• One man stands upright, clutching a sword tightly in his hands. His palms sweat, making the sword hilt stick even more than it would have anyways. His small, piercing eyes gaze upon an army, at least seven hundred thousand strong. They stand in rank-and-file, about one hundred fifty paces ahead of him. To his left, right, and rear, there is no one. Only the empty plains of his home country lay to comfort him in this, his most dire hour. They called him stupid. They called him an imbecile, one not worthy of their time. But he will show them. He will let them all know, to their faces, that he is not one to be mocked. When he returns, that is. His shoulders tense up under their steel plates, his metal-plated gloves shift ever-so-slightly as he prepares for his most glorious hour. He prays Phet is watching him, so that he may receive the courage he needs to fight to the bitter end. His opponents sneer and taunt him, their green, rotten looking skin painted with the tribal war paints their kind loves so much. They have no uniform, no formal way of telling their own from his kind. The only distinct way to tell them apart is by their races. He is a human, covered in gleaming silver plate mail. They are goblins, each members of the infernal horde. They serve Pwaa, faithfully. He bows before Phet and Cano.
    Horns blow in the distance. Wild dire wolves snarl and snap in the front lines of the horde, attempting to put fear in his heart and mind. Phet is smiling upon him though, and he feels none of this fear. The runes carved into the blade of his sword light up, the mythral thirsting for humanoid blood. Then, a single blow of every horn in the goblin army sounds. The time for tension-filled air is done. The time for battle is now. He roars in acceptance of their challenge, rushing forwards to fight them man to goblin. As they run towards each other, he sets his eyes on one goblin, right in front of him. It rides on a grey dire wolf, crashing through the plains towards him. It attempts to catch him in its jaws as it comes, but he gives it the tip of his sword instead. It runs itself through, throwing its rider over the top of the man’s head. He turns his sword up, slices it through the wolf’s skull, and cleaves down at the thrown goblin. Black blood spurts out in every direction as the beast and rider die, their bestial blood mixing in the air.
    Bringing his sword in a wide arc, the man cuts into another wolf’s throat. The rider of that wolf stabs downwards with a pike, the tip glancing off of the man’s breastplate. The man laughs as he brings his sword into that goblin’s chest, cutting out its heart. Turning around, the man sees his situation. He is surrounded by dire wolves, eight being right within his sights. He has already been resigned to his fate, and so doesn’t hesitate when he faces their drooling maws. He only attacks, staining the runes on his magical sword black from their endless, gushing blood. The ground begins to become littered with corpses, both beast and humanoid alike. But he doesn’t get cocky. He can’t get cocky. If he gets proud of his abilities, he knows that death will follow. So he can only avoid what attacks he can, endure what attacks he can’t, and satiate his sword’s need for blood.
    Two wolves that he had just been facing back off, suddenly. He roars a taunt to them, being beyond civil words. But, trotting slowly into a clear circle of battleground, a more powerful warrior comes into play. This war-wolf slinks into the battle field, its black fur sleeked to its sides. It has black, steel armor on, spiked in all the right places. Upon its back rests a goblin commander, the likes of which this man has never seen. He has full plate on, black to match his wolf’s. Strapped to his side is a katana, the sheath brown leather. The goblin holds the black leather reigns in his grubby hands, staring out at the blood-stained warrior through slits in his helmet. He grunts, urging the wolf forwards. The runes etched into the sword shine through the blood staining it, a brighter blue hue emanating from within the powerful blade.
    Without warning, the wolf strikes. Its yellowed jaws rip through the air, clamping shut around the man’s sword. As the two struggle to disarm one or decapitate the other, the goblin leader unsheathes his sword and slashes downwards. In a flash, the warrior turns his sword’s hilt, his one sword turning into two. These two swords he rips in different directions, slicing the wolf’s jaw in half vertically and catching the katana of the goblin commander with a katana of his own. The wolf whines softly as it slumps forwards, the human’s second blade going straight into its eye. The goblin commander disengages the two of their swords, jumping backwards and landing on solid ground. He takes off the flag he had been carrying, tossing it to another of the goblins behind him. A wolf charges forwards, taking the commander’s wolf away to be eaten as the battle unfolds.
    The goblin commander snarls something in its native tongue, but he doesn’t even hear it. He just feels his blood boiling in his veins as he rushes forwards, reuniting his swords into the blood-stained broadsword that it was moments before. The goblin blocks, the loud clang of metal-on-metal heard throughout the nearby warriors. By this point, there are goblins surrounding the man, but they do not charge forwards into his town, where the rest of his army is situated. His goal is being fulfilled… He is a good diversion. Only a mile down the road, his entire town is currently being evacuated to a more easily fortified position.
    A flurry of blades fills the air as the goblin and the man fight for their lives in this circle of spectators, each moment bringing the two of them closer to death. Many a time, the only thing saving this man from certain death is his blessed armor, its tempered steel standing up to the most furious of blows. Nearby, a goblin with a crossbow thinks it pleasant to fire into the circle, hoping to kill the human. He misses, lodging a crossbow bolt into the skull of a wolf across the circle from him. That wolf drops dead, and its rider leaps into the circle. As a side-stepping motion, the man decapitates the poor goblin, smacking its still bleeding head with the flat of his sword. The goblin commander slices that head in half, letting it rain blood on the unlucky spectators. The marksman decides not to try that specific feat again.
    With a swift kick of the goblin’s wrist and a swifter stabbing motion of the sword, the goblin commander finds peaceful death by the human’s hand. This is, of course, the cue for the rest of them to close in, bringing him back into close-quarters combat with several people at once. Separating his weapons once again, the warrior cleaves through his opponents with battle-hardened ease. His whirling steel dance of death is met by corpses all around, as he slowly moves forwards in this horde. He comforts himself by picturing them as more monstrous than they really are; abominations that must be wiped clean from the planet. But monstrous or not, he must cleanse this plain of their presence. This he does one death at a time.
