Children of the Apocalypse: Vandermine Book 2

By Murray R. Clay

Having finally escaped the prison mines Jon and his companions are led by their dwarven ally, Rodack, to his people's mountain home. Rather than an opportunity for much needed rest, they find the dwarves, together with their elven allies desperately preparing for an epic battle as Cravos' massive army boxes them in. The elves and dwarves are able to give Jon tantalizing clues about the nature of this world and its relationship with his own. He learns that if he can survive the battle, he and his friends must travel to the shrouded city of Corbenik to meet and be empowered by the maker of Vandermine. It is only if they are so prepared that Jon's team of champions stands any chance in the final confrontation with Cravos before he can trigger the prophesied second apocalypse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664137714

Murray R. Clay

Murray R. Clay is the author of the Vandermine novels including The Sword's Errand and Children of the Apocalypse. A graduate of the US Air Force Academy, Murray served as an intelligence officer for special operations during his five years on active duty. Three of those years were spent in England where the numerous historical sites provided inspiration for his fantasy writing. Through his study of classical and medieval military history, he builds realism into the combat scenes described in his novels. After serving in the Air Force, Murray earned his MBA degree at the University of Chicago. He has spent the last twenty years working in private equity and impact investing. In addition to writing, Murray enjoys martial arts, all types of fitness, and spending time with his wife and five children.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jon stumbled and had to reach out to steady himself against the shoulder of the man in front of him to keep from going down. He could barely see through the blindfold, but even then the filtered sun was too much for him. The sun was bright and warm in the mid-morning sky. It was an otherwise pleasant day, but Jon’s eyes ached from having to squint for so long even with the blindfold on. It was some kind of cruel joke, Jon thought, that the sun for which he had hungered for so long now afflicted him so.

From a distance it might have looked like a dwarven war band was returning from a successful campaign, their host of human prisoners blindfolded in tow. However, if there had actually been anyone to see, the scene wouldn’t have made much sense. The humans were armed as well as the dwarves and none of them wore any bonds—at least not anymore.

In fact, the group had fought desperately together to free themselves from the mines where their captors had been working them slowly to death. Goblins, orcs, and a rather sadistic alchemist had been the enemy, not each other. This particular group of men and dwarves were more brothers to each other than to many of their own kind. Their desperate struggle against a common foe had bound them together, erasing any racial boundaries.

The days, weeks, months, and for a few of the longest survivors, years they had spent working and suffering in the very dim light of the mines had ruined the humans’ eyes. Having spent so much time with their eyes at maximum dilation practically sucking in every thin ray of light made daylight seem a hundred times brighter than they had remembered. Whether the sunlight had permanently burned out their retinas, or had only temporarily blinded them as with snow blindness, they weren’t sure. Jon’s group, having been the most recently captured of the prisoners, would be the test to see if the humans’ sight would return.

The dwarves, though they lived and spent much of their lives underground, surprisingly had no problem with the daylight. They described themselves as having both dark eyes and surface or daylight eyes. Rodack, the dwarf that had joined Jon’s band of crusaders shortly before they were captured, had been a good ambassador of his people to Jon. While the others knew about dwarves, Jon, being new to this world, was constantly asking questions. While guiding him across the uneven terrain of the mountainside, Rodack explained that dwarves lived and worked underground, but had to hunt, trap, and gather wild fruits and vegetables on the surface to survive. So, they had to be able to see in the darkness of their mines as well as by the light of the surface. It still wasn’t clear to Jon whether they had two sets of pupils that would rotate up and down with their eyeballs to expose the appropriate set, or if they could simply change the way their eyes worked. All he had seen of the transformation was how they simply bowed their heads just before moving from darkness to light and vice-versa, and then they could see.

Occasionally, one of the other dwarves would make some comment about Jon’s apparent ignorance or wonder aloud why he knew so little about the dwarves. They didn’t mean to criticize, but their gruff voices and short, blunt sentences made it easy to mistake their comments as criticism. At first Jon had explained how he came from a very different world, a world where swords, axes, spears, and the like were ancient weapons. A few times he even got a small audience as dwarves clustered around him a bit—he knew because he kept bumping into them—to hear how Vandermine, his magic sword that flamed on command—pulled him into this world. After going through the story a couple times Rodack picked up the tale for him as one group of dwarves would wander off to help the other humans, only to be replaced later by another group of curious voices around him.

Jon, tired of telling his story, appreciated Rodack’s answering the other dwarves’ questions for him. He had first met Rodack unexpectedly on the other side of these mountains when his group was fighting a strange creature. The creature had struck quickly and unexpectedly from the treetops, incapacitating several of Jon’s companions. Though Rodack had heard Jon’s cries and appeared just in time to save the day, it took Jon a while to become comfortable around him. The gruff voice, the furrowed and craggy facial features, the thick, dark beard and bushy eyebrows, and especially those dark, bottomless eyes made it hard for Jon to see him as anything but mean-looking, grumpy, imposing, and quite alien. However, Jon had since discovered that Rodack in fact had a heart of gold. He was a reliable, fierce warrior, but also patient and wise. The long, hard life of a dwarf probably made all dwarves powerful, determined warriors that were at the same time wise, patient, and just a little jaded.

