at the shack’s rotting wooden door. The porch creaked beneath her feet.

Evie shrugged. “Could knock, I guess?”

Tora motioned to the door. “After you.”

Evie stuck her tongue out, and stepped up to the door. She raised her hand, and knocked twice. The door rattled on its hinges, and Evie stepped back quickly.

“Does he never fix this place?” Tora muttered from next to her.

Evie shrugged again, before looking at the door. The two waited in silence for a moment.

“Maybe he’s not at home?” she suggested.

Suddenly, the door opened inward, and a wide-eyed, bushy-bearded man was staring out at them. His long, raggedy hair was brushed back, away from his face, and he wore a brown, mud-splattered robe.

“What do you want?!” he slurred angrily, before taking in the two of them, blinking dumbly. “Oh. It’s you. Tristan’s pair.”

“Uh, hi, Mr Bors,” Evie said, waving awkwardly. “We, uh…”

“Dad finished fixing your sword,” Tora cut in, slinging the scabbard from her shoulder and holding it out to him in both hands.

Bors looked at it, blinking once.

“Oh,” he said again. “Right.” He reached out with one hand. “Thank him for me, won’t you.”

“Uh, sure,” Tora said, looking at Evie and subtly motioning to go. Evie frowned, and shook her head at her sister.

“Are you alright, Mr Bors?” she asked the old man.

“Alright?” the old man repeated. “Alright?” He shook his head, before slinging the sword over his own shoulder. “Haven’t been ‘alright’ for a long time. Silly question, silly girl. Nothing’s ‘alright’ these days.”

Tora rolled her eyes. “We should probably get going, Mr Bors. But it was nice to see you.”

Bors snorted at that. He turned back into his house and slammed the door without saying another word.

“What a polite man,” Tora said blandly. “Come on, Evie, let's get going.”

Evie nodded sadly. “Yeah. Need to get back to Dad, anyway.”

They turned and walked away from the old shack. Evie couldn’t resist looking back at it as they went. It still seemed so empty and forlorn, as though no one had lived in it for years, and yet someone was there right now.

***

In his house, Bors took a deep breath, before looking at the sword he held. He grasped the hilt, tugging gently and drawing the blade out of the scabbard by maybe three inches, enough to look at the gleaming silver of the blade. A soft smile ghosted its way across his lips, and he took a deep breath in.

“One day,” he whispered. “I promise. One day soon.”

***

The sun was setting, the sky tinted red and the clouds rendered in stark greys and burnt orange when the girls finally got home.

Their father was standing outside the shop, placing another weapon on the rack, this one a long, thin rifle with a scope on the top. He saw the girls as they walked up and gave them a wave.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Pretty well,” Tora said. “He took the sword, was weird, went back in his house.”

Tristan laughed. “Sounds about right. He happy with it?”

Evie shrugged. “I mean, he didn’t say he wasn’t.”

“Good enough, then,” Tristan said. He motioned for the two to head inside. “Dinner’s on, I just need to finish setting up the rack.”

“That a custom order?” Tora asked, tapping the rifle he had just put down.

Tristan shook his head, smiling. “We’ve had a lot of demand for scope rifles. They’re good for the tower watch.”

Evie frowned. She’d never seen the appeal of ranged weapons.

Give me the glaive any day, she thought, putting her hand behind her cloak and patting the weapon’s hilt.

Suddenly, as they entered the house, there came a ringing from across the village. Distant at first, it was soon echoed by more ringing. Tristan’s head snapped up, his eyes widening.

“Stay here,” he said to the girls, his hand drifting to the axe at his side.

Before they could reply, he had dashed off, heading for the Southern Tower where the bell was tolling.

Evie’s eyes snapped to Tora: the older girl was tense, her fists clenching, but she wasn’t moving.

“What should we do?” Evie asked quietly.

“He said stay here,” Tora replied, not looking at her.

Evie nodded slowly. “Yeah.” She let out a sigh. “What do you think it is this time?”

Tora took a deep breath, before looking at Evie, her expression calmer. “No idea. Maybe a few bandits, or maybe a cultist warband if it’s really bad.”

“That’s… not exactly reassuring,” Evie said quietly.

“I know,” Tora said quietly. She let out a sigh. “Come on.”

***

It was five hours later that the ringing of the bells and the shouting in the distance had finally stopped. Tora and Evie had been sat in their kitchen, waiting. It had been all Tora could do to get their dinner out and serve it, but neither of them had touched a bite.

“Is it over?” Evie said quietly.

Suddenly, there came a banging at the door. Evie shot up, her hand straying behind her back to the hilt of her glaive. Tora held up a hand, forestalling her.

“Wait here,” she whispered.

She went over to another weapon rack near the kitchen door, where their father had stored a few spare swords, and picked one up. Evie took her glaive from her belt, holding it in what she was pretty sure was a guard stance. She watched anxiously as Tora headed for the front door. Another bang sounded, and Tora raised the sword she had picked in one hand.

“Who’s there?” she yelled.

“Bors!” a familiar voice yelled back. “Open the bloody door, you idiot girl, your father’s hurt!”

Tora dropped the sword at once, and quickly opened the door, revealing Bors standing there in his brown robe and a brown cloak, a blood-covered sword in one hand and his other arm supporting Tristan Paladin, who had a nasty cut on his forehead, still clutching his axe weakly in one hand.

Evie put her glaive back on her belt, rushing to help as the two limped in.

“What happened?!” she yelped.

“An attack,” Bors said, hissing slightly as he lowered Tristan onto a chair. “He got hit by one of them. I managed to gut the bastard,” and here Evie flinched, “before he could do anything more serious than that love tap, though.”

“Who were they?” Tora asked quietly.

Bors shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Get some water and a bandage, now.”

Tora motioned to Evie, who quickly ran to get water from the sink. Meanwhile, Tristan was stirring.

“Tanja…” he murmured. “Evie… did we…” His eyes opened, and he took in where he was. “Oh…”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Bors said. Tristan looked up at him, and the old man snorted. “You’re fine, boy. Stubborn and thick-headed, like your father was. Take it easy.”

“Did we…” Tristan swallowed, before taking a deep breath. “Did we stop them?”

“Of course we bloody stopped them,” Bors snorted. “D’you think we’d be in your kitchen having a pleasant chin wag if we hadn’t?”

“Stop who?” Tora asked, looking at her father, but he held up a hand, shaking his head.

“Stop asking, that’s bloody who,” Bors snapped. He winced at his own voice, and gave her a slightly more sympathetic look, before continuing in a low voice. “You really don’t want to know.”

Tora’s mouth closed with an audible click, and she swallowed.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Evie asked Tristan, kneeling by him.

He smiled gently at her, putting one hand on her shoulder.

“Everything’s alright,” he said quietly. “Everything’s alright. I promised it would be, didn’t I?” His head lolled back. “I promised you… it would be…”

Bors moves forward and felt Triatan’s head, before moving one hand to his eyes, opening one with his thumb and forefinger and studying the eye for a moment with a frown. Tristan giggled, waving an arm weakly to ward Bors off.

“I’d best stay here for the night,” the old man said, giving Tristan a scowl. “Better off having someone around who knows what they’re doing.”

“Hey,” Tora said, scowling at him. “We know what we’re doing.”

