TDLPreview

THE TITAN
Variant Cover Edition

1
Carnage.
It polluted the desolate field. Corpses of assorted orcs, trolls,
and other creatures were strewn to the horizons under the early
auburn sky.
A sole figure—immersed in roiling shadow—stood amidst
the ended life.
The odious red of his irises seared, but with calm surveyed
the land—nothing notable remained beyond soiled grounds, a
hill in the distance. Banners, tents, weaponry and catapults lay
broken and scattered.
Not far ahead, the brawny greenish arm of one being that was
prone quavered, laboring towards what it could get its taloned
hand upon.
The devastator waited.
The claw clutched the black grip of a proximate crescent-
bladed, spired battle-axe (in pristine condition).
The beast that claimed it propped the weapon hand over hand
upon the beaten earth to rise—
—he grimaced while broken knees grinded, cracking further.
Something inside one leg tore.
Clad in insignia clan armor he appeared orc-like—and also

something else with scaled skin.
This battered brute found and fumed at his enshrouded
enemy... yet there the foe stood. His presence was yet to be
acknowledged by the dark monster, an unfathomable look upon
that face.
With failing strength the wounded snarled without volume…
and the seething slayer shifted:
The apathetic gaze lowered upon the beast—it made his spirit
shiver.
But satisfaction would be taken before his last breath.
The monster spread his arms apart, hands open—
There remained nothing to say. The beast knew the haughty
gesture for what it was: The call to finish.
The battle-weapon was raised high.
The beast bared his fangs.
And ignoring damage as best able, he charged.
He fast closed the distance all hurts considered. Delirious, he
aimed to taste the honed metal harvesting the head of his
opponent (who remained still, unthreatened by this imminent
decapitation).
The beast achieved striking distance—
—the taut left driven into the abdomen ended his progress.
Taken off his feet he felt his stomach shred to nothing, its
seeping visible through the mail. The second leaning fist
crashed aside his head, blinding the stumbling beast. A
headbutt greeted his returning eyesight.
This chance was dying. And the beast managed a lash into
one arm—but, he was positive the axe had touched shaded
flesh! Confused, he was just as certain the effect equaled
cutting the open air.
By one hand the monster met the end of the swing, with a
snap disarming the beast and fracturing his front hand. The
victim gaped upward as the best hope of continued living
sailed end over end from reach. The lapse in focus exposed
him to the blow in his thick neck, to a collapsing and about
breaking effect.
He tried a left hook for the obscured, now-smirking face—

which was caught in the monster’s grip, netting a second
crushed hand. An ensuing uppercut ruptured his jaw; the beast
felt teeth leaving his mouth. Dimmed vision saw cerise light
from his tormentor’s fist streak into him tracing splitting cuts
into the face, though missing both his eyes.
But elation was brief.
A straight-punch crumbled the nose. The haymaker the beast
braced for near buckled his skull. To a voiceless scream he
took a palm thrust into what was left of his chest; the wretch
dropped onto ruined knees, convulsing from this next bursting
of bone with another soundless shout—he crumpled to the dirt,
unable to inhale.
The punisher suspended torment, hands clenched, perhaps
awaiting his challenger to rise again.
Then the downed reached behind his belt, fumbling for an
ace: a cased knife.
He strived to work his deformed fingers—at least he could
not feel the arm being stomped down.
The defeater reached to the hilt of his heretofore-unnoticed
dagger, resting in a sheath along the right forearm grasped by
the elbow for it—but, he would instead reach down to claim
the serrated blade from out its covering. Its glint was dull in the
morning light, the insult twofold: the beast was unworthy to
suffer the razor of his assailant, and would be done by his own
possession. He was dragged by his hair into a kneeled position.
His head was leaned back.
The beast displayed an understanding of complete conquest.
He looked to those eyes, seeking a modicum of mercy. Pity
would suffice.
He found overwhelming spite.
He wondered: This terror had arrived from nowhere to
massacre his tribe; why bother with the likes of them?
What did he want…?
In an instant he again saw through the haze. This assassin had
another casing on the left arm, likewise to the first. It was
empty—

The strike finished his life.
The executioner dropped both body and blade as so much
refuse.
He looked once more, to take in the sum of his savagery,
dissatisfied.
Then, he was no longer there.