A smile split Jon’s dry lips as he recalled the term from his world for folks that had stern, mean, or even hostile expressions even when they felt none of those things—resting bitch face. Well, he mused, resting dwarf face trumps resting bitch face hands down!

Jon had also discovered after interacting with other dwarves both in the prison mines as well as during their blindfolded march that the bluntness of dwarven speech was not meant to be rude. They were a simple, practical people that seemed to care only for the informational content of speech. They certainly had no time for or interest in how things sounded.

If Rodack hadn’t met Jon’s group at a time when they were fighting for their lives, their meeting would have otherwise been tragically ironic. Rodack was the lone survivor of a band of dwarves that had tried to make it past Cravos’ goblin and orc troops to seek aid from the human king, Nord. The tragic irony was that King Nord’s forces were themselves fully engaged in repelling Cravos’ armies that came with increasing frequency to his lands. Jon’s group was all he could send, and Rodack had to rescue them. Jon started to laugh at the thought, but an unseen rock and a scraped knee changed the laugh into a frustrated curse.

Though Rodack’s arrival tipped the scales in their favor during their fight with the creature, no one in Jon’s group was in the habit of needing to be rescued. Each member of the group was the best in their respective specialties—the very finest that King Nord’s kingdom had to offer. They were essentially (Jon smiled as he thought of it) King Nord’s dream team.

Jon reviewed the team roster in his mind. Bo was a massive warrior: a little taller than Jon, which was rare enough in this age before proper nutrition. But what was more unusual was that he was packed with as much muscle as a professional body builder. Well, at least one before the advent of steroids and the hideously unnatural bodies they created. If one merely looked at Bo it would be natural to assume he was all about brute force. Nothing could be further from the truth. Jon had learned by fighting beside him that Bo’s strength was only rivaled by his skill as a swordsman. There hadn’t been a man, orc, or goblin yet that had been able to stand long against him in a one-on-one fight—or three-on-one fight for that matter. He was damn near graceful when he fought, Jon thought admiringly.

The man they called Cockroach would have been called a dwarf or midget in Jon’s world, but it was quite clear by his build and facial features that he was, in fact, a diminutive human, not a dwarf. He was pretty much the opposite of Bo: small, out spoken, arrogant, and a fan of backstabbing and throat slitting, not face-to-face combat. Despite being a thief—and a very good one at that—Cockroach did have a sense of honor in his own way. It was not like Bo’s—the honor of a proud warrior—but simply of a thief that knew what side he was on, never forgot it, and only applied his craft to his enemies. Earlier in their journey, Cockroach had often been the source of some comic relief. He and Bo had a history of some sort and were often at each other’s throats. Though it seemed to be serious on occasion, it always ended up being playful, as if they were brothers that took jabs at each other but would immediately pounce on anyone who actually tried to harm the other. Surprisingly, the little thief didn’t even mind being called Cockroach. He had smugly explained that cockroaches got into everything no matter what you did, and were very tough to kill despite their size.

Jon smiled as he remembered some of Bo’s and Cockroach’s antics on the plains and foothills on the other side of the mountains they had just come through (or under, actually). Then, his smile faded as he noted that such playful sparring had grown less and less frequent as the weight of their quest and the killing and suffering had made their hearts grow heavy.

Mentor was a wizard. Not the type of magician that might put on shows in Las Vegas, but a bonafide, spell-casting wizard. He wasn’t the stereotypical gnarled old man with a long beard either. In fact, he only looked to be somewhere in his 40’s, though he did fit the stereotype in that he wore robes, carried a staff, and was quite wise. He was also a bit mysterious. He didn’t like to discuss magic and had made it clear to Jon that it was the purpose of his order to use magic for good while keeping the knowledge and secrets from falling into anyone else’s hands. He never tired of reminding everyone how their world had almost been completely destroyed ages ago by magic. The knowledge of magic had spread to too many who used it for evil—or even for good, but clumsily, and destructively. Mentor and his companion, Markis—a monk of the same order highly trained in the martial arts, but not a magic user—called this calamity the first apocalypse. Their goal was to avoid the second one foretold by Arvallnen, a god or prophet or something. Jon wasn’t sure which.

Throughout their journeying, Markis had explained that he had originally trained to become a wizard, but that he lacked the required patience or discipline and instead became a monk. The monks of his order were trained in unarmed combat as well as in the staff and long bow. It was their duty to defend their wizard companions during the period of weakness and vulnerability that a wizard experienced after casting a major spell.

Jon had seen Markis use his skills on many occasions. It was very hard for him to believe that Markis could have had any less discipline or patience than Mentor. To get as good as Markis was must have required many years of full-time, relentless training, constantly striving for the perfection of each move. He was as skilled as martial arts stars only appeared to be in the movies in Jon’s world, and Markis didn’t have special effects like cables to make him fly through the air when he kicked. His moves were subtler, less flashy, and yet devastatingly effective.

