Dark, ominous clouds crept through the sky above quaint village of Ollophstown and down the Ollpheist mountain range.  Rain began to slowly drip down from the cold morning sky, wetting the matted fur of Conlan Duskcoat.  His lanky silhouette was dwarfed by the looming Southern Gate of Ollophstown.

Dreary days like these seemed like a common occurrence for Conlan, especially when he found himself at the edge of town near the twenty foot high blockade. 

He rested one hand up against the stonework and stared down.  The scars from the hole he once dug protruded from the otherwise untouched ground.  It had been nearly twenty years since he had foolishly ventured out of Ollophstown and in with that, lost his mother.

Conlan, who now stood at least a foot taller than he was on that faithful day, knelt down, laying his claws on the ground.  The rain began to come down at a steadier pace now.

“Was it raining that day?” Conlan asked himself.  It had been so long that he had nearly forgotten.  Recently he had made it a point to visit daily just so that the memory of his mother would never fade from his consciousness. 

After a moment, Conlan dug his nails deep into the loose soil.  Enveloped in the cold, wet earth, Conlan cherished this one last connection he had to his mother. 

Two days after he had snuck out of Ollophstown, he went back beyond the wall to find his mother and bury her in the hole that he had dug beneath the wall.

Conlan cleared his throat, trying to find the right words.  “Mom…I’m so sorry…”  His voice trailed off.  It had been much deeper than it was last he spoke to his mother in person, but he figured she’d know it was him.  “Every year I come here regretting what I did and hoping…hoping just one time that I’d find peace and be able to move on, but I can’t.”

Conlan paused.  His wet fur fell over his thick brow.  “I just…” He hesitated.  “I just need a sign.  I’ve been lost.  Any time I try to carry on and live…live s steady life, I think of you.  I think of how stupid I was reading those trash books.”  The tears began to make it tough for Conlan to even speak.  “Why couldn’t I just have listened to you?  I have nothing to live for now…”

Much like every other visit, there was no response, no sign, no life changing moment, just silence.  He wound his claws tightly up into a ball, slamming his fist into the side of the stone wall that loomed in front of him.  The gate stood there, mocking him with it’s omnipresent stare. 

Getting up, his lumbering silhouette slowly faded into the gray stonework as clouds amassed in the sky above. 

It was a long walk back to his house – a quaint tree hut near the Northern hill – but Conlan took his time sliding through the tight alleys of the southern side of town. 

Most of the residents of Ollophstown kept to themselves or actively avoided Conlan as he passed by them. 

The town, itself, had not changed much since Conlan was younger.  They were a tight knit community that feared the outside world, and that was only amplified after Conlan’s run. 

The hinges cried out as Conlan pushed open the weathered front door of his hut.  Much like his visits to the Southern Gate, deciding to stay home was a conscious decision; one to keep his mother’s memory alive. 

Instead of heading to the master bedroom – his mother’s room – he sauntered to his room.  The room he would sit in for hours reading C.L. Landen novels or dream of going South, beyond the wall. 

A trail of water droplets pursued Conlan through each room.  Finally making to his bedroom, he grabbed a large piece of cloth off the door and meticulously patted himself down.

Reaching down below, underneath his mattress, he tapped the floor until he found a familiar hollow spot.   Using the claw on his fore-finger, Conlan delicately lifted the lid of the hidden compartment.  Conlan clutched a thick, leather-bound bundle, the size of a brick, in his hand and finally sat down upon his bed.

The welcoming smell of the surrounding oak put him at ease as he undone the leather wrapping.  Besides the rain, it had been generally pleasant weather in Ollophstown, and hunkering inside, Conlan promptly warmed up. 

Underneath the worn out leather laid a mysterious looking tome.  The foreign glyphs on cover would have been ineligible to any other citizen of Ollophstown, but Conlan had been studying and teaching himself the alien characters every chance he’s gotten. 

He stumbled across the foreign text the day he went back for his mother.  It was laying three or four yards away from his mother, and even though the soft brown leather camouflaged itself into the earth below, the piece called out to him.  Afraid at first that it was a trap, Conlan surveyed his surroundings and once he could assure himself that no one was around, he scampered over and grabbed the book. 

Although Conlan may have been naive at that age, he was sharp, and judging by the size, location, and writing in the text, he determined quite quickly that this belonged to one of the men who had killed his mother.  At that moment, he made a promise that he would use this as a tool to learn as much as he could about the horrible creatures beyond the wall.  

It had taken him longer than expected to even begin to decipher the writing, but after nearly three years he translated his first word – the one that certainly appeared most frequently.  It was a simple three letter word, God.