2
Ilanna awoke, with a mumble.
She grimaced as the rays of sunshine found her fair face.
Bright brown eyes opened, sullen at the morning sky intruding
through her window, favoring the urge to retreat under her
beddings.
But, her day had to start sometime.
She removed the covers under protest, and rolled from out
the bedstead. Still sleeping in part, she smoothed a fold in her
green nightgown.
Resting hands swaying on her waist, she shuffled from her
rest.
Leaving bedside her front foot raised too high, snagging the
inside of the gown.
Her slide was quick as it was unexpected.
“Aah—!”
The side of her cranium banged onto the oaken chest steps
from the bed, shocking her awake when her head bounced off
it.
She landed sitting, clutching upon her face—but, she
scowled, discovering the split-apart lid of her lone case. Ilanna
stood, now minding the end of the gown and also her rugs.
Indulging inward criticism she was across the broad room
lowering her hands, looking into the mounted mirror there.
From what she could see… it was somewhat warmed with
embarrassment.
It was nothing, considering her spill. She glanced again at the

damaged trunk.
“…Great day to get awkward,” she grumbled.
She next heard the voice outside and down a floor from her
doorway: “Ilanna young girl, you will not have time for any
breakfast,” her mother called.
Even after twenty years, she welcomed being so labeled by
her. She puffed strands of the chestnut locks dangled around
her shoulders from her view and departed, declining another
look back.
She entered the downstairs dining room, finding the other
Lady in green. “Get a move on, little woman,” said the latter,
trading a smile. Ilanna sat at the large decorated table finding
the appetite to begin consuming the bread, milk and cut fruit
alike while she was observed with approval. “Good to be
loved,” commented her mother, sitting across from her
daughter.
They were approximate in appearance, both these women
bearing tall physiques. But her mother stood loftier, even above
the highest of the city-state.
Ilanna herself was over a head slighter. She looked up from
her plate to nod.
(Per custom came occasional banter.)
A brief, firm rapping on the dining room door interposed.
Ilanna held up a hand before her mother could rise, standing to
open it.
In its entryway, the stately High Elven sorceress stood at her
eye level staff in hand, pleasantly tarrying.
“Nadelle…! What kept you?” Ilanna asked, with almost
convincing sarcasm.
“Good day to you also.”
Ilanna moved as the enchantress entered brushing tied, violet
tresses aside, behind her non-pointed ears.
Nadelle stepped to loosen dust from patterned boots to the
knee, in a crimson gown with a golden sash ending about the
top of her footwear.
“Miss Ilaria,” Nadelle continued, acknowledging the other
woman who was one of the best friends her mother knew. She

took the chair beside Ilaria, exchanging additional pleasantries.
Ilanna returned to her seat eating and watching them per the
norm. Soon afterward, Nadelle would address her: “Are you
ready?” she asked. “Or will you nap when we get there?”
Ilanna glanced upon her long gown, bowed, and then sped
upstairs.
Nadelle looked to the direction Ilanna departed. “A pity, all
this drama.”
Ilaria glowered, crossing her arms. “Or evil: ‘Security above
freedom,’” she said, darkening at each word.
“Our home is not what it should be, but we do what we can,”
Nadelle said.
“…Which is why we need you.”
“I appreciate the confidence.” Suddenly, she spoke softer.
“…He wanted to come and bring her himself.”
Ilaria would nod her understanding, but before she could
answer that, loud boot steps heralded Ilanna reentering, with a
bright expression.
For this day Ilanna sported a mid-sleeved emerald garb
ending above the knee, fitted with a waist-chain. A satchel was
slung over shoulder.
“It will have to work,” Nadelle good-naturedly patronized,
opening the door.
Ilaria moved to the counter, taking and tossing a canteen to
her daughter, who caught and holstered it. “Keep hydrated;
warm day.”
They waved to each other and Ilanna departed, drawing the
door—but slamming it on incident, the sorceress wincing.
They took the winding eastward path outward from the wood
and stone house. She peeked back toward their twin gardens
divided by the domicile. She and her mother had no immediate
neighbors as the closest was several lengths behind, with others
on either side of them. The arrangement made quiet days
probable. “How is this going to work exactly?” Ilanna
enquired.
“That is hard to say. When we arrive, perhaps you among the
earnest will be… ‘evaluated,’ with hopes you can serve Iron