Mentor and Markis were on this quest because Cravos was everything their order stood against: a power-hungry wizard that used magic to conquer and destroy. For them, this was a religious crusade. They were quite literally trying to save the world, viewing Cravos as the possible source of the prophesied second apocalypse. Bo’s and Rodack’s purpose wasn’t quite as grand though no less worthy. They were honorable warriors fighting to protect their homes and their people. Cockroach, of course, was here for the loot, for respect, and he added on one occasion, to get a pardon from King Nord for his past crimes. Jon hadn’t believed this last reason for long. It would have been a simple matter for Cockroach to have slipped away and disappeared once they were away from the castle. No, Cockroach didn’t want to appear to be too noble. It wouldn’t play well for his rep. on the street though Jon, coming from an upper-middle class family in the modern world, barely understood the concept of street cred in his own world, let alone this one.

When Jon had first joined the quest, he did so for reasons similar to Cockroach’s: to get out of the dungeon. Though for Jon it was not stealing, but rather an offense he had unwittingly committed against the king’s daughter that had put him there. That had been when he had first arrived in this world and still thought it was all a dream. After Mentor had examined his sword, read the runes on its blade, and listened to his story, he concluded that Jon had most likely been brought to this world specifically for this quest. Once Jon had come to believe that theory, his reason changed to getting through the quest in the hopes that somehow the magic sword would then take him home, mission accomplished.

Jon had first come to the shocking realization that he wasn’t dreaming when he first felt pain in his struggle with the knight that had come to rescue the princess from him. After that, he had tried to make some sense of the impossibility of his situation. The sequence of events that brought him to this world certainly was the stuff of dreams and not reality.

He had gone to a museum to see a medieval weapons and armor exhibit; the museum was robbed before he even got inside; he went home after being shot at by the thief who was trying to make a getaway in the alley where Jon had parked his car; he found a broadsword under his car seat when he got home, took it up to his apartment to call the museum, and then found himself reading the runes as if he knew the language. The next thing he knew was on his back in a forest.

After pain had brushed aside his dream theory, he concluded that he had somehow been brought back in time—to the medieval age in which his sword had been forged. But, there were too many inconsistencies. He had no doubt that the historians could have been wrong about some things, but not everything. Once he had seen that magic was real, and that things like goblins and trolls were not disfigured humans, but clearly completely different species, his next best theory was that he was in some parallel world or something. It was like a dream world where one could actually die. As time passed though, this world seemed more real, his life as a college student and football player became the dream, and his concern—and even love—for his companions and their people became the force that drove him onward to face greater trials.

Jon heard Bo’s deep voice up ahead talking with Chaldier, a great dwarven clan leader they had freed from the mines, and his thoughts strayed back to his mental review of his dream team. King Nord had referred to Bo as his champion of strength, to Cockroach as his champion of stealth, to Mentor as his champion of magic, to Markis as his champion of skill, and to Jon—given the incredibly powerful sword he showed up with at just the right time—as his champion of weaponry. Of course, the true distinction between each of them was much more blurred than that. Bo, without question, was a highly skilled swordsman, and Markis was certainly strong, for example.

Come to think of it, I’m not even the only one in the group with a magic weapon anymore.

Rodack had a magic axe, Markis, a magic bow, and Bo, some magic bracers. The long, wooden haft of Rodack’s axe was ordinary enough, but the large head of the axe was incredibly light enabling Rodack to deliver fast, shield and bone splitting blows in a fraction of the time it would take to swing an ordinary, heavy axe. Markis had started their journey with an ordinary long bow, but claimed a magic one from the lair of the pair of trolls Jon had killed. The bow didn’t really look much different from an ordinary one, but the arrows fired from it struck with such power they penetrated even plate armor with ease. Jon suspected the arrows were somehow magic as well after seeing what had happened when Markis tried to fire one of his own arrows from it. The arrow had seemed to wobble as it came off the string and shattered in mid-air about ten to twenty feet out. Since then, Markis had been careful to recover the few arrows he found with the bow each time he fired them.

Bo’s bracers were found along with some shiny coins and small gems in a filthy niche that had held the small horde of a cave monster. Jon thought cave monster was a pretty lame name for the fantastically deadly predator that had attacked them in the lava tubes and caverns between the trolls’ cave and the prison mines. However, even his companions had never seen or heard of such a creature, so cave monster it was. Most likely, no one that had run into this thing had ever survived to tell stories about it. It had everything needed to be a successful subterranean predator. It was armored with an exoskeleton like a crab, it climbed walls like a spider, and spit blinding poison like a spitting cobra. It had rows of razor sharp teeth and a powerful prehensile tail, but its greatest weapon was its intelligence.

Jon smiled to himself. Well, he couldn’t be sure it was truly intelligent. After all, he hadn’t exactly had time for conversation, but it was at the very least very patient and cunning. Rodack had been able to smell it and warn the others that something was out there, but even with his dark eyes and excellent hearing he hadn’t seen or heard it until it had taken Mentor out of action. Though it was clever enough to wait to attack until the group was the most spread out and exposed, it probably only kept the bracers because they were shiny like the coins and gems. The creature was, after all, roughly humanoid in shape, and it probably could have worn the bracers had it understood what they were.