After that, he had begun to get the hang of the translation.  Most of the text was surprising to Conlan.  While the men who attacked him and his mother appeared to be violent brutes, this book spread the word of peace and happiness, doing the right thing, treating others with respect, and most importantly following the word of this God.  Either his translation was off, or these men did not properly follow any of these idiom. 

The most important translation came when Conlan realized there was what appeared to be a hand-written message inside the front cover.  It read Emmit Ingram – the name of the man who most likely killed his mother.  Conlan has been festering on all of this information ever since then, and would come back to read through the word of God to calm himself after he’d visit his mother. 

But who was this God Conlan frequently wondered.  The writing made sense to Conlan, but who appointed this person to judge others?  Was he…or she a higher being?  An all-knowing, ominous creature?  While he accepted God’s teachings, he was just as curious about the meaning behind God, as much as the meaning God meant to convey.

A crack of thunder broke Conlan’s concentration, and he now realized the pitter-patter of rain had slowly turned into a swirling storm.  The wind banged and thrashed around outside, knocking branches into the roof of his hut.  Another crack of thunder immediately followed a flash of lightning just outside Conlan’s window.  The old tree up on the Northern hill seemed to have been hit as smoke rose up through the pouring rain. 

Conlan decided to rest his head down and enjoy the constant hum of the storm. 

Before he knew it, Conlan jolted awake from a nap.  Judging by how dark it had gotten, he figured it was near midnight.  He knelt up on the edge of his bed, peering out the window. 

Pools of water had settled in and found homes scattered across the grassy knoll leading up to the Northern hill.  Conlan’s eyes were drawn straight to a pulsing light gleaming out of the old tree atop the hill.  He then remembered that the tree had been struck right down the center by a bolt of lightning. 

“Hope that’s not a fire.”  Conlan thought to himself.  A fire in this weather could spread across town in the blink of an eye. 

He rolled out of bed, stretching and yawning, contemplating whether or not he should check on the tree.  His thoughts grabbed hold of him and pulled him into a gruesome vision of huts burning down, children crying, families left homeless.  Before Conlan could fully process these thoughts, he was out the door, running up the hill.

Conlan’s vision still blurred as he attempted to fully wake himself up running out the door.  His eyes focused on the orange glow gleaming out of the split tree.  Fog rested on top of the swamped land.

As he approached the tree, he realized that there was no smoke or fire; just a soft emanating glow.  Conlan, slowed his run into a light jog, suspicious about what might be hidden within the bark.

The moon, now at its apex, shined down, providing Conlan plenty of light to lead the way. 

A squared-edge protruded from the trunk.  Its bronzed corners were highlighted by the pale white light of the moon.  Conlan cautiously grabbed hold of the contraption and pulled upwards, and kept pulling until a hand-carved wooden box that spanned nearly four-feet rested in his arms.  A cross and waned crescent moon stared up at Conlan from the chest – a sigil that Conlan swore he had seen before.

This tree had been on the Northern hill all of Conlan’s life.  How long had this chest been hidden within the trunk? Based off the weathered, musty smell, it had been some time since it was placed within the great tree.

With the moon still bright enough to light his way, Conlan knelt down, laying the ancient box on the dewy grass. 

Scarlett flakes fell to the ground as Conlan ran his hand across the corroded lock. Despite it’s decrepit appearance, the lock held no matter how hard Conlan tried to pry it open.  He thought about digging his claws into the wood but decided against it as the night time wind reminded Conlan of the time.  Grasping the box tight, Conlan marched straight back home to resume his journey in the morning.

Conlan was awaken by the ramblings of an alarmed town.  Chitter-chatter filled the air, slithering its way from one house to another, and footsteps scattered through the tight alley ways. 

A sharp pain shot up Conlan’s back as he attempted to get up off his bed.  Looking back he remembered what had happened last night and realized why his back was in such pain.  Exhausted from all of the excitement, he had passed out atop the hand-crafted casing.

A knock at the door broke his concentration. 

“Duskcoat?”  The pounding at his front door continued. “Duskcoast, are you there?”  A voice called out from out front.

Conlan could pick out that voice anywhere, it was the one voice in all of Ollophstown that he did not want to answer the door for.  It was the voice of Arthur Windswept, one of the boys who would constantly bully Conlan when he was younger.  In fact, he was still as much of a thorn in Conlan’s backside today as he was when they were younger. 

“Come on, Conlan…please…” Arthur’s voice called out one final time.

That was different.  Conlan couldn’t remember the last time Arthur sounded that desperate.  

“I’ll be right there, Windswept” he croaked.  “Give me a minute.”  Conlan slid the ancient box underneath his bed before stretching his back and heading to the door. 