“Sure you do,” Bors said derisively, crossing his arms. He looked at the weapon on Evie’s belt. “You even know how to use that fancy stick of yours, girl?”

Evie bristled, bringing herself up to her (admittedly fairly short) height. “Yes, I do.”

“Sure,” Bors said evenly. “Practicing with your sister, right? Or on your own, fighting imaginary monsters in a field somewhere?” He laughed at Evie’s blush. “Lots of fancy moves, I bet. Twirling, jumping, spinning… but have you ever gutted a man? Seen the life leave him, his eyes empty out? Shoved his corpse off your blade like a lead ragdoll?”

Evie’s eyes widened, but Tora jumped in.

“We’re ready,” she said, stepping up to a Bors. It was more impressive when she did it, since she was easily a head taller than Evie. “We’re willing to do our part.”

Bors met her gaze, and then, to both girls’ surprise, he laughed.

“Just like Tanja,” he said quietly. “Well, fine. In the morning, me and your father will be having a little chat, and we’ll see how ready you are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t pissed in nine hours, and killing… killing doesn’t give you much time to go to the little squire’s room.”

He walked off, leaving Tora and Evie alone.

“He knew Mum?” Evie said at once, at the exact time Tora said “what in the hells was that?”

They looked at each other, and laughed, and Tristan, still groggy, chuckled too.

[jteroracleverse]

Exemplar - Prelude 2

Whenever you asked anyone about the Battle of Calenhad, for years and decades to come, they would call it the day the Age of Heroes died. To say that is not wrong, but it misses the truth of that day.

What truth?

That though this was the end of the Age of Heroes, it was also the finest hour of it. It was an hour of shattered swords, broken shields, rent armour. An hour where the boldest and bravest warriors who had ever walked this world met their enemy head on. It was an hour where the truest Knight of Courage that had ever lived gave his all.

Perhaps. But he still died. He still fell.

True, but because of his sacrifice, the world survived, and lived to fight again.

True.

Do you think it will go any better this time?

Yes.

Such a swift answer. How incredibly naive of you.

I don’t believe so. This is, after all, a story about heroes fighting against a great evil.

That it may be, but it is not a fairytale. In fairytales, heroism is always rewarded, and evil is always punished…

… and you and I know better, don’t we?

Very well, then. But in any case, we should probably begin like this.

In a village, many years after the battle of Calenhad…

[jteroracleverse]

Exemplar Prologue - The End Of The Age Of Heroes.

Whenever you asked anyone about the Battle of Calenhad, for years and decades to come, they would call it the day the Age of Heroes died.

Jack Myrddin, quoted in ‘On The Night’s Fall’.

***

Calenhad Field, Albion, November 10th, Year 1873 of the Dreizan Calendar.

There was blood on the air. The scent of it lingered, twisting and turning through the red-tinged smog that had descended over the barren field of Calenhad. Harsh, booming sounds, like the distorted thunder of cannons, fired off in the distance, and the harsh clanking of metal on metal echoed through the valley.

A man with raven-coloured hair and a small, determined smile visible through a dark beard was standing at the head of a force of soldiers. He carried a longsword, and he was clad in a pale red tabard and heavy battle-armour, a red cloak flowing behind him.

He raised his sword, cutting through a figure in patchwork armour. A thin wisp of smoke floated from where the electrified blade had met material and skin.

“Hold the line!” he called out. All around him, Avaloni soldiers in battered plate armour fought against the raging, shambolically-equipped warriors that assailed them. Many of his comrades had already fallen, slain by their enemies in the chaotic melee around them.

Cultists and madmen, the warrior thought, grimacing, but for all that they’re insane, they’re still skilled enough to take seriously.

“For the dark gods!” a voice bellowed, and the warrior turned his attention to yet another enemy slamming into him, driving him back. With a shout, he lashed out, cutting the cultist down in a single strike and wincing at the smell of burnt flesh.

“Ser Percival!” someone called. The warrior – Ser Percival – turned, breathing hard. One of his comrades, this one an Avaloni Captain, judging by the feathered plume sticking from his helm, jogged up to him. A moment later, the man removed his helmet, showing a shock of red hair.

“Ser Percival,” he greeted.

“Captain Thorsson,” Percival replied, nodding respectfully. “What’s the situation?”

“Our men have routed the enemy on the left flank, but they’re still harrying our centre,” Thorsson replied, his voice tinged with a rough Avalonian accent, dulling his vowels. “We’re trying to rally our forces for the final push, but the line’s become fragmented. It’s difficult to gather men through the chaos.”

“And the other knights?” Percival asked.

Thorsson paused for a moment, his expression becoming dour. “Ser Jackson and Ser Vivienne have both fallen.”

Percival closed his eyes for a moment, taking the blow as stoically as he could. Two more dead friends. Grieve later. Even today, it had not been the first loss. It wouldn’t be the last.

“And the others?” he asked after a moment.

“I believe Ser Tristram was among the warriors at the centre,” Thorsson said. “Whether any of your other fellows were alongside him, I cannot say.”

Percival nodded. “I understand.” He paused, and then, after a moment, he whispered. “And… him?”

The Captain’s expression hardened. “I couldn’t tell you, Ser. The battle has become fragmentary, chaotic. There were whispers that he fought at one flank, but… we do not know.”

“Damn,” Percival swore, shaking his head. “Very well. Gather as many of our men here as you can. I’ll rally the centre, and we’ll end it there.”

Thorsson nodded, throwing a quick salute before running off, leaving Percival alone. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day’s bloodshed threatening to crush him.

They had known it would be like this. Or at least he had.

***

Calenhad Camp, the night before.

It had been their last night together, camping in the fields near the Calenhad mountains as they awaited the arrival of their enemy’s armies.

Evelyn hadn’t been there, of course – the Lady Nimue had already seen to it that she was safely hidden in Charle City, and a handful of trusted fellows with her. Vivianne, Jackson and Geraint had been there, drinking with Tiberius and Bors: Tiberius, blue-eyed, dark haired and jovial as ever, had been making bets with everyone there about how many cultists he would kill. Tristram, the blonde haired knight normally so grim and resolute, had been laughing. Fatherhood, it seemed, had done wonders for his sense of humour. And then there was Bors, the biggest and strongest of them all, his white tabard covered in beer stains from yet another drinking game with their Avalonian allies, his bearded face split by a massive grin.

And yet Percival had not felt the same joyful mood as his fellows. He sat alone in one corner, melancholy settling over him. There was… something. A foul feeling in the air, maybe, or a sense of something coming that he couldn’t quite see.

Or maybe it was just the quiet despair of loss. So many of his friends had not made it this far. How many, he wondered, would even survive this battle?

“A copper piece to hear your thoughts, old friend?” a voice asked as he sat, brooding.

Ah, of course Myrlin was there. His shabby grey robe was conspicuous among the varied colours of knighthood present, his wrinkled face smiling, his beard bristling.

“Tomorrow will be a day long remembered,” the wizard said quietly, not waiting for his answer. “Though whether it is for the right reasons, we shall have to wait and see.”

“Am I meant to feel better?” Percival had asked. He gave the wizard a tired, empty smile. “Tomorrow might be remembered, but who’ll do the remembering? Cara, Lionel, even…” He closed his eyes. “Even him, for the Thirteen’s sake. They’ll still be gone.”