Bo had found that the bracers amplified his strength several fold, but only when he was already exerting himself. It was like a built-in turbo that only engaged when Bo’s engine was operating at high RPMs. It was a nice feature that kept Bo from accidentally crushing a friend’s hand into a messy pink goo with a friendly handshake. Though Bo wielded an impressive two-handed sword, Jon was worried that one of these days he would hit an enemy so hard his sword would break. That would be bad for Bo, but far worse for the enemy. If the blow that broke Bo’s sword was to be on Cravos’ heartless body, they would count themselves lucky for the loss of his weapon.

Chapter 2

Jon could hear the dwarves grumbling worriedly about something. Then, he smelled it. It was the smell of old fires, of the ash kicked up by the breeze blowing gently down the mountainside. The smell was a bit more pungent than if he were just passing some campfires. No, he had smelled this smell before, at the burnt out village in the desert that hadn’t been a desert—or at least not such an expansive one—before Cravos showed up.

Are we passing a village that has been burned or something? Jon asked the vague shape of a dwarf next to him trying to show that he was aware despite the blindfold. He was surprised when Chaldier’s voice came in response.

No. Hunting and trapping lodges. Cravos’ armies must have burnt them to try to starve our people out. They dare not attack us in our tunnels.

Was there anyone—, Jon asked gently.

Haven’t found any bodies yet, nor do I expect to. There’s no smell of it, and dwarves wouldn’t defend such temporary structures against a more powerful force. We’d just retire to our mines and tunnels and dare them to come upon us where we have the advantage.

Though Jon remembered Rodack’s explanation of how there hadn’t been a successful attack on one of the dwarven underground strongholds in hundreds of years, he could detect worry in the leader’s voice.

Jon, always hungry for more information on the world that had adopted—or stolen—him, pressed Chaldier with more questions. Rodack told me it was pretty much impossible for outsiders to defeat dwarves in their tunnels, and you don’t seem to be worried about losing these hunting lodges, yet you still sound concerned.

While it is true that we can afford to lose not only a few, but even most of these structures, if Cravos’ armies remain close enough to prevent us from hunting and trapping freely, we will eventually starve or be forced to fight on the surface where goblins and orcs have the advantage of numbers and the ability to attack us from all directions.

I see, Jon said trying not to trip as he talked. So you live underground, but your food is on the surface.

Seems foolish, I know, but there’s more to it than that. Most of our food is on the surface, but we do have roots, mushrooms, and certain types of game that live underground as well. Ages ago, shortly before the first apocalypse, our ancestors took refuge deep under the mountains. Back then, the food that they had learned to grow and catch underground was sufficient for their small numbers. However, in the past few hundred years, our numbers have grown, our tunnels cross the bowels of these mountains, and the food to be had underground is not enough.

Fascinating, Jon said with genuine interest. So you learned to hunt and trap on the surface to boost your food supply. Makes sense. What about farming?

No, farming requires us to be exposed on the surface for too long. Also, fields can be burned and all our efforts destroyed. By hunting and trapping we can come to the surface at various points across the mountainsides, take our game, forage, and disappear. The only reason so many of us were captured and held in those cursed mines was that Cravos’ patrols have grown larger and bolder, even in this, our homeland. No one used to dare cross these mountains without our permission, but that was before Cravos united the orc and goblin tribes.

So your people live mostly on meat?

No, we do enjoy our meat, but we will also gather what fruits and vegetables we can find and trade with the elves for what can only be grown in the lowlands.

What, meat for vegetables, or something like that?

Chaldier gave a hearty laugh that seemed to spread to some of the other dwarves around him. It sounded like the bass section of a choir was laughing in unison at him. Jon wasn’t offended.

Being whipped and beaten in prison gave one thick skin—even if it was mostly scar tissue, Jon smiled at his own pun and then shook his head on the insanity of being able to joke about having been whipped to bloody ribbons not so long ago. Still, he did wonder what he said that was so funny or stupid.

Finally, Chaldier answered, his laughter politely gone, but still with an amused tone to his voice, "Elves don’t eat meat. They’re—ah, friends with the animals." More chuckling arose from the unseen dwarves around Jon.

What do you mean, friends? Jon asked.

Well, they seem to have a way with animals. Some say they can talk to them though I’ve never seen it. Elves think that only animals eat animals and that— at this point his voice changed in pitch sounding like he was mimicking a young woman or child —the earth is fruitful enough to feed all higher beings who will but gather and plant, Chaldier answered.

Rodack picked up the explanation where his lord left off. Dwarves and elves have never been enemies, but despite our ancient trading relationship, there has always been some distance—mistrust—between the races. They are tall, slender, plant eating beings of the sunlit lowlands and forests, and we are short, stout, meat eating beings of the sunless mines and tunnels in the mountains. Were it not for Cravos and the constant harassment of his forces, this … discomfort with each other would undoubtedly have continued to this day.

So there’s an alliance between the elves and dwarves now? Jon asked.

Yes. Chaldier answered, In the past, we traded iron, copper, silver, and gold for fruits, vegetables, and grain. They have always preferred to make their own weapons from the ore that we refined, but since hunting has become treacherous and we produce weapons faster than the elves, we now give them completed weapons in exchange for larger quantities of food.