    The sky above him darkens, causing him to look up momentarily. Arrows, bolts, and sling bullets fly through the air, ready to puncture and pelt him. He, of course, can’t let this happen. So, he grabs a recently killed wolf, throws it over him, and waits for a split-second. Its dead weight takes the blunt of the force, reminding him that he really should get a shield. This reminds him of something, making him groan and curse his feeble intelligence. He touches his right wrist, as he stands out from under the wolf’s corpse. What springs from that wrist can only be described as a shield of light, a very strong looking kite shield that is bright white and glowing. It does not appear to hamper his movement with that hand, either, so he can fight with a sword in that hand as well as have the shield there, as if he had a buckler on. Grinning, he continues fighting the hordes. When he sees a bolt or arrow come at him, he simply moves the shield into place. The arrow, bolt, or sling bullet simply bounces off of the shield, harmlessly hitting the ground.
    Somewhere nearby, a loud howl is heard. A wolf leaps over the top of the line of goblins to the warrior’s right, landing in the small clearing around him. Turning, he sees this to be another goblin commander, this one with a pike in both hands. The warrior and the wolf circle each other, as the pike man occasionally stabs forward, into his shield. Seeing an opportunity, the warrior combines his swords into his right hand, waits until his shield deflects a blow from the pike, and lunges forwards. He catches the pike right below the blade, breaking it off in his hand. He then throws that blade at one of the spectators, killing another goblin. The commander grumbles, breaking off the pike into a quarterstaff sized shaft of wood. He then back-flips off of the wolf, kicking it in the hindquarters as he vaults away. The wolf charges the warrior, snarling and gnashing its teeth. The man stabs his sword into the beast’s jaw as hard as he can, the tip of his sword coming out of the back of the wolf’s neck. Bracing himself against that same wolf, he draws his sword out, pelting spectators with blood.
    The commander, sickened by the gruesome death of his wolf, charges at the warrior with his quarterstaff spinning. The warrior disconnects his blades, spinning forth into combat. His blades taste splintering wood, giving iron armor, and then sweet goblin flesh and blood within a few seconds. Growling, the lone warrior challenges any others to come attack him. Unfortunately, they are happy to oblige. The sun burns red overhead as the warrior meets every goblin with the same blood-warmed blades, the same fiery determination in his eyes. How long has it been since he began this frightening battle… An hour? Two? A few minutes? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that his muscles are beginning to ache from the combat. He sweats profusely under his armor, he needs a small break. These goblins aren’t going to give it to him. So, he decides to take it from them. Connecting his swords, he fends off a single attacker while his left hand rummages in his belt. Pulling out a small vial, he smiles wickedly. It is time for tea.
    The warrior throws the vial down, breaking it upon the ground. Light blue smoke rises up all around him, and blocks the goblins from view. As soon as he is out of sight, he sits cross-legged on the ground, opening a different small pouch in his belt. Out of this he pulls a canteen, filled with something other than water. In fact, this canteen is filled with blessed, holy water. Drinking it, he feels refreshed and rejuvenated, ready for another few hours of combat. But he isn’t going to waste what little time this smoke can give him.
    He also drinks from a different vial, a bubbly red potion passing through his lips. As he drinks it, he can feel his veins bubbling over with energy and raw power. He puts the canteen back in the belt, tightening his grip on the sword. Once he is ready, he wills the mist to disappear. This one man might be crazy, but he isn’t stupid. He knows that he needs to get out of the war zone every few hours, to rest and recuperate. This, he has done. Now, he is ready to go back to combat. As the smoke floats away, no longer stopping the goblins from contacting him, he realizes that they hadn’t given up or moved on. They are all still right here, waiting for him to come out of his cloud. Now that he has, they can get back to fighting him.
    A few minutes of pure cleaving and decimation pass. The dance of death that was momentarily postponed is now back in full effect, as the lone, crazy warrior slices and dices through the endless infernal hordes. He laughs as his eyes fog over with a red mist, as the bubbling potion does its work. He cleaves a path forwards, destroying everything in his path. Globs of blood fly everywhere as wolves, goblins, commanders, archers, and even mages fall before his vast might. He calls out a valiant battle cry as he cleaves to the far end of the horde, thousands lost in his wake. Then, he turns around. Before him is a member of this horde that he didn’t think existed. Before him is a goblin, lance in hand, riding a griffon. The lone warrior takes a step backwards, connecting his swords together and standing for the next assault. The grand, mythological beast in front of him raises its mighty paws, crashing forwards towards the shining, bloody man. The warrior leaps backwards, placing his kite shield in front of his face.
    Only the edge, the tip of the claw rakes against the shield. That, however, is enough to severely damage the magical force holding that specific shield together. The warrior slaps his right wrist again, the shield fading into nothingness. He needs a few minutes before he can re-deploy that one, but he luckily has another. He slaps his left wrist while running around the griffon, the shield extending just in time to deflect an incoming arrow. The warrior leaps up, slamming his sword into the flank of the mythical beast he is fighting. He slides down a bit before his sword catches, leaving him hanging off of the beast for dear life. Then, he happens to look up. Smoke can be seen, coming from his home town. The place he has been protecting, via diversion. That smoke was their signal. When the town had been evacuated, they were going to light the place on fire to tell him that he had succeeded. They must be miles from here by now. The goblins, still here, aren’t going to be able to reach the villagers. He has won.

    © John Cameron, December 2007