“Don’t tell me you fear death, Percival,” Myrlin said, poking him in the shoulder. “After all the battles we’ve been through, this is something of an odd time to start.”

“Not death.” Percival shook his head. “Change. And maybe… maybe the thought that whatever world we make with tomorrow, no one will remember who made it.”

Myrlin nodded. He let out a soft sigh, his smile disappearing and a more melancholic look replacing it.

“I have lived a very long time,” he eventually said, his tone even, yet tinged with something morose. “Everything gets forgotten in the end. The Dreizan Templars remember the Revanchist, but they forgot his name and the names of his comrades an age ago. Avalon recalls the legends of the Shieldmaiden, but how many warriors fought and died alongside her?” He turned back to Percival. “We who fight for the future may be forgotten, Percival, that much is true.” He gave the Knight a small, hopeful smile. “But the future will be there. That’s something to hope for, isn’t it?”

As he said it, he moved his hand, tapping the symbol sewn onto Percival’s tabard – the star of knighthood, eight connected points around a single centre. Percival sighed, mulling over the wizard’s words, and looked down at the symbol, thinking about it and all it represented.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Maybe…”

“Percy!” came a call from one of the knights. Tiberius Von Nachten, his hands full with mugs of beer, was grinning over at Myrlin and Percival, and he raised both mugs up. “Come over here and help us drink some of this stuff, will ya?”

Percival couldn’t help but smile. “Gimme a minute, Tiberius.”

Tiberius nodded, turning back to Bors, who was currently arm wrestling with Tristram (and winning, not that anyone was surprised).

None of this deserves to be forgotten, Percival thought, watching his friends. None of these people deserve for the world they build to leave them behind.

“Tomorrow,” Myrlin said, cutting into Percival’s thoughts, “we fight the most important battle of an age.” Percival looked at him, and Myrlin was smiling again. “We decide the shape of the world. Whatever your fears, my friend, know this.” He put a hand on Percival’s shoulder. “You all have fought to bring the best future we can have to pass. I know, whatever happens, that the world you make will be a good one.”

Percival nodded slowly. “I’m glad you, at least, believe that, Myrlin.” He stood. “I’ll say this much. Tomorrow we fight.” He grinned. “And I’m not afraid of that part.”

“I know,” Myrlin said, nodding. “Now, I believe there are beers waiting for you, and…”

He trailed off, chuckling as he turned to look at the collection of knights. Bors and Tristram’s arm wrestle had turned into something of an impromptu boxing match.

“Eden preserve us.” Percival rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. “Those two idiots are going to injure themselves, and the night before a battle, too!”

He moved over to them, letting his worries for the future fade into the background of his mind, and completely missing the knowing smile Myrlin had as he watched the knights bicker amongst themselves.

***

The Battle of Calenhad.

His mind returned to the present as he raced through the smog of war, occasionally happening upon injured soldiers or small fights as he did so. Deep in his bones, Percival felt fatigue beginning to settle, but he grit his teeth and pressed on.

As he did so, he came upon a rocky outcrop, upon which stood a group of warriors: some in the heavy armour of Avalon, but more in the lighter, darker armour of the soldiers of Charle City. Amongst them was a healer, the woman moving from soldier to soldier with a grim expression.

“It hurts!” one of the soldiers was yelling. “It hurts so much…!”

Percival stopped for a moment, before moving over to the man, kneeling by him.

“Alright, lad,” he said, speaking softly. “Calm down. Everything will be fine.”

The soldier – no more than a boy, really – stilled, meeting Percival’s eyes. Percival examined him – he had a ragged hole torn in his arm, bleeding copiously, and a similar hole in his leg, but nothing that would require amputation. But one look at his expression told Percival that the boy was afraid.

“It’s alright,” Percival said, putting a hand on his shoulder and concentrating. “It will all be alright, lad. You’ll get through this.”

The boy’s expression calmed as Percival channeled a small modicum of power into soothing his fear.

“What’s your name, lad?” Percival asked.

“W-Will Renner, Ser,” the soldier said.

Percival smiled. “You haven’t been a soldier long, have you, Will?”

“N-no, Ser,” the boy said, smiling nervously. “I just… I needed to do my part.” He paused. “T-this is actually my first battle.”

Percival let out a small chuckle at that. “Well, you certainly picked a time to join, didn’t you?” He put his other hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll make it through today, lad, and you’ll have a tale or two to tell when you’re through, don’t doubt it.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Will Renner said. He grimaced again. “I… I'm sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Every little is a gain, lad,” Percival said with a wink. He looked up at the healer, who was approaching the two of them. “Ma’am.”

“Ser Knight,” the woman said, inclining her head. “How is the boy?”

“Will here’s doing fine,” Percival said, standing. “I can’t see anything life-threatening, but I think he’ll benefit from your experience.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the woman said blandly. Her expression softened, and when she spoke again, it was quieter. “I’m afraid… one of your comrades was among us.”

“‘Was’,” Percival repeated, frowning.

“Ser Geraint,” the healer said. She sighed. “He fell, fighting a cultist berserker.” She glanced at Will. “The boy slew his killer: that is how he got his wounds.”

Percival glanced back at Will, who looked somewhat glum.

“Thank you,” Percival said quietly to him. “It was a well struck blow.”

“T-thank you, Ser,” Will said quietly. “I… I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.”

“There are many we could not save today,” the healer said. “This day will reap a heavy cost, I fear.”

That much is true, Percival thought, nodding without speaking. He patted Will once more on the shoulder, and then moved on, following the sound of battle along the field.

He still had a job to do.

***

Elsewhere on the field, another warrior strode among the dead, gripping the hilt of a mighty greatsword and pondering the battle around him with a feeling of detachment. Blood was splattered across his armour and black tabard, and for a moment he pondered just how much was on his hands by now.

Enough, some would say, he thought, but he dismissed it. But no. Not enough. Not until the task is done.

It almost was: only a few Knights remained. Today, he would end their order, end the war, end all of it… forever.

***

It took him longer than he thought it would, but finally, in the midst of the smog, breathing hard, Percival saw his brothers in arms. Their tabards and armour were covered in the grime and filth of battle, and their weapons slick with blood, though all their blades glimmered and glinted with energy that ran up and down the blades. They were clustered around several crates and a single, broken cannon. Despite this, however, they seemed to be in high spirits as he approached.

A couple of figures in the same dark, patchwork armour charged their little group, and one of them – Tiberius, in his pale blue tabard and stole – stepped forward and cut him down in a single swift stroke, blood spraying across his face. He spat, a grimace crossing his face, before his smile returned in full force. No more foes seemed to charge forward for the moment, and the group took a moment to breathe.

“Is that it?” Tiberius asked, finally, letting out a deep sigh. “Is it over already?”

“Don’t count on it,” Bors said grimly. The big man leaned heavily on his greatsword, planting the tip in the dirt with a wet-sounding thunk, and its energy dissipated. The man looked at his gauntleted hand: it was covered in blood.

“Not quite the battle for Blackreach, is it, Bors?!” Tiberius said, flashing the burly man a cheeky grin and a wink. Bors scowled, but said nothing.

“Not everything’s a joke, Tiberius,” Tristram said. The blonde man was busy wiping blood from his weapon – unlike the others, he carried an axe rather than a sword, and it had clearly been through the works, its blade notched.