The fact that we’re being forced to eat less meat probably makes them glad, another deep voice that Jon didn’t recognize, grumbled.

Chaldier continued, It took us awhile to get used to making weapons suitable for their body types and for the way they make war, but they seem pleased with our weapons now. They still make all the wooden parts of their weapons, but we forge the metal parts.

You’ll never catch a dwarf making a bow or the shaft of a spear. Rodack chuckled. Never had much call for such things in the twisting tunnels of our world.

There was some more chuckling from the dwarves, then they fell silent again. Jon, content with the information he had received, focused on picking his way across the mountainside. Rodack stayed close to him, though Chaldier seemed to have peeled off again.

Whenever Jon thought he had a feel for the direction they were going, he soon discovered he was wrong. Though he could feel the setting sun on his face and tell if they were going uphill, downhill, or parallel to the slope, they never seemed to maintain the same bearing relative to the slope and the sun for long.

Though there were many wounded in the group from their great uprising against their captors and all were worn down from the brutal treatment they had received, there were few rest stops, and the pace was relatively quick for the rough terrain. Jon figured the dwarves were carrying the wounded of both their own people and the humans. It seemed difficult to imagine anyone keeping up such a brisk pace on uneven terrain while carrying someone.

If dwarves were reincarnated as animals, they’d probably be donkeys—surprisingly strong and sure-footed for their size. But wait, no, that’s not quite right, Jon thought. Donkeys aren’t deadly fighters and don’t live underground. A cross between donkeys and wolverines or badgers, perhaps? He mused.

Jon stopped trying to figure out what direction they were going. He didn’t know this place anyway, so it’s not as if the information would do him any good. The information he really wished he had was when, if ever, he would be able to see again. While he had become quite good at quickly feeling the slope and stability of the ground before putting his weight onto each step, he was quite ready to be done with the blindfold.

No matter how he tried to distract himself, he couldn’t silence the persistent questions that nagged his mind. Had he only been temporarily blinded by the daylight, or had he seared his retinas and done irreparable damage? Jon hoped that his eyes were slowly getting used to the small amount of light that filtered through his blindfold. He prayed he would be able to see again soon. If he couldn’t—if he really were blind—there would be no great quest to kill Cravos; there would be no mission accomplished, and there would likely be no return leg of what he admittedly only hoped was a round trip ticket to this world.

If he were blind, he would have to rely on the charity of these good dwarves, sit in darkness clutching Vandermine, and hope that someday it would just take him back. It wasn’t a happy thought. In any case, since Jon’s group had been imprisoned the shortest time, they were the test case. They should be able to see again first.

After another hour they stopped for one of their rare rests. Jon was glad to hear a bubbling mountain spring or stream nearby. Though it was relatively cool, he was parched from the lengthy exertion. Without waiting for a dwarf to lead him to the stream or bring him water, he followed his ears and fumbled his way to it.

The water was cool and fresh and pleasantly lacking the grit and sulfurous flavor of the water in the mines. As he sat enjoying the rest and the sound of the bubbling water, he overheard some of the dwarves debating whether they ought to make camp by the stream for the night. After a minute or two of discussion, Chaldier’s voice came back with the decision to press on. Since his voice was the last of several that he had heard discussing the issue, Jon guessed that Chaldier was a good leader who listened to his men before making a decision. The fact that there was not a word of complaint or grumble of disagreement after he spoke also told Jon that his men respected him and fully accepted his leadership.

Then, again, if Chaldier had gone through the three ordeals that Rodack had explained were required to rise to a position of leadership in dwarven society, they’d be fools not to respect and defer to him.

The ordeals ensured that dwarven leadership was a true meritocracy. There were no politics and no noble bloodlines. Jon remembered how Rodack had scoffed in the mines when the others had asked if Chaldier was a dwarven king. Only dwarves of truly rare courage, strength, skill, and wisdom had a chance of surviving the ordeals. For dwarves, it was not one’s parents, but rather one’s actions that made one noble. Jon wished that the leaders of his own world were similarly noble and not just the conniving politicians and bureaucrats most of them were—with few exceptions.

Chapter 3

The rest didn’t last long. They were on their feet again and moving inside of fifteen minutes. Again, Jon was impressed by how little rest the dwarves seemed to need and the pace they were able to maintain carrying the wounded. Of course, he couldn’t fault his fellow humans either. They managed to keep up, though they, being blindfolded, couldn’t carry anyone or otherwise help with the wounded. Worse, the luminescent ore that they had mined had made most of them sickly and weak. Jon guessed that only his group—having been exposed to the ore for the shortest time—might be strong enough to pitch in if they hadn’t been blindfolded. For the others, being both blindfolded and sickly, just keeping up was a feat of sheer determination. Jon remembered how much those that had been in the mines the longest had looked like scarecrows to him. Yet on they marched.

Jon thought about asking some of the dwarves around him why they pressed on so hard, but he gathered enough from overhearing their conversations to figure it out. His stout companions were edgy. Every once in awhile running feet and a panting voice came from the front to report that the way ahead—around the next slope—was clear. Although they kept their fears mostly to themselves, it was obvious that they worried about being caught in the open by one of Cravos’ war bands before they could make the nearest entrance to their own tunnels. Jon liked the idea of fighting blindfolded even less than the dwarves liked the idea of fighting in open spaces. He quit cursing every time he tripped and fell and pressed on.