King,”
“It seems City pride is the rage these days.”
The road went to the Farm District with taller trees here and
beyond. Most of the surrounding homes sat atop hillsides with
curling lanes between them, the Main Path crossing through
them.
Ilanna asked, “These homes seem empty. Is everyone a part
of this?”
“When the Iron King decrees, the people simply have to
know,” Nadelle replied as they passed the District entering the
Long Grove.
“But Iron King has a large army already.”
“The reasoning (using the term loosely) is in years past, his
forces have been inadequate in keeping active threats under
control.”
“You said he exaggerates harm reports,” Ilanna posed.
“Yes, to keep public opinion in his favor.”
“Some of us citizens under thumb could be his way to more
power?”
“Yes.”
Ilanna frowned. “I hate all this ‘Find the latest master of the
mythical arts’ magic nonsense.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean, not you.”
She beamed. Nadelle could not suppress the chuckle.
“There still is the chance most present will be recruited for
proficiency of sword and knife.”
“I dislike close-quarter combat,” Ilanna commented.
She stared due right as they passed the grand tree grown into
the side of a ditch. She sometimes wondered how its roots were
hollowed out.
“The King declared this optional?”
“Naturally,” Nadelle deadpanned.
The end of the Grove adjoined the Small Forest. “Perhaps it
is a good thing you did not elect more combat-ready apparel,”
Nadelle intoned.
Ilanna shrugged. “I became sidetracked from a fall. It could
have been messy.” Nadelle seemed to narrow her eyes at her in
thought. Still she continued, “…But, I would have gone with

this nonetheless—although it is not the size that I recalled. I am
bigger than I thought.”
“Quite.”
They emerged from the Forest, to the Open Fields. Beyond
lay the city proper, entry gates in the distance at their left.
Spires of the grand castle loomed westward. Twin Great Eagles
soared about them. Ilanna was asked, “What advice did your
mother give you?”
“What she always says: ‘There is nothing worse in the world
than a beautiful woman who is arrogant.’”
It took them some time to stop laughing.
They reached the midst of the city-state, its market place
intersected by tan cobblestone roadways between halls, shops,
and eateries. Citizens and some guards took notice of the
magician, waving and tipping hats and helms. Ilanna outpaced
her as Nadelle slowed to return greetings. Nadelle smirked
wryly when Ilanna got further ahead. “Younger woman, wait
please?”
Ilanna turned back, half-smiling. “You are always called my
sister,” she said with her finger close above the thumb, “so,
marginal sympathy.”
She idled as Nadelle caught up, faking a threat upside her
head with the staff.
They moved past a produce shop—they both heard an older
female voice from far behind: “Stop! Thieves… growing
bolder each day!”
They turned to witness a medium-sized figure leap through
the doorway of the fabrics store, running the streets. In an
instant both the guards they had seen flew on his trail, blades
drawn. Within steps they pounced, jarring him to the ground.
The first commenced beating the brigand with his sword hilt.
The other in addition throttled and pummeled without relent.
The sentinels rained pain on the crook—his limbs flailed,
spectators rooting them on even as his mute shrieks and spasms
slowed.
“Punish!”
“Give him another!”
“Look, he resisted!”