“Of course not,” Tiberius replied. “Some things are a lark. Or a jape. Occasionally a jest, but I never liked the word ‘jest’.”

Bors rolled his eyes, before elbowing Tristram. “How are we doing?”

“How do you think we’re doing?!” the blonde man replied.

“Forty three,” Percival said, getting the group’s attention He glanced around the group, grinning as they smiled at him. “Or was that not the question?”

“Percival!” Bors said, laughing. “Was beginning to think you’d never get here!”

Only now did Percival see the bloody stain on Bors’ tabard, from a wound to his side. It didn’t look terminal, but there was no way to be sure.

“Aye,” Percival said, refusing to worry about it yet. He smiled again. “Well, you lot do tend to get lost without me.”

“Well, I got forty one kills last I checked,” Tiberius said after a moment, “counting those few I got when we started.”

“Thirty nine and a half, Tiberius,” Tristram snorted. “I killed the one with the axe you seemed to think was charging you, and that pikeman was half dead anyway.”

“Still about three more than you, Tristram,” Tiberius chuckled. He rolled his shoulders, his stole rippling in the soft wind.

“Children,” Bors muttered, grimacing as he clutched his wound. He paused, looking up at Percival with a suddenly grave expression. “Vivienne? Geraint?”

Percival paused, and then shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “And Jackson, too.”

Tristram cursed loudly, kicking one of the dead cultists in frustration. Bors closed his eyes, and even Tiberius’ ever-present smile faltered.

“Dead?” he whispered.

Percival nodded. “I wasn’t there. Captain Thorsson told me about Vivienne and Jackson, and Geraint died protecting the wounded. Right now, they’re gathering to push the enemy back in the centre, but I needed to find all of you -”

“Was it him?” Tiberius asked suddenly. The coldness of his voice struck Percival dumb, such a contrast it was to his usual manner.

“We’ve not seen him here,” Bors added, a growling timbre to his words. “But he must be, somewhere. He wouldn’t miss this.”

Percival swallowed. “Thorsson said there were whispers, but nothing concrete. I -”

“Wait,” Tristram said, holding up a hand. His eyes had widened. “Listen!”

The smog was thick, making it impossible to see beyond the immediate area. There was ringing in the air, but the sounds of battle were dying off.

“What?” Bors asked from next to him.

“Bet you’re just wondering how many the rest have left for us,” Tiberius said, though his renewed grin quickly faded.

Percival’s eyes widened too. He knew what the quiet meant.

“Tiberius, Tristram,” he said, “I need you to get back to the rally point. Tell them they might want to pull back.”

Tiberius raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He immediately turned and began jogging back towards their lines, disappearing into the smog. Tristram frowned.

“You want rid of us?” he asked.

Percival said nothing, instead meeting Tristram’s gaze evenly, hoping he was conveying his feelings adequately. After a moment, Tristram nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “You’d better come back alive. My son deserves to know his father’s best friend.”

“I know,” Percival said. He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Tristram nodded, and then jogged after Tiberius, leaving Bors and Percival alone.

“So,” Bors said after a brief silence. “What’s that about?”

“Can’t you hear it?” Percival asked, motioning to the smog.

Bors turned, frowning in concentration, then he shrugged.

“No battle,” Percival said quietly. “There were thousands of them, Bors. Where have they gone? Where are our people?”

Bors’ face paled as he realised what that must mean.

“We should pull back,” he said at once. “There’s no way we can -”

“Bors,” Percival said, smiling ruefully at him. “Can you get back to the rally point?”

Bors scowled. “Can. Won’t.”

Percival’s smile faded. “Bors -”

He paused, turning back to look at the smog. A single figure was emerging from the swirling red-tinged smoke, a purple-black cloak flowing behind him like the shadow of death. A long greatsword was held lazily in a single gauntleted hand, coruscating energy glimmering across the blade, and his black armour glinted with the light of the smog and fire around him. He wore a black tabard, the scarlet symbol stitched onto his chest a mockery of the star of knighthood.

“Ah, hells,” Bors hissed. “Him.”

“Go, Bors,” Percival said quietly. “I’ll hold him off.”

Bors blinked, and opened his mouth as if to speak. Percival held up a hand, forestalling any objections, and simply smiled again. Bors hesitated, and then he nodded, before reluctantly limping away.

Percival watched him go for a long moment, before turning to the dark figure, a scowl on his face. For a second, something twitched on his face, and he closed his eyes briefly. Then he took a deep breath, his eyes opening, blazing with anger.

“So,” he said, loud enough that his foe might hear. “It’s nice to see you again.”

The dark figure said nothing. He raised his sword and pointed it at Percival in a gesture of challenge.

“What?” Percival asked with an easy grin, bringing his own sword into a guard stance. “No mocking words, no banter? Come, old friend, this is probably gonna be my last fight. Give me something to remember you by, at least.”

The figure did not move from his stance, and quiet descended between the two of them, nothing but the distant sounds of battle and the whistling of the wind. Finally, Percival broke the silence, his tone less jovial and his smile gone.

“You won’t touch them,” he said, his grip on his sword tightening. “Not while I’m standing here.”

The dark figure said nothing for a moment, bringing his other hand up to his sword and settling into a guard stance of his own.

“Surrender,” he finally said, “or you will die.”

Percival growled. “I have stood firm against evil for my entire life. What in the hells makes you think I’ll give in to you?”

The dark figure seemed to consider this, holding his ready stance for a long moment.

“Noted,” he finally said. He raised his sword a fraction. “This will be… interesting.”

Percival growled. “Let’s just get on with it, you bastard.”

He shifted his grip ever so slightly, feeling a wave of certainty settle upon him. His enemy raised his sword fractionally, bending his knees and lowering his stance into a ready posture. Both were waiting for some unseen signal. Percival could feel it in the air. He moved one hand briefly to the symbol on his tabard.

I call upon the virtue of courage, he thought. May fear never rule my heart, may doubt never cloud my thought, and may despair never dull my senses.

How many times had he repeated the catechism in his mind, before meeting some great evil? Would this be the last?

If it is, he decided, it will be worth it, if he dies too.

And then it began.

***

Half a mile away from the duel about to start, Tiberius and Tristram had already reached the rear of their lines, climbing up the slopes of the Calenhad hills. This far from the main battle, the smog was visible as a red cloud hanging over the entire field. The two stopped at a small outcropping, and Tiberius looked down at the battlefield, letting out a low whistle.

“That’s… disturbing,” he said.

“Understatement of the age,” Tristram murmured from next to him, his own eyes wide in horror. “What in the hells is that? Some sort of… of sorcery?”

“I don’t know,” Tiberius said quietly, “but whatever it is, I’m hoping Percy gets his arse out of it sooner rather than -”

He stilled. Behind them, there came the sound of footsteps. Turning, both of them saw a young woman in a deep purple cloak, her white-blonde hair tousled by the wind and a pistol holstered by her side. She was followed by a man in a deep grey robe, his hood covering his face and a grey beard poking out, barely visible.

“What happened?” the woman asked. “Where are Percival and Bors?”

Tiberius and Tristram shared a glance, but before they could answer, there came the sound of wheezing and groaning.

Bors was walking up the hill, clutching at his side.

“Bors!” Tristram yelled, running to his friend’s side. “Where’s Percy?”

In answer, Bors pointed down at the battlefield. The woman’s eyes widened in horror, and she turned to look at the hooded man.