After a couple more hours of traveling, Jon felt the air gradually grow cooler. The sun no longer warmed his face. Jon half expected the humans to start complaining and clamor to stop. They had been traveling for many hours after already being exhausted by the battle for their freedom. However, being worked slowly to death in the prison mines changed one’s threshold for complaint, Jon noted thoughtfully. Such extreme hardships change who you are.

Jon reflected on his experiences and realized that he was a completely different person from the fun loving college student that was brought here—still unbelievably—by a magic sword that found its way into his Mustang. He had often thought about how easy life was in the 20th century, and how much he had taken for granted: good food, clean water, modern medicine—flushing toilets for Pete’s sake—and, of course, freedom.

His grandparents would be proud. Having grown up during the Great Depression, they were constantly reminding him of how good he had it, of how much he took for granted, and of how much he wasted—electricity, food, time, etc. Of course, his parents reminded him of the same things, but not with the same passion as his grandparents. As each generation got more prosperous and further distant from true hardships, its work ethic and thrift seem to diminish.

Jon laughed at himself again. The longer he stayed in this world, the harder and tougher he had become, sure. But what really surprised him was how he was turning into a philosopher. I guess the more states of the world, and of man, one sees, the more one learns about life, he thought. Gees, there I go again! He smiled and chuckled under his blindfold, probably winning a few odd glances from the dwarves, but he didn’t mind.

Another hour or so and it was clear the sun had gone down. The air was quite chilly now, and Jon shivered. He could hear insects chirping and clicking around him.

Chaldier’s deep voice boomed out, We stop here for the night.

Jon was greatly relieved at hearing this, but he wanted to find the others before bedding down for the night.

He called out to the others, and Markis’ voice answered not too far away, and then Bo’s from just within ear shot. They kept calling out as they wandered closer to each other, as if playing a strange version of the childhood game Marco Polo. Rodack finally joined them and helped them navigate the rest of the way to each other.

They all plopped down unceremoniously on the short, coarse grasses and vegetation. The sound of hundreds of others settling down around them seemed fairly loud despite everyone’s efforts to remain quiet. It reminded Jon of a Boy Scout jamboree that he had been on in his youth—hundreds of youth from all over the country coming together for a big campout. Of course, there were no marshmallows to roast—not a single flame was allowed for that matter. And as far as scary stories went, well, they were living one.

Jon unstrapped his scabbard and laid Vandermine next to him. Rubbing his stiff legs he asked, Everyone ok? Everyone spoke up responding that they were. Has anyone tried to take off their blindfolds yet?

No, Mentor responded, but I’ve been able to see the sunlight that filtered in under my blindfold by my nose, and—, there was a soft ruffling sound. Yes, I can see fine as long as I don’t look directly at the moon.

Great! Jon exclaimed hurriedly taking off his blindfold.

Be careful, Mentor warned as the others followed. I didn’t run out into the sunlight all at once like most of the rest of you did.

Soon Jon had his blindfold off, but he kept his eyes shut, afraid of what it would mean if he opened them and still saw nothing. Upon hearing the others take off their own blindfolds his curiosity overcame his fear, and he opened his eyes. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. He was able to see just fine as long as he followed Mentor’s advice by not looking at the bright moon.

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, he surveyed his surroundings. The mountains were tall and substantial. They reminded him of the Rockies. In the moonlight their tall, dark silhouettes were visible against the starry sky. He could see the hundreds of other prisoners huddled in groups on the mountain side, most of them higher up the slope than his own group. Though it was night, he was glad to be able to not only hear and smell the surface world, but to finally be able to see the wide open spaces as well.

Mentor looked up at the stars and seemed to study them for a while. The others uttered various prayers and expressions of thanks to their god while Rodack just smiled, pleased that his friends’ vision was intact. As it was in their former prison cells, conversation was cut short by their utter exhaustion. Either the battle for their freedom or the forced march on the surface alone would have been enough to wear them out. The two exertions combined had them tired to the bone.

As the others started to doze off, Mentor pulled his spell book out from somewhere within his robes. How he kept such a large book in there Jon had no idea. For a second he smiled to himself and considered asking if he could have a read when Mentor was finished with it. Instead, he unbuckled his sword belt and slowly drew the blade from the scabbard.

He ran his finger along the runes, admiring his blade in detail for the first time in what seemed to be an eternity. Then, he gingerly touched the edge. It was sharp, but not particularly so. If he was careful he could touch the edge without cutting himself, and yet he had seen it cleave both armor and bone. He laid the sword on the ground naked by his side and laid himself down next to it pulling one of the stinking blankets they had taken from the guards’ quarters over him. Then, relaxed and content as a man with a loyal dog at his side, he fell asleep.

Jon awoke to someone shaking him. Though his brain was foggy from his deep sleep, he immediately looked down at his sword. Nothing. The sword was not warning of danger. Jon relaxed a little and looked up grumpily at Chaldier a little surprised that the leader would wake him personally. What is it? he whispered with groggy irritation in his voice.