“Again!”
…Ilanna saw Nadelle had never taken her eyes from the store
itself—two bald larger men emerged from behind the same
store, sprinting blind to the guard… towards the ladies.
Closing in, the one noticed them, grinning. The second then
saw, accelerating in anticipation of screams and dashes for
safety.
They misjudged these women.
Nadelle motioned Ilanna behind her. She closed her eyes,
lifting her free hand.
And Ilanna walked forward.
The closest was confused by that, but sped on. Ilanna curled
her fingertips raising and bracing back her palm. As he was set
to meet her Ilanna twisted in, the thrust-hit grazing the top of
his gut—he gasped when redirected momentum blew him into
the disintegrating fruit stand. Its top plopped onto his head. The
other man witnessed this, reaching for something behind his
belt—
“Do not move!”
Nadelle opened glowing hazel eyes, gazing upon him. He
stopped there and his face slackened, dropping the dirk.
…The first of two extra guards emerging from the left
charged to take the lowlife off his feet with a tackling spear,
interrupting the hypnosis to commence thumping his face upon
the terrain.
The other slowed his pace short of the other crook. Catching
his eyelids flutter the guard dropped an elbow onto the battered
body. After an added stomp and kick the first approached
Nadelle.
“Well met, sorceress; a fine job you did.”
“I was avoiding trauma,” she explained. “Too bad.”
The watch turned to his partner, who detained the other in an
ankle lock. A nod had him stop to help gather their suspects
and evidence. Both shouted out to their associates afar, who
finished working over the first man caught. The guard said to
Ilanna, “Your sister is an inspiration to us all,” saluting as
Nadelle guided Ilanna away and they hauled the three shackled
outlaws along.

“Stinking thieves… growing bolder each day,” muttered the
second guardsman.
Nadelle peered at her. “…Perhaps we should just tell the king
about your bravado. It is ill-advised to jeopardize yourself like
that.”
“…But that was impressive?”
“Quite.”
After leaving the paved roadways behind, they achieved the
destination: the Minor Arena.
A circular dust field was enclosed with low fencing, the
landscape here amidst another condensed coppice. Small hills
surrounded this Arena where many found covering trees to rest
by. Soldiers populated the field to direct the proceedings—
Ilanna smiled bright, spying the man she admired above all:
Harlan Farrell.
Nadelle saw this, giving Ilanna the slightest of nods. He was
her other mentor—the father to her. Flat black hair, wavy and
sharp shone like stars. The daylight gleamed off his rugged, tall
frame placing a regal glint to brown skin, complimenting the
armor he wore as Captain of the Iron Guard. Ilanna often noted
that about her own mild though sun-touched countenance when
with him. He saw her approach.
“Hi, Captain.”
“Ilanna,” he responded, “...kept me waiting, hm?” His eyes
shined of a likewise nature. He motioned for two guards he had
been addressing to hold. “Expecting Iron King to personally
invite you?”
“The wizard beat you to the commentary.”
The sorceress arrived, offering Harlan her hand. He took it
and bowed his head, giving a wink. She kissed him on the
cheek.
“Really Harlan… is now the time to court a woman?”
The even-toned pompous voice had spoken steps behind. The
speaker swaggered helm in hand showing dark curled hair,
seeking a rise.
“‘Captain,’ Mister Joaq’,” was the reply from Harlan Farrell.
“You forgot honorifics.”
The ladies snickered. This man scowled. “I prefer my name
properly spoken as ‘Lieutenant Joaquin Mir,’ especially before

lower soldiers.” He glanced at the pair with Harlan, and then
cut his eyes to Ilanna and Nadelle. “Not to mention females.
Proper respect needs to be had.”
Harlan raised a brow. “You have my marginal sympathy…
and your priorities.” Harlan gestured at the Arena gate. “Now
get.”
“Yes, Captain Farrell.”
Joaquin departed to the Arena, with a humiliated frown. “I
apologize for his conduct, and now duty calling.” He looked to
both statue-still guards. “Nolan, Rolan, time to move. And
please demonstrate any emotion.”
They gave sheepish salutes then followed Harlan to a grand
tent northwest of the Arena. Ilanna watched him leave then
turned to Nadelle.
“That was worth the walk alone.”
Before Nadelle could reply, a trumpeting note pierced the air.
In the Arena center was the Iron Commander, upholding a
trimmed white horn, the lone soldier above Harlan in rank. He
was a fit man, middle age aside. He lowered the horn, exiting
the Arena towards the same tent.
Nadelle looked at Ilanna: “That was the signal. I must see to
some might-be makers of magic.”
“Why help the King control them?”
“They have made up their minds to seek this. I try to help
them to the point where they do not get themselves or others
killed.”
“At least you have the skills to keep from immolation by
trainees.”
“It helps. Now, behave friend,” said Nadelle. “I should return
before too long.”
“Alright, thank you.”
They shared a smile before Nadelle headed for a clearing
among a thicket of trees southwest of the Minor Arena. Ilanna
watched her walk away, spotting soldiers and prospects alike
taking their places. She made her own way to sit atop a rare
vacant short hilltop before the gate with a center view of the
‘festivities.’