He said nothing. Hobbling over to the edge of the outcrop, he looked down at the battlefield silently, the others behind him.

“Myrlin?” the woman asked.

Still the old wizard said nothing. Tiberius’ eyes widened, and he looked back over the battlefield.

“Him,” he stated, knowing it wouldn’t be a question. Bors nodded once.

“Percival can’t fight him alone,” Tristram growled, taking a step forward, only for Bors to hold up a hand, stilling him.

“He didn’t want us there,” the burly man said quietly. “He wanted to fight alone.”

“That’s suicide!” Tristram snapped.

“I agree,” the woman said. She turned to Myrlin. “We have to go down there.”

“At this point, Nimue,” Myrlin said quietly, “we will not make enough of a difference for it to matter. Percival must face this enemy alone.”

“He’s going to die,” Tristram hissed.

Myrlin turned back and gave the blonde knight an impassive glance, only his eyes - the soft glint of liquid visible - hinting that he felt anything at all. All the others there could do was watch the smog, and wait.

***

The first blow sent a shockwave out that rippled outward, scattering loose stones and bodies and sending the smog flying backwards, revealing the true state of the battlefield. Soldiers in the raggedy armour of the cultists lay amongst warriors in different gear, some in gold-tinted plate with red cloaks, some with brown cloaks and light armour, some wearing the same silver armour and tabards Percival and his comrades had, and many in Avaloni and Albionite armour.

Percival’s eyes were fixed on his opponent, his sword blocking the dark knight’s greatsword at every turn. Sparks flew from the blades, the metal grinding with a harsh, screeching whine, and then the two disengaged.

Clang, clang, clang.

The sound of swords clashing against each other sounded almost like the tolling of a bell. Somehow, even as he desperately parried strike after strike, Percival couldn’t help but smile at the comparison.

He parried a blow almost instinctively, letting his muscles remember the movements. Parry, parry, riposte, block… every step, every strike, every movement, honed, trained…

But not enough.

He parried another blow, and the dark knight immediately brought his blade up for an overhead strike, but Percival was too fast, and dodged sideways immediately, before slamming the butt of his sword into his opponent’s chestplate, staggering the dark figure momentarily. Grinning, Percival slashed, but his foe brought his gauntlet up and blocked the sword with his wrist, the armour sparking from the impact. Percival’s grin disappeared, and suddenly the gauntlet had grabbed him by the throat. In a single heaving motion, the dark knight threw Percival across the field, before settling into an almost leisurely guard stance.

Coughing and rubbing his throat, Percival scowled at the dark figure, before pushing himself to his feet.

“It’s going to take more than that,” he hissed, bringing his sword up and pointing it at the dark figure.

“I know,” the figure said, bringing his own sword up.

For a moment, Percival stepped back, taking a breath and adjusting his guard as his foe did the same.

The dark figure did not move, instead merely standing there, waiting. Percival hesitated for a brief moment: here was the man who had killed dozens of his brothers and sisters in arms. Here was the man who had laid low some of the finest warriors that had ever worn the mantle of knighthood. And Percival thought he had a chance?

May fear never rule my heart.

“I’m kind of disappointed,” Percival said, giving his foe a cocky grin. “You’ve got such a reputation, after all.”

At this, a slow, low sound emanated from the dark helmet. It took Percival a moment to realise that it was laughter.

“Geraint,” the figure said, his voice low and tinged with dark amusement. “Gareth. Vivienne. Cara. Lionel.”

Percival’s face hardened at each name spoken, until it became a mask of rage, his nostrils flared, his eyes glinting with hatred.

“You dare,” he hissed through his teeth. “You dare!”

He charged forward, bringing his sword up and slashing at the dark knight. The dark figure blocked the strikes lazily, holding his sword one-handed as he parried strike after strike. He gave ground, in the manner a full grown man gives ground to a furious child striking impotently with tiny balled fists. Finally, he blocked a fierce overhead strike and pushed against it, sending Percival off-balance.

“You will not get past me!” Percival yelled, spinning and lashing out. Again the dark knight blocked the blow, before sending the blade’s tip into the dirt. A single gauntleted hand came up and smacked Percival across the jaw, sending him to the ground. Rolling, Percival avoided a strike that would have cleaved him in two, and stood up, blocking another overhead blow. The dark knight pressed, and Percival gave ground, stepping backwards but keeping their blades locked.

Suddenly, the dark knight kicked out, sending Percival sprawling to the ground and rolling away with the impact. Trying to get to his feet dizzily, Percival could only barely parry the next blow, before his opponent kicked him again, this time with enough force to send him hurtling across the battlefield once more.

The brave warrior finally came to a stop near the broken cannon he and his friends had clustered around. He looked up, to see the dark figure striding across the battlefield, stepping over bodies, sword still held lazily.

“Brave,” the dark figure commented. “They were all brave. But they still fell.” He paused, before pointing his sword at Percival. “You must have known how this would end.”

“Yes,” Percival said, coughing blood. “But I’m the knight of courage, not brains, after all. Nobody said I had to be smart.”

He brought himself to a sitting position, leaning his back against the cannon, and glanced sideways, his eyes alighting upon something. Suddenly, he grinned, and with a tremendous effort pushed himself to his feet, one hand clutching at his broken ribs.

May doubt never cloud my thought.

“But maybe,” he continued, as the dark figure approached, “I’m smarter than you think I am.” He brought his sword up in a high guard as the dark figure got closer, flicking a switch and making sure the coruscating energy of his blade was still working. Only going to get one shot. “You’ve killed a lot of my friends. Do you know that?”

“I remember every one,” the dark figure said, his voice tinged with something unreadable. He had nearly reached Percival, and he brought his sword up in a guard stance.

“So do I,” Percival said, grinning. He brought one hand to the symbol on his chest.

May despair never dull my senses.

And then, in a single stroke, he brought his sword down hard on the broken cannon – and the unignited ammunition within. The energy from his sword flashed as it carved through the metal and connected with the ammunition, igniting the enhanced gunpowder and cracking the mana-bound shell.

The dark knight raised his sword in a futile warning gesture. There was a roar like thunder, a flash of light, and then silence.

***

The explosion could be seen from where Tristram, Tiberius and Bors were standing, along with Nimue and Myrlin. Tiberius’ eyes widened in horror, and Bors looked away, eyes closed. The explosion was the first of a dozen more, unexploded ammunition setting off in a cascade of fire and noise across the broken battlefield, stretching along the valley all the way to the edges of the mountains.

Nimue’s hands had gone to her mouth, but as the explosion died down, she lowered them, approaching Myrlin.

“Does… does that mean…?” she asked.

Myrlin said nothing. He turned away from where he stood, and faced Tristram.

“Evelyn?” he asked quietly.

“Safe,” Tristram said hollowly. “And her child.”

“Good,” Myrlin said. “Then this was worth it.”

“Was it?” Tristram asked as the old man passed him, but Myrlin said nothing more, simply walking away.

“How many, do you think?” Tiberius asked as he stared down at the broken battlefield.

Bors clasped his hand on Tiberius’ shoulder. “Enough. Enough that we made the right choice.”

“Did we, Bors?” Tiberius asked, meeting Bors’ eyes. “Did we really?”

Bors said nothing, and silence fell, as eight pairs of eyes watched the valley below burn.