Orcs, Chaldier whispered.

Impossible, Jon said with even more irritation. My sword would have warned me.

In the moonlight Jon could see Chaldier’s heavily bearded face look down at Vandermine.

Hmmm, Chaldier said stroking his beard, must be too far. They are at least two hundred paces off.

Jon sat up and watched Rodack rouse the others. With everyone huddled around, Chaldier continued his explanation.

A small band of orcs several hundred paces down the mountainside spy upon us. They will no doubt report our position to the larger force from whence they came.

Jon rubbed his eyes sleepily. From what I’ve seen you and Rodack could take out several orcs by yourselves.

Though in his head Jon was really saying, Why not kill them yourselves and let us sleep? But Chaldier took no notice of his annoyance and went on.

Certainly with so many of my brethren here, a handful of orcs is hardly an obstacle. However, we dwarves are not particularly swift of foot, and, as I think you know, we don’t use bows or other ranged weapons.

Mentor nodded thoughtfully. He was wide awake, though Jon knew he must be as tired as the others. So, if they run you cannot catch them, and they will escape to warn their forces.

They will run the moment they see us coming, Bo stated authoritatively before Chaldier could answer. They’re here to learn our number, our arms, and our direction of travel. They have no intention of fighting now.

Chaldier nodded. We need a few of you—quiet, swift of foot, and with ranged weapons—to take care of them.

If I may, Rodack nodded respectfully to Chaldier, Mentor and Markis should go, since they wear no armor and will be quieter than most—and Markis has his bow, of course.

I’m by far the most quiet. I should go! Cockroach hissed.

Very well, Chaldier agreed. But you can’t kill them all yourself, and when they run, you’ll still need Mentor and Markis.

I’m going, Bo stated, grabbing his sword.

Jon could almost feel Rodack and Chaldier tense. But Bo, Rodack started hesitantly, while you are undoubtedly the strongest warrior, you are also the largest and most likely to be seen and heard.

Then I won’t wear any mail, he countered.

Bo, it’s ok. I’ll go, Jon interrupted. No offense, but without armor on, I’m the fastest one here. Unless orcs can run on four legs, I can catch them.

Bo raised an eyebrow and looked at Jon with interest. Jon suddenly realized that none of them had ever seen him at a dead sprint before. The only time he had really run was when they’d chased the orcs through the tunnels before being ambushed and captured, but even then he’d had armor on and had to negotiate the twisting passages.

He smiled. Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest—

Sorry? Bo said clapping Jon warmly on the shoulder. If you go then I get more sleep! We oxen need as much rest as possible to be able to move our enormous bodies! he laughed. To back up his jest, Bo started to lie down again, but then propped himself up on an elbow as if remembering something. You know, I could probably throw Cockroach two hundred paces. That’d surprise ‘em—midgets raining from heaven!

Everyone chuckled—even the grim-faced dwarves. Jon had been about to explain how he was known for his forty yard sprint time on his football team, but it was clear that no explanation was necessary. There was often joking but no boasting or arrogance amongst his companions. Everyone was counted on to be able to do what they said they could. No one would purposely over state his own ability to the others since he had to back up his words with his life.

They were moving soon after being roused. The four approached the orcs’ position cautiously. Chaldier and Rodack had pointed them in the right direction and given them the approximate distance, but Cockroach ended up being their guide. He scoffed when the others began to take a direct route and instead wound them back and forth working their way from cover to cover down the mountainside.

Crouching behind an outcropping of rock, they listened. The unmistakable sound of orcs snorting and laughing was surprisingly close. In fact, just as Jon figured it out, Cockroach signaled that the orcs were just on the other side of the outcropping.

Cockroach nodded to the others, drew both of his daggers, and with one in his left hand and the other in his teeth, crept up the rock. He made it to the top, putting him a little over standing head height. Looking back he nodded again. Markis took off his bow and quiver of arrows and laid them quietly on the ground next to the rock. Jon slowly drew his sword and held it low so that the now pulsing light wouldn’t shine around the outcropping.

Jon took a slow, deep breath to try to steady his pounding heart. Just as he let it out, a beastly scream came from the other side of the rock. He dashed around one side with Mentor and Markis coming around the other just in time to see their little friend piggy-back on an orc, hanging from his daggers buried in either side of its neck.

Vandermine, flame! Jon commanded. Five orcs, including the one Cockroach was on, were suddenly bathed in the firelight. Only the one Cockroach was on had been standing, for the others now jumped to their feet greatly startled. The shadows cast from Vandermine’s light made their shocked faces appear even more hideous than usual.

Jon lunged forward and ran one through just as it raised its weapon. Markis rushed forward bringing one knee high for a split second before shooting his foot forward in a powerful thrusting kick. The orc oofed loudly and went flying backward, falling and rolling down the slope, which steepened beyond the outcropping.

Jon hesitated not knowing whether to chase after the orc that had gone crashing down the slope, or stay and help the others with the remaining two. In his moment of hesitation he saw something that baffled him. Cockroach pulled his daggers free of the now slumping orc’s neck, and Mentor raised his hands as if preparing a spell, but neither of them actually did anything to help Markis. It was as if they were waiting to see if they were needed. It quickly became obvious that they weren’t.