…Away from the showground, Nadelle was appraising those
gathered with her in a clearing. She elected this spot so the
widespread foliage would keep errant spells from all others.
She decided to afterwards further inform Ilanna about the Iron
King of Iz-Dale, and how he deserves cautious suspicion at
best. With hope, this gambit would succeed—it was well in her
reach to protect Ilanna from being used… but removing a King
and adding the role of the go-to caretaker of the entire domain
was not wise. Though given that Harlan could even be pitted
against her…
Choosing not to dwell on it, she faced her potential students.
Most were plain enough. There was the tall green-eyed woman
in a dark, adorned dress. A short, pale Elvish girl in robes and a
skull-buckled chain belt stood in wait. Her eyes shone one
color, pitch-black. Shuddering within, Nadelle called the first
participant.
Throughout the proceedings, sounds from the Arena wafted
by, varying in intensity. The cheering became so much
background noise, quite melodic. She was closer to finishing
when she heard the new sound: The cheering had shifted from
intermittently high and low to a constant surge. And as it
longer endured, she grew curious—what was going on at the
Arena?
From here, she could not see.
***
Ilanna watched as other young people entered approaching
stationed members of the Iron Guard.
As they prepared to get underway, cheers rang from among
the spectators; they had identified Duran Sparr, the former
Commander, with strands of black in his white hair and goatee
not far from her. Two awe-struck guards urged him towards the
Arena edge, in thanks to the ovations of the surrounding
peoples.
His weathered face had a tough and leathery quality, but in
the good way to her. He was in exceptional condition for his
age or any other. Most assumed he retired to pursue peace and
quiet, having become known as something of a bard. He smiled

as the populace cheered in anticipation of what he was about to
do. Ilanna always liked how he made ‘H’ sounds in his every
syllable.
Duran danced and clapped alongside those with him. Ilanna
noted some guardians looking less than pleased. Most others
paused to watch him unofficially usher in the start of the trials.
He began:
“Equip your shields and raise your swords to crack the backs
of villain hordes. For war, remove your sword from sheath,
defeat the darkness underneath.
“On one accord with kings and lords; we—”
“Only if you do not mind—” Joaquin Mir cut in (Duran was
stopped cold, glaring in return), “—it is time for something
relevant.”
Mir had made his way over to show him up. But Duran was
unshakeable as the Captain at least. He went towards Joaquin,
with an irate yet sly expression, nearing his ear. Ilanna could
hear the response: “…Pride and arrogance comes before the
pain, boy.”
Duran looked at Joaquin dead into his dark eyes. Mir stared
back, scoffing as if its effort was undeserving. Duran Sparr
declined to further reply, turning to depart. Ilanna witnessed his
leaving the vicinity, and then faced back to the Arena. Joaquin
ignored stares from spectators and even some of his braver
soldiers.
He raised his sword for all to begin.
During trials, Ilanna witnessed the guardsmen face the many
weapons-toting citizens. Lieutenant Mir seemed to take the
most proficient of them. And in turn, most of them were soon
defeated, those lacking any talents being dismissed. The
spectators roared upon witnessing any special feats, though
most were by the Iron Guard. The Arena thinned as many
finished. Mir gained added joy with each effortless victory—
his final opponent appeared familiar. With some thought, she
realized his home was behind hers:
Quentin.
He saw her from past the gate, and offered a wave.