[jteroracleverse]

Exemplar - Prelude

First there was one, and the One begat Two. The Two begat thirteen, and the Thirteen begat thirteen, and the Thirteen begat thirteen again, over and over, until the world screamed, and the blood boiled, and all upon the surface of the planet did fester and die, and when the Thirteen saw what they had begat they wept, and the tears begat Thirteen more.

The Lay of the Thirteen.

Courage, Skill, Honour, Loyalty, Sacrifice, Modesty, Faith. A Knight holds all of these virtues in their heart, but to embody a virtue is another matter entirely.

On Knighthood, written DC845 (attributed to Ambrosius Marlinius).

For the long and bloody war of Heaven,

At last had come to the fields of Vana.

And the land of Deimos did burn and crack,

Splintering under the weight of Gods’ feet.

And the Dæmons did emerge, and their wrath,

Was a storm, tearing the land asunder.

The mighty kings of Deimos, strong and true,

Fought bravely to hold back the foul Dæmons,

But though many held to the Great Virtues,

They fell, for what is a simple Mortal,

Even a truly Virtuous Mortal,

When compared to the will of Fallen Gods?

And thus did the children of Deimos cry,

Their screams echoed into the endless void,

As the fire burned around them, their cities,

Laid to ruin by the uncaring Gods.

Hope left them then, and they waited for Death,

Expecting His cold hand upon their backs.

Yet, a cry came back from that empty place,

“Hold fast! For deliverance is at hand!”

And thus, carried upon bright silver wings,

Did Jordis, shieldmaiden, Exemplar True,

Come down upon her blessed chariot,

And, upon it, bore Deimos’ sons,

to the land of Avalon, the pinnacle,

From which all of the known world could be seen.

And to them she granted the honour,

And yet also the terrible burden,

Of becoming guardians of Vana,

Protectors of the peoples of the world:

Their place would be to defend all others.

For they were the heirs of the last shieldmaid,

The inheritors of Blood Exemplar,

The last example to a world gone mad.

From The Lay of Jordis of Deimos.

[jteroracleverse]

Exemplar - Coming Soon.

Starting in January, I’m going to be posting a monthly serialised story on this blog - another original work, called Exemplar.

Exemplar is a story with a complicated beginning, a more complicated gestation, and a lot of forms. It started out as an idea for a video game, has been a concept music series on my YouTube channel, became a novel series, zipped right back to being a video game, and now I’m going to be doing it as a serialised story on this site, along with possibly cross-posting it on something like Wordpress or Wattpad if I think it needs it (probably purely to make sure I can link to my FB author page). Alongside it, I’ll also be posting the music from the game/concept album (for mood), and possibly some screenshots from the game too (once I get the darn tilesets all the way I want them, anyway).

A monthly posting should allow for me to keep a steady pace without being at too much of a disadvantage: it also means that for those reading, there won’t be an over-long wait for the next instalment. Starting in January also gives me time to fix up a lot of other aspects.

There’s also a unique challenge inherent in writing this story as a serial: original serial work has the unique qualities of both original writing and fan fiction, in the sense that it is unbounded from the limitations of novels, but bound up by the limitations of original work. I can’t rely on storytelling shorthands the way fan fiction does, but I also have the room to breathe with the story, and don’t have to be concise to remain within a set word count.

Now, my musings aside, it is my hope that you enjoy Exemplar when it starts posting. In the meantime, if you like, ask yourself one question to prepare.

Do you believe in heroes?

[jteroracleverse]

Oracle Legends: Desolation Seven

The Great Desolation, the edge of Imperial space. Decyn 11, 3726.

Commander Mollik sniffed as he stepped onto the command deck of Space Station Desolation Seven: his station.

As always, the command deck was mostly deserted. The observation window stared out into the blackness of space, with a few consoles controlling Desolation Seven’s defences, her main dock, her secondary dock, her comscan and her navigational systems.

Only Lieutenant Deryne was on duty, her back to the Commander as she monitored the weapon’s station.

“Lieutenant,” Mollik said, his voice raspy from lack of use. “Report.”

Deryne turned in her seat at once. “Commander, sir.” She stood, saluting him. “Nothing to report, sir. All quiet on the Desolate Front.”

Mollik wrinkled his nose at the nickname, but didn’t comment. He returned the Lieutenant’s salute briefly, before going to the main comscan station. Sure enough, it was as Deryne said - no ships on the proverbial horizon, no anomalies, nothing.

“Too quiet, sir, if you ask me,” Deryne said after a moment’s silence. “Like something’s waiting out there.”

Mollik ignored her: it didn’t seem like the sort of comment that invited a reply, and even if it had, he would have been disinclined to give one.

The Hunter does not say when the trail is cold, for all with eyes to see will know without him telling them.

Deryne tapped a few commands into her weapon’s console. “We’re still low on charge for the main particle battery. Until we get the replacements -”

“I am aware,” Mollik said shortly. He straightened, folding his arms. “We should be getting equipment and crew replacements in the next supply run.”

Deryne made a noise that Mollik recognised as derisive in tone, but he ignored it. After so long out here, it only made sense that she was a little… lax.

The Hunter knows well that, when stalking the prey is taxing on the spirit, the hunting party must be allowed to cope in their own way. It was not the Solarin Navy’s way, but it was Mollik’s way, and had served him well enough in the two years he had commanded Desolation Seven.

“Is there anything scheduled?” Mollik asked.

“No, sir,” Deryne replied. “Nothing for the next three days, then a communication checkup with six and eight.”

“Anything else to report?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Deryne said, shaking her head. “Like I said. All quiet.”

Mollik nodded. “Very good. Carry on.”

He turned and left the room, already going over other things he had to see to today. He had to check on Lieutenant Greene in the primary generator room, and then go read the reports from Lieutenant Muavia on her recent security drills. Thinking about the routine made him think of an old human saying: ‘same skaak, different day’.

Fitting, Mollik thought, letting the ghost of a smile onto his face. And comforting, in its own way. The Hunter loves best when the prey is predictable and the hunt goes as planned.

***

This story was originally posted on my Facebook author page.

[jteroracleverse]

All the covers for my released short stories and my one full novel thus far on Amazon.

[jteroracleverse]

Oracle: Exile

Arron Lightfoot walked slowly to the edge of the cliff, looking out across the sea with a pensive expression.

Like the dark clouds on the horizon, the thoughts on his mind was turbulent, yet elusive, difficult to pin down and far enough away that, despite the fact that he could see them, he couldn’t touch them, couldn’t feel the effects clearly or decide on a real course of action to face or avoid them.

What did I do wrong? was the first coherent thought that came to his mind.

That one was simple. He had been complacent. He had thought that the place he had earned was assured, that the role he had been asked to fill was one he would hold forever. After all: he had been made Seneschal of the Order. That was not a role that one was dismissed from lightly, not a promotion that was handed out and taken away with the ease of a child’s toy. It had been a mark of respect, one he had - perhaps foolishly - believed he would always bear.

And yet, when push came to shove, he had been stripped of his rank, demoted, cast out. Punished, when all he had done was bring the concerns of his brothers and sisters to the attention of the Grand Master.

Quinn, Arron thought with a scowl. That two-faced son of a chemrat.