The first orc took a swing at Markis with what looked like a large meat cleaver. The monk leaned quickly back with his upper body while his lower body remained in place. The cleaver passed barely an inch in front of his face. When the orc stepped forward for the back swing, Markis stepped in and met his arm with a hand blocking each side of its elbow. Then, in the blink of an eye, he wrapped the arm that was above the elbow inside the orc’s arm and then back to support his other hand. Dropping his weight forward and down into a crouch, the orc’s shoulder popped grotesquely and bent limply in exactly the wrong direction.

Dropping to a crouch also caused the second orc’s sword thrust to pass safely over his head. Instead of jumping back to his feet, Markis let go of the first orc’s useless arm and kicked his legs out, dropping further to lay on one side. Just as the second orc recovered and began to stab down at Markis, he brought the heel of one foot hard against the back of the orc’s knee, with his other foot striking the orc’s ankle in a scissor like kick. The move forced the orc’s knee to buckle and bend so quickly it fell to its chest and stomach. Leaving his one ankle behind the orc’s knee, Markis quickly came up to a sitting position, his chest pressing the extended leg towards the orc’s buttocks. The orc grunted painfully and squirmed trying to get out of the leg lock.

Markis grabbed the back of the orc’s belt for extra leverage and pulled himself in closer. With his chest forcing the orc’s heel to its buttocks and his ankle preventing the knee from bending properly, the knee finally gave with a sickening pop.

The entire exchange lasted no more than a few seconds. Mentor and Cockroach were already moving in with their daggers to finish the crippled orcs. Then, there was the sound of something crashing through the brush farther down the slope. The one Markis had kicked.

I’ve got him! Jon blurted out and ran down the slope.

Keeping his feet under him while running down the slope was harder than he’d expected. He quickly got up so much speed it was all he could do to keep his footing. Jumping over rocks and fallen, scrubby trees he had to focus on the ground immediately in front of him rather than the fleeing orc. Jon was very conscious of the possibility of spraining or breaking an ankle, so he slowed down a bit until he got to more even ground.

By the time he got to the point where the slope became more moderate, the orc already had a good lead on him. He dug in and ran now with all his speed. The orc was quite a bit faster than he had expected—certainly faster than the average human. Jon’s lungs heaved as he ran the race of his life. Trying to chase the orcs down in the tunnels before their capture taught Jon the danger of letting even one bad guy get away to warn his friends. Though it had been a difficult lesson to learn—his Christian upbringing being at great odds with the thought—he had begun to accept the fact that mercy towards an unrepentant foe is foolhardy at best, deadly at worst. In this world, giving no quarter seemed to be the wiser course of action.

It crossed Jon’s mind how nice it would be to have a nice pair of running shoes right now instead of boots. He was closing in on the orc now. It looked over its shoulder as it ran, and though it took Jon awhile in the prison mines to learn to interpret orc facial expressions, there was clearly terror in its eyes. Jon realized that being chased in the moonlight by a man with a flaming sword was probably as terrifying to the orc as being chased by the Headless Horseman would be to a human.

Instead of feeling sorry for the orc as he would have in his early days in this world, Jon found himself thrilled by the chase. He could almost taste the orc’s fear as he closed in—the fear of those who had enslaved him for a time—and he liked it.

He was now close enough to strike. Just as he was deciding whether to strike with his sword as he ran or tackle the orc first, the sound of an insect buzzing by his ear distracted him. Then, the orc suddenly went down in front of him in a cloud of dust and gravel. Jon barely managed to hurdle over it and nearly went down himself. Coming to a skidding stop, he turned ready to finish it. But, as he looked, he saw no movement. He approached cautiously until finally he saw it, an arrow in the middle of the orc’s back.

Looking around at the brush and sparse trees he couldn’t determine where the arrow had come from. Straining his eyes in the moonlight he finally saw a tiny figure—probably Markis, standing on top of the rock outcropping.

No chance in hell, he muttered panting.

Then, looking around one last time for the hidden archer, he started back to join his friends. For a time he walked catching his breath while keeping an eye on every place of possible concealment. However, once his breathing slowed and he was satisfied that there was no one and nothing else around, he sheathed his sword and jogged back to his friends.

When he got back to the outcropping his friends were all calmly waiting for him. Did you perchance retrieve my arrow? Markis asked looking at Jon’s hands.

Jon looked at Markis incredulously. "You are not going to tell me that was you!" he huffed a bit still evening out his breath.

Markis frowned slightly. I don’t understand. Did you … want to kill it?

No—well, I mean—yes, I guess I did, but that’s not the point. Jon looked back in the direction he had come for a moment and then returned his gaze to Markis’ confused face. That’s got to be a hundred and fifty yards at least!

Yes? Markis responded still not getting the point.

"First of all, that was amazing. Second, that was stupid as hell!" Jon exclaimed.

Now Markis looked truly perplexed. Mentor searched Jon’s face, but Cockroach just continued to go over the bodies looking for anything of value.

Jon shook his head not believing that Markis didn’t get it. "Ok, let me spell it out: one hundred and fifty yards—at night—with a moving target—and your friend