Conlan opened the knotted wooden door and there he was, Arthur Windswept. 

When Arthur was younger, he was true to his namesake, proving to be as strong as a bear, and some of those instances were firsthand for Conlan.  However, now Conlan and Arthur stood eye to eye. 

The look in Arthur’s eyes seemed desperate.  He gazed wearily over Conlan’s shoulder, almost waiting for him to initiate the conversation. 

“It’s Deirdre…” his eyes continued to wander. Deirdre was Arthur’s young daughter who luckily took after her mother rather than her father.  She seemed to put a smile on anyone’s face she passed.  “We can’t find her…have you seen her?”

Arthur now leaned in the door frame, trying to catch his breath.  It was obvious that he had been running around for some time now. 

Conlan thought about inviting Arthur in, but couldn’t bring himself to do so.  “No, sorry, I haven’t, Arthur.” he said softly.  “I was up late and just woke up.  Are there any signs of where -”

Before Conlan could finish his sentence, someone called out from behind the two.  “Quick! Arthur!  Tracks were found near the gate!”  The voice was full of distress. 

Arthur’s head immediately spun around, breaking out in a cold sweat.  “What?!  The gate?  She wouldn’t be so stupid.”  The words stung Conlan.

“It must be her,” the voice responded.  “The prints match…now come!  They were tracked near the edge of the wall, up near the shore…now hurray!”

And so Arthur spun around and ran out towards the Southern Gate. 

Conlan was stunned.  No one in Ollophstown had dared to even approach the border gate in ages.  Not after he got his mother killed. 

He wondered how this poor young girl would survive.  How would Arthur or anyone else survive the types of evil he witnessed? 

For a second, he considered running out after Arthur to help find Deirdre, but then wondered if he’d be any help.  Instead he went back into his bedroom and pulled his hidden treasure back out on to his bed. 

With a simple brush across the dusted top, engraved text was revealed.  It was written in what seemed to be an ancient type of Ollophsen.  It read:

And I say to them, of a fearful heart, be strong, fear not: behold, your God will come with vengeance.

Before he got through the entire engraving he realized that this was a scripture from his book of God.  But how? Who? He wondered.  Had others gone out beyond the wall and come back successfully? 

Conlan decided to pull out his book of faith and re-read that passage and thought about Deirdre lost out beyond the wall.  

Even God with a recompense; he will come and save you.

The words hung heavily over his head.  He looked back down at the inscription, now even more so curious to see what’s inside.  He dug a claw into the lock, after a few seconds of wiggling around, he heard a pop and the top creaked open. 

Conlan cautiously reached, fully opening the box.  A long metal blade glistened in the sun-light.  Conlan’s mouth dropped open for a second in awe.  A beautifully crafted bronze hilt supported a long, broad blade that’s edge looked as sharp as a falcon’s talon.  The weapon was noticeable right away – a broad sword – similar to the ones the city guard used to carry around when he was much younger.  

The sword rested atop a leather bed and the bronze hilt depicted a familiar crest – a setting sun, forever linked with a rising crescent moon – the Duskcoat family sigil.  Conlan was skeptical.  He wondered if this had belonged to one of his ancestors. 

He picked up the blade and it was as light as air, as well as perfectly balanced.  Gaining some courage, he sliced through the air, first one time, and then over and over again.  It felt good.  Conlan had never swung a sword before nor had he ever considered himself violent, but this sword was not just a piece of metal, it was a work of art. 

Laying down the sword, Conlan dug through the rest of the casing.  All that remained was a studded leather tunic and tattered strap for the sword.  The scarlet tunic too bore the mirrored sun and moon crest above the heart and at that point, Conlan recalled where he had seen this sigil before…his grandfather’s old chest that his mother would take out whenever she told Conlan a story about his pop-pop. 

Conlan went to his closet where he kept the chest.  Immediately grabbing the box, Conlan saw it, the Duskcoat family sigil.  He eagerly opened it and dug through the belongings of yesteryear. 

This chest was full of stories and childhood memories for Conlan: the preserved lily flower that Conlan’s pop gave to his grandmother the first time they met, a spindly skeleton key that was Pop-Pop’s lucky charm – he even deemed it the ‘key to the world’, and a framed picture that Conlan’s mother would pull out when she told him stories of his grandfather. 

Conlan always thought his grandfather looked so happy in the picture.  You could tell he was young; he still had the bright eyed look of a naive child.  He was very handsome and lean, neither of those traits Conlan thought were passed on to him.  He stood proud and…Conlan paused.  The tunic his Pop-Pop wore in the picture was the same as the one on his bed.  Both scarlet red, one more faded then the other, and both proudly displacing the Duskcoat coat of arms. 