He had never entirely trusted their former quartermaster. As a knight, Quinn had always been power-hungry… no, that wasn’t fair. Quinn had always been power-aware, keenly aware of the things power did, that it could do, but was not doing. Ever he had questioned their neutrality, had questioned why one of the premier Orders in the Empire had no say in politics when so many councillors and representatives held rank within other orders.

It was only natural that he would decide that we needed to hold greater sway, Arron thought ruefully. Only natural. And yet I would have thought he would bear disagreement with the grace Lysan bore his.

Instead, when Arron had spoken up, Quinn had cast him out in a penitence. He was an exile. Little better than a traitor. His disgrace marked by the black cloak he wore, like chains of shame draped around his body, weighing him down.

I gave my all to them, he thought, edging closer to the edge of the cliff. And in return… in return, I am punished. Cast aside like unwanted trash.

He shook his head, trying to ignore the feelings of despair as they welled up within him. He felt the muscles tense in his foot, waiting to send him over the edge of the cliff and into the sweet embrace of the afterworld.

No, he thought. I’m not trash. And this… this will pass. All of it will.

He would return from this exile soon. And then when he did, he would find his place again. He had once been called “He-Who-Perseveres”, by a being wiser and greater than he. It was fitting that he should be tested so - perseverance only mattered when you faced great tests, after all.

He stepped back from the cliff, before turning and walking towards the small township in the distance. He had work to do, after all. He was still, even after everything, a Knight of Sol, and his duty was clear, even after all of the hardships he had endured.

Persevere, he thought.

***

This story was originally posted on my Facebook author page.

[jteroracleverse]

Oracle Legends: Babel.

SES Babel, Novelysium 11th, 3729.

The Captain of the Babel stalked through the bare metal corridors of his ship, in a decidedly bad mood. Sharp blue eyes smouldered with an inner fire, and the stern lines on his face were so hard set that his crew stepped out of his way as he passed, alarmed – even more so than normal when Uriel Locke’s dander was up.

In fairness to them, he had been in a spectacularly bad mood for at least a month. As he stepped onto the access lift and tapped the control for the engineering deck, he closed his eyes and tried to remind himself that this was all for the greater good. He tugged at the hem of the blue science-fleet uniform he wore – oh, how he hated this colour, this uniform.

Quite why whatever fate or destiny existed in this universe had decided to place him on this path, he wasn’t sure, but he hated it all the same.

When he had been told – by his old friend Admiral Laughlin no less – that the SES Babel was being retrofitted for scientific experimentation, he had thought it was a joke.

Oh sure, Jayne Laughlin wasn’t known for her sense of humour, but that had to be the explanation, surely? Why else would she think that making a patrol ship into a science vessel would be a good idea? Why else would she think that he, of all Captains, was the man to command such a ship?

He thought back to that meeting, more than a month ago now…

“I want a Captain I trust on this,” Laughlin had said, folding her arms in the way she did when she thought she was being perfectly reasonable.

Her long, greying hair was tied up behind her head, and her grey uniform was extra-neat. Locke couldn’t help but think that she was over-compensating, trying to play the ‘authority’ card. It would have worked better if Uriel didn’t remember at least six different occasions where she had spent hours throwing up in his privy after a night on leave.

“I’m pretty sure there are Captains you trust who are more qualified for a science-corp posting, Admiral,” he had told her, making sure to keep his tone measured and reasonable. “I’m a soldier. Always have been. And the Babel is a ship of war. Turning her into a blue ship -”

“Uriel.” The tone of admonishment was familiar, at least.

“Fine, a science corp vessel,” Uriel amended. “Is a massive waste of resources.”

As petty as that surely sounded, it was also true. The Babel was much more warship than science-vessel, her decks and corridors not built to accommodate whatever science-corp projects the blue-shirts wanted to put onboard. And while he knew they could retrofit her, war was in her DNA, not laboratories and science experiments. You could pretty the ship up, but she would always be, in her bones, a warship.

“That’s precisely why we want you there, Uriel,” Laughlin had told him. “The projects the Babel will be testing will change the course of our conflict with the Ghaoraag, will alter the way we patrol the Empire. They might even help with the next round of updates to the Caliburn-class ships.”

Uriel had paused at that, before scowling at her. She’d always known that the Caliburn-class ships were a weakness of his. He had been angling for one since they were first commissioned.

“And how’s that supposed to work?” he had finally asked.

“Come on, Uriel,” Laughlin had laughed. “You know I can’t tell you everything when we’re in a corridor.”

And she hadn’t: it had been a month of refits and conversations before Uriel Locke had finally found out just what the hells was going on with his ship. By then they’d talked him into wearing this stupid blue uniform, talked him into picking a crew of science officers to bolster his experienced combat crew, talked him into authorising a half-dozen experimental bits and bobs being installed on his ship, from improved particle cannons (always fun) to some sort of defence field redundancy system (‘redundancy system’? Really? Is the word ‘backup generator’ too simplistic for the science boffs?)… well, there’d been no way to reverse it.

But the worst thing… the absolute worst… was the damn ridiculous engine they’d saddled his beautiful ship with.

No. No, not ridiculous. Insane.

When the poncy Sevine engineer they’d brought on board had first said the dreaded words ‘Underspace Drive’, it had been all Uriel could do to not scream at the man that he was valskekked and demand that he and the engine be put off at the nearest airlock. He’d even brought it up with Jayne.

“Uriel, it’s perfectly safe,” she had said. “We’ve tested it thoroughly and Professor Freume is one of the Empire’s best minds.”

That hadn’t been reassuring. It hadn’t even been partially reassuring. If anything, it worried him more. The boffins were always too clever for their own good.

Said Professor Freume was waiting for him on the engineering deck. He wore the same blue uniform everyone else did, his ‘hair’ cut short and slicked back, a smug smile on his pale face that was only accentuated by the frond goatee he had grown. He grinned as he noticed Uriel enter.

“Captain Locke!” he said. “We’re ready to begin our initial trials of the installed engine.”

Uriel nodded without saying anything. He looked at the Underspace drive and scowled. A push drive was little more than a giant, horizontal metal cylinder with heat-release grills, into which energy was cycled, generating the push-effect that allowed for FTL travel. The Underspace drive, by contrast, was a massive vertical transparent galladiun tube, filled with roiling white and red energy that made Uriel feel sick just looking at it.

“Alright, then, Professor,” he said, turning to the Sevine. “What do you need to do?”

“Well, obviously, we’ll need you to select a course,” Freume said, still smiling. “Our new helm officer -” (I had to replace a perfectly competent midshipman because he didn’t know how to fly this new drive) “- will input your course. After that, we’ve just got to open the singularity and enter the Underspace.”

Locke rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that all? I was worried for a minute there.”

“I know you’ve had your concerns, Captain Locke,” Freume said, apparently not even remotely bothered, “but I promise you, we’re ready.”

“That’s a great comfort when we’re talking about a drive that takes us into a parallel universe most people call hell,” Uriel said scathingly.

Freume rolled his eyes, still smiling. “It’s an experimental drive, but we wouldn’t be putting it on ships with people on if we weren’t ready for proper trials. Trust me.”

Uriel didn’t.

“Anyway,” Freume continued, looking at the drive. “We should only be doing short hops – two to three minute shots to the next system over. Nothing too strenuous for the new system yet.”

There’s that term, ‘yet’, Uriel thought, but he shook his head.