Mir took notice, and rushed—
The Lieutenant disarmed him, forcing him downward with a
second sword swing.
Adaptively spry, Quentin sprung upward off two hands.
Further eluding this continued assault, he turned to kick
Joaquin in the back, who flopped facedown, losing his helm
and weapon.
Mir placed a hand to his head as if to still prevent what
happened. Guards and denizens alike gaped, some snickering.
He rose, and sprang. Quentin feigned to avoid a perceived kick
but took an elbow in his face, a knee to his stomach. Ilanna
endured helpless concern. After a headbutt, a hook dropped
Quentin.
He could not rise.
“Abjectly pitiful.”
Mir looked on in disdain, retrieving just his blade. He found
Ilanna, granting a nod.
She scowled.
An armor bearer brought him another sheathed sword, this
one of greater quality.
He hooked it in his belt smirking towards Ilanna again. She
continued looking to Quentin, seeing other people here remain
idle. The young fighter stirred, starting to recover. Mir pushed
his bearer aside to dash at the struggling Quentin. Joaquin
stepped to boot him into the gate and over its railing to land in
a gasping heap. “…He needed a helping foot,” Mir said to no
one.
Some of the crueler laughed, others holding their peace for
his reputation—
“You coward.”
The Lieutenant stopped.
The Lieutenant faced a standing Ilanna, but he smiled. “A
girl who does not know her place...” She remembered then
what Nadelle advised, trying now to disregard him. He scoffed.
“Label me ‘surprised.’”
Ilanna looked to Quentin. Mir addressed his bearer aloud:
“Not a trace of womanly manners,” he stated. “Just like her
ogre of a mother.”

Arriving, she stooped between and stepped through the
railings. The bearer watched, unsettled. Mir was occupied
waiting for a laugh at his quip. His ‘good humor’ faded upon
seeing Ilanna enter, though still smiling. Once there, the
Lieutenant stared with contempt. “You fit through the gate.
More surprises.”
(Ilanna never before bothered figuring why some considered
her oversized. Here was not the time.) A guard advanced to
guide her away.
“No—” Joaquin had a hand up. “Give her a sword.” The man
would reach for his own. “No.” Mir nodded aside. “Give her a
sword.” In reply the soldier claimed one from the indicated
bracket, to toss to her. Mir condescended, “I suggest you quit
this while—”
Ilanna aimed.
Onlookers shouted in earnest. Other soldiers gathered, some
chortling and nudging each other. Joaquin Mir deigned, “Such
rashness. I see I must learn you—” He turned his broadsword
sideways. “—with the flat of my blade.”
Ilanna sped.
“As toothless as the old man—”
He was (near literally) cut off by the rising sweep his
eyesight could not follow—he hardly and unsteadily dodged,
two more keeping him in retreat. He came to, needing more
than instinct (and helm-less black-iron suit) for protection. He
returned two attempts Ilanna avoided leaning and hopping
back.
They flew upon each other whirling and evading what
witnesses comprehended as blurred flashings of metal, sentries
and citizens alike exclaiming. After several passes their swords
met, Mir pressing. “The girl is learned,” he patronized. “But, so
what…?”
Ilanna spun away raising the sword to stop an overhead cut—
she heard the metallic shriek. Moving back, Ilanna found a
horizontal crack half the way through the lower blade. Her eyes
took that in then cut up at him, realizing the ragged sword she
held. She jumped back blocking a lunge, the force hurling her
downwards.

***
Under the trees, Ilanna blocked the oncoming practice foil,
but did so off-balance, tumbling backwards.
Ilanna rolled onto her shoulders to rise, her guard up.
“Good,” Harlan judged, nodding. “Your reactions improved.”
She evaded his next chop. “This not-fitting uniform slows me
down.”
“You must adapt. That defines close-quarters combat.” He
came. “Never assume you hold any advantage should a fight
come,” he added, eluding her swipe.
“You almost live in this armor. With all you know, my only
choice is to overpower you.”
They circled. “No— At least, not yet,” he corrected.
“Believing yourself able where your opponent outclasses you
is reckless. If they are stronger or faster, be faster or stronger.
If neither, be smarter by tactics.”
Harlan struck; Ilanna dodged.
“Pursuing Harkanon ‘the Death-bringer’ by decree of Iron
King taught me. He was judged a threat. When I found him…
he attacked our army alone. There was no matching his might.
I had to think,” he warned. “That, or take a quick and serious
defeat.”
Harlan grunted his approval as Ilanna nicked him upon the
shoulder.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“‘Tactics.’”
She parried. Harlan affirmed, “Appropriate planning keeps
you alive. That is tactics.”
She stepped in to graze across his stomach. He beamed. She
would ask, “And what if your enemy is stronger, faster, and
smarter?” adjusting her grip to—
Harlan disarmed Ilanna with a twisting sweep, and stared.
“Take a quick and serious defeat.”
***
Ilanna interrupted the fall with her off hand, back-springing