A bronze shimmer brought Conlan’s eyes back to the chest.  A piece of bronze similar to the sword’s hilt poked out of a wrap of leather about a foot long.  He unfurled the leather out into his hand, revealing two smaller blades with similarly designed pommels. 

All the pieces fit together too perfectly for this all to be a coincidence.  And then he recited the scripture one more time, “And I say to them, of a fearful heart, be strong, fear not: behold, your God will come with vengeance. Even God with a recompense; he will come and save you.”  He picked up the broad sword again.  “I will come with vengeance and save Deirdre.” 

Any fear that might have been lurking in the back of Conlan’s mind quickly vanished when he pictured Deirdre alone beyond the wall much like he was.  In the matter of moments he slid on the tunic and buckled the sword and daggers around himself. 

It wasn’t even mid-day, but with the commotion of a missing Ollophite, the town was as quiet as it would had been at dawn.  Conlan guessed that most of the town would have gathered near the Southern Gate where Arthur was told they had found tracks.  He thought it would probably be for the best if he found another way around…after all, he knew in his heart where he would find her. 

Nerves ran through his veins but everything that Conlan had gone through had prepared him for this moment.  Popping his head out of the doorway, the streets were empty.  He felt awkward with this broad sword slung across his back and daggers at either side.  If anyone had seen him now the entire town would forget about the missing Windswept girl and all come together to mock Conlan.  He was no city guard and he certainly wasn’t any type of hero.  Conlan learned that heroes don’t exist a long time ago, but still he made his way down the street, zig-zagging through the tight alleys, following the same path he usually does to get to the Southern Gate. 

Unlike the past few times Conlan had visited the gate, the sun was out and the sky was clear.  Vines climbed and twisted their way up to the top of the stone wall due to years of neglected upkeep. 

Conlan grabbed hold of the thickest vine he could find and tugged hard.  There was no budge. 

Conlan looked down at the familiar patch of dirt and softly said, “Wish me luck, ma.”  After a moment he grabbed hold with his other hand and began to pull himself up the wall.

It wasn’t until Conlan hovered several feet above the ground that he realized what a daunting task lied in front of him…and, by the judge of the pain that throbbed in his arms, just how out of shape he was. 

The old vines stayed strong the entire climb up, not once giving out.  The strain of the climb fatigued Conlan greatly.  Sweat ran down his face and the added weight of the blades made his back feel ten years older than he was.  By the time he reached the top he could have stopped for a nap if he had the time but the sun was already on the decline and time was of the essence.

Tree tops lined the horizon, spreading in every direction.  The cool ocean breezes ruffled through Conlan’s back as he sat atop the massive stone structure.  It was peaceful, the calm before the storm Conlan thought. 

Off in the distance, smoke billowed up and over the woodland’s canopy about thirty yards away. 

Conlan hadn’t fully realized just how high up he was until the sun glared in his eyes, forcing him look down.  His knees buckled and him falling to him death flashed before his eyes.  He could feel the pain of his legs snapping after plummeting to the ground.  That is when he realized he didn’t have a plan of how to get down. 

Fifteen feet or so down the Eastern part of the gate, an old willow tree stretched out towards the stones.  It was an easy choice for Conlan, considering the two options.  After cautiously keeping his balance down to the long branches, Conlan took a step back and launched himself at the willow. 

His age and weight caught up with him quickly as he began to drop before reaching the closest branch.  As he went to dig in with his claws, all he got was a handful of the willow’s soft, drooping leaves.  The momentum spun Conlan’s body, sending him blindly to the ground. 

Gravity pushed him down even faster into the next wallowing branch that nearly snapped as Conlan’s back collided with it and flipped him face first into its neighboring arm. 

Conlan’s body contorted in the air until one branch flung him face first into the trunk of willow. 

For a second he stood still, face first into the bark then immediately began to slide down.  Conlan dug his claw in to the tree.  They began to split and were being completely pulled off, not strong enough to hold his weight.

In a last ditch effort, he reached for his two daggers, grabbed them and dug them deep into the tree.  Instantly he stopped falling and if it wasn’t for sure luck the inertia would have made him lose his grip on the blades.  Up above, Conlan could see the shards of wood ravaged from his falling body.  Down below, the hard soil waited for him. 

His hands began to swell up with blood oozing out of his torn claws.  Before Conlan could get a steady handle on either hilt, one hand slipped off a dagger. 

Dangling in the air, Conlan lost control and pulled the other dagger out, dropping him towards the ground.

With a hefty thump, Conlan’s body slammed into the ground.  If it wasn’t for the sure amount of pain, Conlan would have been amazed at how quickly his fortunes had turned. 