“I’m going to rely on you to not blow us up or send us to the hells, Professor,” he said evenly.

“I’ve no intention of going to any hells, believe me on that,” Freume said with a smug smile.

More’s the pity, Freume, Uriel thought, but then he sighed.

“Alright, Professor,” he said. “I want us ready to go the minute I give the word.”

“Oh, we’ll be ready, Captain, have no doubt of that,” Freume said, turning back to his console.

Without another word, Uriel turned and headed out of the engineering deck for the main lift.

Here’s hoping we don’t all pay for this stupidity, he thought, scowling as the lift whirred.

***

This story was originally posted on my Facebook author page.

[jteroracleverse]

Tales of the Realms

While the science-fantasy of the Oracleverse is the main thing I have been working on for the last few years, it isn’t the only thing. I’ve also spent a good few years collating ideas and writing fragments for a strange fantasy world called the Realms.

Right now, there’s not much of the Realms out (especially not in comparison to the Oracleverse), but there are the following stories.

A horde of monsters descends upon the continent of Aeclisse, driven by some dark purpose.

Two estranged sisters, each immortal Queens of a mighty kingdom, must set aside their differences and stand as one against this threat, knowing that if they fail, everything they have built with come to nothing.

Battle of the Last Bridge is a collaboration between myself and one of my closest co-writers, and is a short I am especially proud of (especially because I love writing fantasy battles 😁).

Beyond the Guardian Mountains, through a single pass, there is a plain leading on and on, until it reaches the edge of the known world itself. And beyond…?

An Order of Knights has sworn to guard this pass against all that might threaten it. To that end, a band of their finest warriors, led by an old scholar, have set forth, seeking to learn what lies beyond. For one knight, however, this journey holds many terrifying truths.

They call it the Last Pass for a reason…

Herald the Storm was the first short story of the Realms, and sets the stage for one very important part of the Realms.

There are other shorts of the Realms that I’ve been working on that will be released soon, and hopefully once I’ve released more (as well as written a few super-short stories to post here) I’ll be able to tell you all a little more about it.

In the meantime, if you get the chance, please consider giving those shorts a read. I’m really proud of them, and I feel like they set the stage for the Realms in an intriguing fashion.

Cheers all,

Jed.

[jteroracleverse]

Oracle Legends: Arrival

SES Illustrious IC-02, in orbit of Arcalis. Novelysium 30, 3726.

Mary-1 smoothed her uniform peacoat as she stepped onto the bridge of the Illustrious. The scarlet peacoat with the bright turtleneck undershirt she wore was a stark contrast to the grey peacoat and black turtleneck she had worn aboard the Pax Eternia, which had only had a little hint of colour in the form of red piping along the sides of the coat.

‘The Caliburn-class is special’, she remembered someone saying to her once, probably at one of the many fleet briefings on the new class. The service uniform is just another indicator of that.

The bridge was a small, circular space: a command chair sat upon a raised dais, a weapon’s station to the right, a helm station directly in front of the main observation screen, and an astronavigation station to the left of the chair.

The officer at astronavigation stood as she entered. “Mary-1! It’s me, C’ra Aleune!”

Mary-1 did a slight double-take, her eyes widening slightly in recognition. Sure enough, it was Aleune: a Sevine, she looked almost human, save for her skin, which was currently a pale greyish colour, though it was slowly shifting to a happy light blue. Her eyes were similar to a human’s, but a fraction larger than was considered human-normal, and her ‘hair’ was, upon closer inspection than most people gave, actually thin strands of fleshy material (the proper term for which was ‘sense-strands’, though they really were little more than fleshy hair that had added perceptive effects).

In Mary-1’s experience, Aleune was considered ‘beautiful’ by most people. Also in Mary-1’s experience, Aleune was… ‘perky’, to an almost annoying degree.

“Lieutenant Commander,” she greeted perfunctorily.

“I’d heard that you got the XO job!” Aleune said to Mary-1 with a grin, apparently not put off by the Commander’s cold greeting. “That’s great! Well done!”

Mary-1 blinked at her. “You wanted that position. Why would you be happy that I got it?”

“I did want it, yeah, but I got offered combined Astronav and Second Officer,” Aleune said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s torrential, y’know?!”

“No,” Mary-1 said honestly, but Aleune just laughed.

“And then when you get promoted in a couple of years I’m right in line anyway,” she continued, grinning. “Which, y’know, you will, because these things are like the best ships ever! Guaranteed road to the top, y’know?”

Mary-1 gave a non-committal nod, trying her best not to frown.

“Hey, what do you think of the uniform?” the Sevine added, motioning to the scarlet peacoat she wore. She did a twirl, almost like a fashion model. “Colourful, right?”

“It’s… practical,” Mary-1 said stiffly. “Do you know where the Captain is?”

“He’s just touring the rest of the ship,” another officer said. A stern-looking Vyde walked up to the pair of them. He wore the same peacoat, his rank insignia showing him to be a Lieutenant. “He’s new to the Illustrious, after all.” He looked at Mary-1 with an appraising glare. “I’m assuming you’re the new Exec.”

“She is,” Aleune cut in. “Lieutenant Baryndil, meet Lieutenant Commander Mary-1, late of the Pax Eternia.”

The Vyde, Baryndil, raised both eyebrows. “A Modal?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Mary-1 replied without inflection. “And you are…?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Commander,” Baryndil said, straightening up. “I am Lieutenant Dynnan Baryndil: helm officer, SES Illustrious.”

Mary-1 thought back to her examination of the crew’s manifest. Dynnan Baryndil, a Vyde Officer from an influential family with a strong history of naval service. His record showed that he’d served on the Illustrious since her launch as a Midshipman.

“You’re familiar with the ship, then?” she asked him.

“That’s right, ma’am,” Baryndil said, smiling. “Served with Captain Aurelius for five years, ever since they first launched the Illustrious out.”

“He’s one of the Lusty’s longest serving,” Aleune added with a grin. “Lots of people transferred out with Aurelius.”

Mary-1’s eyebrow twitched upward at the ship’s… unusual nickname, but she ignored the irritation.

“You decided to stay?” she asked Baryndil.

“This is a good ship,” was all he said in response.

“It really is!” Aleune said, clapping her hands together gleefully. “If you actually look at some of these systems, they’re designed for maximum durability in the field. You compare it to a Valiant or Pioneer class -”

“I get the point, Lieutenant Commander Aleune,” Mary-1 cut in. “Thank you.”

There was a brief moment of awkward silence.

“So,” Baryndil said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Will you be assuming your station immediately, Commander?”

“Not as of yet,” Mary-1 said, straightening slightly. “I first have to pay my respects to the Captain.”

“As I said, he’s touring the ship,” Baryndil said. He motioned to a door to the right of the room. “If you wait in the Captain’s office, I will tell him that you’ve arrived when he returns to the bridge.”

Mary-1 nodded, giving a very small smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“See you in a bit, Mary!” Aleune said, grinning, apparently none-too-dismayed by Mary-1’s earlier, curt interruption.

Mary-1 inclined her head politely but said nothing. She straightened her uniform jacket and headed for the Captain’s office without another word.

***

This story was originally posted on my Facebook author page.

[jteroracleverse]

Remember, if you want to read any of my original work, my short stories and first novel are available to purchase from Amazon.