to a stand. All witnessing roared, even Joaquin was stunned.
(Harlan had been teaching her in the Small Forest since soon
after ending his long-extended tour abroad.) They circled,
renewing their series of light-speed swings. Mir closed in with
a slash catching the hip, tearing off the chain, rending the tunic.
But she was uncut. Joaquin was pleased with himself. “Oh, no.
Not your pretty dress.
“Do you want to continue?”
Ilanna again blocked, and the crack spread. She spun back to
preserve the brittle weapon. Ilanna returned, targeting. He
posed, ready—her sword flipped flat-side as both connected—
its blade snapped free, slapping into his face. Joaquin cried out,
forehead cupped. The cheers reached a new high. She smiled
falsely as he held his wound.
“Oh, dear… Do you want to continue?”
He snarled. She first backpedaled from his hacking flurry
before throwing the hilt grip at him—he perceived desperation,
batting it aside—and Ilanna snatched his wrist at the end of his
move, her other hand opened, her palm sent into the underside
of his neck.
Gagging, he dropped, collar mail shattered apart. Mir hit the
ground grasping his throat and choking, weapon lost. Flecks of
coughed blood stained dirt. She grew aware of the staring
bystanders.
She wondered what Nadelle would say.
Ilanna looked at the Arena exit—
And Joaquin lumbered up to his feet, a new rage in his eyes.
He spat another crimson trail reaching and clutching the other
sword at his belt. Drawn, the blade itself flared in flame—
everyone present gasped. Mir advanced, the fire glaring upon
his face.
The sword rose, and Ilanna doubted then the restraint she had
showed this man.
She stood tempted by indecision. She forced herself to begin
stepping back when Joaquin brought the inferno-blade to strike
down—
—upon the staff Nadelle upraised.
The sorceress glowered. Joaquin Mir stared disagreeably.
She pushed him off, lifting the end of her rod into his chin. He

stumbled, spitting another red plume. She rejoined his sullen
look, commanding obedience. As if the left fight him, his head
slumped, people exhaling. Some soldiers ushered observers
along.
When Nadelle lowered her guard he lunged to—
Nadelle sent her staff into his temple before he stepped. He
crumpled, and stayed there.
Ilanna knew Nadelle was learned beyond magic, but that was
skill. And after ensuring he remained where he belonged she
faced Ilanna, her disposition nigh impossible to tell.
“So my friend, what have you been up to while I was away?”

3
Grimbold Longbelly watched as his brethren filed all about,
with utter contempt.
The dour grey-orc stared while everyone conducted their
idiotic business, orcs of diverse tones snaking throughout their
Sunken Caves (an uninspiring name, granted). Those like him
were charged with organizing today’s entertainment. His
orders were to prep the Circle of Pain, deep within this dank
domain. A mainstay of the Caves, it was where all these orcs
amused themselves.
The Circle was an arena flat surrounded by four rising tiers
of sitting rows. One could reach the seats from two opposite
ground level gates. The two doors led to the cages and the exit.
Grimbold sighed, assisting these lesser orcs in clearing away
scattered bones, and various stains (not only blood). Such a
waste; he should be hunting, patrolling, and plotting gainful
raids. “I should be hunting, patrolling, and plotting gainful
raids,” he grumbled.
He knew he handled groundskeeping today for not cheering
on the Plan—he all but knew it would bite (or smash) them. He
stooped, picking up the skull of who-knew-what. While the
orcs here were filthy, they discovered debris left on the surface
interrupted important contests, ruining otherwise surefire bets.
“The capture is nothing but danger.”
Fellow grey-orc Wakkat Ikk perked at hearing this gripe. He
pointed. “I heard that, Grimbold Longbelly! You speak against
the ‘Plan!’ Always—”