The sky above faded to purple as the sun said it’s last good-byes.  The trees above spun as he tried to gather his thoughts.  The pain down his spine was masked with the throbbing of his fingers. 

A young girl’s scream cut through the air before being cut off.  Conlan jolted up, forgoing the pain.  The scream called out from the same general direction in which Conlan remembered see the smoke stack. 

Conlan rolled over, his leather tunic creaking as he used his broad sword to help himself stand up. 

A thick fog began to rise as dusk approached, adding to the brevity of the situation.  Trying to fore-go the pain, Conlan began to sprint towards the scream. 

A few paces in, he came to a halt realizing he had no plan…no idea what he was doing.  Then a shot of pain jolted up his back.  “And you see what you get when you have no plan…” Conlan said to himself.

His mind began to wander, and he couldn’t help but think back to C.L. Landen’s  ’Escaping the Moon’ series.  Gray Starstrom’s smuggling friend, Brahm Volo never had a plan.  He would wing it by hiding in the shadows and taking out the bad guys one by one.  Of course, he would brag about it after wards, but Brahm was always boisterous about his ways. 

Conlan now became aware of his surroundings.  Following the shadows left behind by the large trunks Conlan couldn’t help but remember all the adventures Gray and Brahm went through and how he used to worship those stories. 

“Be one with the shadows…” Conlan said as he crouched down.

Before he knew it, a wooden cabin came into view in the distance.  Another scream rang out but before Conlan could take another step forward, close by he heard another set of footsteps begin to walk towards the cabin. 

Conlan froze.  He could see a dark figure walking through the tree line a stone’s throw away.  It was a taller figure, shoulder slouched and long legs.  Even from this distance Conlan could make out the similar firearm that he’s seen before.  The same weapon used against him and his mother.

Rage filled inside and Conlan half thought about throwing his smaller blade at the creature but then thought against it, picturing himself slinging the dagger and the hilt knocking into his adversary rather than the blade doing any damage. Instead, he crouched back down and quietly approached the man from behind. 

The closer he got, he tried to be as quiet as possible, but sporadic screams from the cabin helped conceal any suspicious noises. 

Before Conlan knew it, he was directly behind the creature, nearly slamming into it, halting to check his surroundings. 

Not wasting an opportunity, Conlan dove up, wrapping one of his hands over the beast’s mouth.  He could feel the blood from his split claws seeping into its mouth as it attempted to cry out for help. 

Conlan leaned in and whispered into his victim’s ear, “Behold, your God will come with vengeance.” And with a single swipe, he brought his grandfather’s blade up to the throat of the beast and slit it open.  The creature dropped to the ground instantly. 

Kneeling next to the corpse, Conlan closed the man’s eyelids, blood streaking down its face and whispered in a soft tone, “Don’t worry, he will come and save you.”

A light broke through the dusk’s fog from the cabin nearby.  Conlan quickly ran behind the closest tree trunk, hoping that the dead body on the ground would not draw any attention. 

A black silhouette filled the doorway of where the light emanated from.  A deep voice called out.  “Rand? You out here still?”  There was a pause and then Conlan could hear the silhouette take a few steps out of the door.  “Rand?”  Conlan couldn’t understand a word but knew he must be looking for his dead friend. 

Conlan leaned over a little as he could while still being able to see the cabin.  The creature calling out began walking away from where Conlan hid. 

Forgetting the shadows or silence, Conlan took this opportunity to bolt for the man-beast.  Another scream screeched out through the open door causing the man looking for Rand to turn around and see Conlan running right at him. 

The man let out a cry, but before he could pull his weapon up to defend himself, Conlan flung the bloody dagger in the air.  The blade cut the dense fog like a dart, relentlessly moving until it pierced the man’s eyeball.  A terrible noise belched out of the man’s mouth and he dropped to his knees. 

Two more of these men poured out of the doorway, firearms already in hand, ready to fire.  One of the men looked much older than the other, dull white hair protruding from the hat on its head, and a bushy mustache to match.  The older one said something unrecognizable to the other, the wrinkles on his face twisting in anguish. 

Two shots were fired directly at Conlan, explosive sparks fired out of the ends of their weapons.  Something whizzed right past Conlan’s head while the other shot hit Conlan right in the chest.  It felt like someone punched him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him.  He looked down, expecting blood to be pouring out of his chest, but instead saw metal shards embedded in his leather tunic, a pulsing light emanating around it. 

“This can’t be no simple leather tunic,” Conlan said as he picked one of those shards off his chest.  “What were you Pop-pop?”

The two men stared in amazement.  This gave Conlan time to unsheathe the sword off his back.  The broad sword gleamed in the rising moon light, penetrating through the fog that had settled around the cabin.  Conlan stepped forward towards the men, fog splitting in two as Conlan made his way through. 

The younger man struggled to reload his weapon, fear filling his eyes as Conlan approached.  Conlan stood nearly a foot taller than both of the men. 

The older man was smarter; he quickly grabbed something out of his pocket and flung it at Conlan.  Three quick pricks hit Conlan in the arm.

Conlan roared, “Is that all you have?” but all the two men heard was a deep guttural growl. 

The arm that had been hit with the small darts began to feel numb and the sword suddenly felt heavy.  The older man gave a wily smile and swung at Conlan, using his long metal weapon.

The first swing came in fast…too fast for Conlan to get his sword up to block, and then before he knew it the metal pipe swang around to the other side hitting him hard in the head. 

The earth spun beneath Conlan’s feet.  His eyes teared up, barely able to make out the two men.  The young man, now unburdened with his fear, was able to calmly reload his weapon.  Before he can get off another shot, the older man stepped in to take a swing at Conlan’s legs. 

Conlan could feel the man approach…feel the wind of the metal ripping through the night time air.  He closed his eyes and parried the hit away with his sword.  The loud clink of metal on metal swelled through the air. 

Conlan opened his eyes again, regaining focus.  He released the sword from his numb arm, switching guard and going into a one-handed stance. 

He took two quick forward advances on the men before he was able to sweep his blade up, knocking the older man’s weapon free and then swiping the hilt into his head.  It wasn’t until then that Conlan realized the frailty of the old man.  The impact of the hilt cracked the temple of the man’s face so gravely that bronze metal drove all the way to the man’s nose, smashing his eye in the process. 

Blood and white ooze dripped out of the crunched eye socket.  If any thought of Conlan’s old children book had been in his head still, the last of it was gone at the sight of the old man crumpling down on all four.  He still lived, gasping for air, reaching around for anything that may save his life.  Any hope, anything.

The younger man, lifted his firearm up at Conlan, but he had been too slow in his movements…too hesitant.  Conlan grabbed the weapon with his bloodied hand, lifting it in the air and in turn pulling the frightened man closer. 

The girl…Deirdre, screamed out. For a second Conlan had wrongfully thought these would be the last two he’d have deal with.  That scream said differently. 

Conlan pulled the young man even closer and with a scowl asked, “Why? Why’d you take her?”  He knew he wouldn’t get an answer but he still needed to ask.  The man looked like he was about to cry. 

Now that he was so close he didn’t look like a monster or a beast to Conlan but a weak little man, one that trembled in his grasp.  Conlan lifted his sword with his numb arm and cautiously, but quickly, drove the blade through the man’s throat.  Blood gushed out, splattering Conlan’s face.

He now looked down to the older man still crawling around.  He could see what he was looking for, there laid a handful more of those tranquilizer darts.  Conlan briskly stepped up over him and drove the blade down through the back of his skull. 

The old man’s body instantaneously dropped to the ground while his head still stood suspended in the air, stuck on the wide blade.  Conlan put a foot on the body and yanked the sword out in one fell swoop. 

Conlan stepped into the doorway, eyes adjusting to bright candle light.  There sat Deirdre, tied up on the ground, blood lining her soft fur.  She couldn’t have been much older than he when he went beyond the wall if his memory served him correctly. 

No one was around that he could see so he stepped further in.  The far wall was lined with mounted heads.  War trophies.  The closer he got, he could see them for what they really were: a wall of his fallen people.  Each head a proud Ollophite.  Conlan nearly dropped to his knees in distress.  What had his people done to deserve this type of treatment? 

What had poor Deirdre done?  This young girl, barely old enough to make decisions of her own.   

Eyes still on the wall he called out, “Deirdre, are you alright?”

There was no response.  He turned to see her wiggling on the floor like a fish out of water.  “Hadn’t she been screaming a minute ago?” he thought. She cried out a muffled scream and her eyes bulged open.   Conlan turned as quickly as he could, just in time to avoid the swipe of a large ax.  Another man stood face to face with Conlan.  His hair was gray like puffs of smoke and seemed well built for his age.  He stood proud and strong just inside the door frame. 

“You dare come to my home and kill my friends?! My family?!” the man shouted. 

This time Conlan didn’t care if he couldn’t understand him.  After what he had been through, after seeing Deirdre tied up, and seeing the wall lined with his lineage he had simply had enough. 

He grabbed hold of his sword with two hands, flexing the numb arm for a second, and lifted the blade up. 

The man, ax still at the ready muttered, “Oh, I forgot…” and with a growl from deep within in stomach, he began to speak again, but this time Conlan was able to understand.  “I always forget you all speak this bastard language.”

Conlan stood in awe. The man continued.  “Did you not think we were able to speak your language?” The man chuckled.  “So naive, child.”  The man took a step forward as Conlan could hear Deirdre struggling to break free of her ties.  “Our ancestors worked hand-in-hand together until you lot went mad.” 

The man swiped his ax at Conlan, trying to catch him off guard.  Conlan jerked back, catching the wooden handle of the ax with his blade. 

“My old man always told the story of how he lost his ma to one of your kind…” the man spit to the ground, still closing in on Conlan.  “That’s why we started to collect yer heads, boy.” he said pointing up at the wall.

Again, the ax took an unrestrained swipe at Conlan and again his broad sword met the ax’s handle. 

Conlan kept quiet, trying to formulate some type of plan so the old man continued. “We were nearly able to push yer kind off the edge of the earth before y’all put up that damn wall.”  The man ran his thumb up against the blade of the ax, inspecting its sharpness. “Didn’t matter to me though…plenty of you have come climbing over looking for more and y’all certainly found more.” he said smiling at his ax head.  A gold tooth in the back of his mouth glistened off the candle light. 

Conlan had had enough, he stepped forward, taking a piercing jab at the man but he was ready for the attack. 

The man laughed as Conlan stumbled forward, missing his strike.  “I wish I had a chance to use this on your mother,” he wistfully looked at his ax.  “But I only had my gun on me at the time.”

Conlan’s mouth dropped opened.

The old man laughed again,a laugh that belonged in hell if there ever was one.  “That was your mother, right? I went back for her head but you must have pulled her back to the other side of the wall…” he paused.  “What did you think I wouldn’t remember you, boy?” 

“Emmit Ingram…” Conlan spat.

The man winked in return.  “The one and only…”

Fire burnt in the pit of Conlan’s stomach.  Visions of his mother being shot down filled his mind.  Rage took over and he took two substantial swings but with the fury came a lack of control and he completed missed on both attacks.  After side-stepping the second swing, the old man jammed the ax into Conlan’s knee.

The pain spread like wild fire as the ax was driven through several nerves.  Conlan lost balance immediately and the man caught Conlan again, this time on his neck. 

“You all think you are high and mighty…living a pure life beyond that wall!” The man caught Conlan in the face with the heel of his boot. “But you’re not.  You’re all wretched creatures! You’re all children of Lucifer himself! I’m just doing God’s work!” Another boot came right down on Conlan’s nose.  Blood came gushing out, blocking the air flow.  Emmit Ingram snickered.  “At least I’ll have your head…even if it does get a little beaten up.”

The ferocity inside Conlan intensified.  He had his sword at the ready and finally spoke up.  “You speak of God but you know nothing of the true God! He speaks of love, peace, equality, and all you preach is hatred and purity.”  Conlan struggled to stand-up, but got to one knee before continuing.  “I found one of your books of God near my mother before burying her.”

Emmit sneered as if saying to himself, “So that’s where it went.”

Conlan braced himself and lifted himself up, using his sword as a crutch.  “I know your God better than you do!” he spat.  “Actually he’s not your God, he’s just God…an ambassador of good will looking over us all.  Looking over my mother…” his voice trailed off.

“You don’t know anything!” Emmit roared.

The ax’s head came flying at Conlan but he batted it away easily this time with his blade.  The force of the contact sent the ax flying out of the man’s hand.  He felt a renewed vigor.  He wasn’t afraid anymore…but the old man was.

“And I say to them, of a fearful heart,”Conlan swung the broad sword at the man, sending him to the ground in fear.  “Be strong!” Conlan bellowed. “Fear not!”  Conlan sent the tip of his sword down into the old man’s gut, slowly pushing it further and further in.  Conlan continued, “Behold, your God will come with vengeance.”

Ingram gasped for air, first reaching up, and then grabbing the long sword, trying to pull it out from inside himself.  Blood began streaking down the blade to his body as his hands struggled to get any grip on the blade itself. 

Footsteps scampered into the cabin and a voice called out from behind Conlan.  “No! Stop! Please, stop!”  A younger man stepping in, he was probably half the age of the old man, if not younger.  He was thin though, almost frail looking compared to the well-kept old man. 

Conlan sneered and turned back around.  He had to finish the job he came here to do.  He pulled the blade out of the man’s gut and hovered it over the man’s head.    Emmit’s eyes were closed, he must have passed out from the blood loss. 

The younger man cried out again, “No!”

Conlan turned just in time to see the young man running at him.  Once the man was close enough, Conlan reached out, grabbing the man by the neck.

The young man dug his nails into Conlan’s hand, trying anything to break free but his grasp was too strong.  Now that the young man was closer Conlan could tell that this was the boy he saw twenty years ago.  He had seemed so nice then but he was bred with hatred through his father and his father before him. 

Conlan squeezed even harder on the man’s neck.  “Even God with a recompense; he will come and save you.”  And as Conlan finished, he simultaneously drove his sword into Emmit Ingram’s head and broke the younger one’s neck. 

A numbness filled Conlan.  He was drained, emotionally and physically.  He turned to look at Deirdre who was wide-eyed, still tied up on the floor. 

He limped over to her and pulled the rag out of her mouth.  “You…you…” She gasped for words, for air, for anything that would explain what she just witnessed. 

“It’s alright,” he said, “It’s alright, we’re safe now.” Conlan began to untie the ropes that wound around her. 

Now up-close, Conlan could see the deep cuts Ingram torn through Deirdre’s body.  He thought about the pain and torture she must have went through before he got there.

“How do you feel?  Do you need me to carry you?”  The question felt awkward to ask, Deirdre was young, but she wasn’t as young as he thought she was.  She would be a grown woman in a few years-time. 

He thought Deirdre blushed but he couldn’t quite tell.  “I’m fine.  I think I can walk.”  She stretched her arms and legs out, grimacing in the process. 

Conlan lent a hand to her and helped her up onto her feet.  Though unstable, she was still standing with Conlan’s help.  He glanced over to her.  “Don’t worry, we’ll be home soon.”

Deirdre looked up at Conlan, full of questions but said nothing.  They both silently made their way out of the cabin, Conlan helping Deirdre.  Finally Deirdre blurted out, “Why did you come for me?”  Conlan thought about what to say but Deirdre butted in.  “Sorry, you don’t need to answer that, but thank you.”

Conlan nodded.  The pain had finally gotten to him and he had slowed down immensely. 

Out in the distance voices rang out calling “Deirdre?! Deirdre?!”

Within minutes Arthur Windswept and a group of five others gathered around Conlan and Deirdre.

“Duskcoat? Is that you?” Arthur looked in amazement.  “How’d you get here before us?”

Conlan chuckled, “I knew where I was going…”

Arthur looked at both Conlan and Deirdre, astounded.  Arthur looked down at the ground.  Conlan knew he was struggling to say anything, to say thank you.  Instead, Arthur wrapped his arms around his daughter and said, “Come, let’s get you home.”  He looked over his shoulder to one of his companions, Rainar if Conlan remembered correctly.  “Can you bandage her up quickly?”  Arthur looked around.  “I don’t like being out here.” And so Rainar did as he was commanded.

Conlan drifted off as Arthur and his company circled around Deirdre.  They weren’t that far from Ollophstown, he could already see the stone wall looming in the distance. 

Before he knew it, he was in the clearing where his mother was killed saving his life.  He couldn’t help himself, he was overcome with emotions and fell to his knees.  He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.  He was past the point of grief now.  Whatever he did from this point on was to honor his mother.  To honor all of the Ollophites who have been captured, killed, or tortured by the monsters who call themselves man.

“Hey where are you going?” a voice called out from behind.  Conlan looked up to see Deirdre walking as fast as she could towards him, bandages wrapped around her.  Her father stood bewildered where she had left him. 

“This is where my mother died.” Conlan softly said.  “When she came to rescue me, from my idiotic decision to crawl underneath the wall…that’s how I knew where you would be…”

Deirdre rested a hand on his shoulder.  “I think you would have made her very proud today.”

Conlan stood up and finally sheathed his sword back upon his back.  “I think so too…but I don’t think the job is done.”

They both started walking back to the rest of the party. “What do you mean?” Deirdre asked.

Conlan sighed.  “Unfortunately, I’m sure there are more people out there who think and act with as much hatred in their hearts as those men did.  Who’s going to stop them?  Who’s going to keep our small town safe?”

“So you’re going to stay out beyond the wall?”

Conlan nodded.  “Eventually yes.  First I need to rest, heal, and most importantly train a little more with the sword.”  They both chuckled.

They were nearly back to Arthur Windswept who eagerly awaited them.

Deirdre dropped her voice so only Conlan could hear her.  “Can I train with you?  Can I come with you? When you go back out?”  Deirdre looked up in eagerness. 

Conlan smiled.  It felt like the first time he had smiled in close to twenty years.  “Let’s get home first.” And patted her on the shoulder. 

Once they were all united, they all turned and began their long journey back around Eastern part of the Southern Gate.  The wall that had kept them safe all these years past.

Conlan smiled and whispered to himself, “Let’s go home.”

Copyright William Meier Jr. 2021 ©