The skull cut him off upside his head, courtesy of Grimbold’s
throwing arm.
Two others paused from their cleaning violence off the floor,
pointing and laughing at the concussed. Weighing their losses
from chasing mere merriment, he assumed the inexpediency of
this was obvious. Some time ago, a troupe of their forces
undertook a classified mission; he had been alone in declining
passion for pursuing the quarry scouts had reported nearby, to
occupy the rest during their absence. His insight was rewarded
with Circle detail—
Grint Carcass entered from the opening doors, a high-stature
black-orc.
Upon seeing the prone party, he ran over. He spat his fury,
snatching up the hurt Ikk at the neck, “Lollygagging, eh?!”
shaking and slapping the just-stirring, still-incoherent orc with
vigor.
More watched and cackled. Grint upheld Ikk, glaring a
warning to all. Grimbold felt surrounded by morons, and not
for the last time he was sure.
Soon, the onlookers piled in. (The influential black-orcs took
the highest level as usual. The grey-orcs like him always sat
below. The average or gutter orcs took the bottom remaining
levels.) Some attendees hollered for Grimbold and crew to lay
into each other. His eyes rolled, wondering for an umpteenth
time why orcs were so stupid—“Grimbold Longbelly!” Grint
startled him, at his ear. “The time is now. Get the ‘Plan’
underway!”
Grimbold sighed and complied, leaving to the grand gateway
for the cages. It was time to meet and retrieve what had been
taken with (literal) painstaking effort. This could not end well,
‘Plan’ or no.
He walked toward the enclosure in the rear of this scented
cellar. He passed the inmates ignoring the yowls and growls of
incarcerated mount-wolves, wyrms, goblins, and those who
failed to conduct themselves by proper orcish decorum.
Grimbold arrived to the final cage, looking upwards—then he
looked higher: kneeled within was the largest female he had
seen in his life.
Maybe shock stunted his memory, but she was tall. He was a

bit below ‘average height’ in general. She was well over thrice
his. Her hands were bound behind her back. This giantess was
in a frayed ‘combat dress,’ sleeves torn out (her implausible
physique not helping any). It had been quite the brawl, with all
the grime and grit upon her. He unlocked the gate, entering
past emptied eating tins. Her head was lowered, under a
massive reddish-golden mane. She looked ill. Longbelly
reached, grasping for the sash about her waist, hoping she
would come in peace. “Let’s come in peace you honey-colored
so-and-so—”
Her gaze perked, with terrible dark eyes. And she roared. He
stumbled backward from its magnitude. Boisterous cheers rung
in the distance; the overhearing audience was ready for a show.
Grimbold sighed again. “I heard a hundred had to take you,
after you wasted another hundred. But no sense in posturing
now—”
“I will gravel your bones,” she hissed.
Grimbold was proud of how well he hid the fear. Sounds of
slumping feet heralded his ‘comrades’ coming fast. “Grimbold
Longbelly! What’s the holdup? Lift her up, get a move on!”
Grint hollered with six no-names also yelling, leeching Grint’s
authority.
“Grint. Perhaps colluding could move her more effectively?”
They all gaped at Grimbold, each face blanked. He exhaled.
“Teamwork?”
Grint snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes! Smart thinking, you
idiot!”
They gripped up her bound arms, pulling. One let go to grab
for her feet. She aimed and booted his body, hurtling him up
and through the doors…
And mass laughter ensued.
The crew kept by her arms to—the pale, crackling field of
energy engulfed her body, and all the orcs cried out, thrown
into the cell bars. Grint sneered. “I hope you like torture for
supper.”
The current fizzled, dissipating.
They at last ‘escorted’ the giantess out, to a burst of jeers.
Thrown objects struck. Grint stood in the center, flagging his
arms to quiet the crowd—he almost charged the stands after a
used bucket hit his face. Why would someone have…?

Grimbold decided he’d rather not care.
Grint wiped the stains off his face and began: “The thing that
harmed our own! Spilled great Orc-blood!” One of the orcs
indicated to the one she kicked into the Circle. “Him too! We
have brought it here. For justice!” His fists upraised. “Can you
dig it?!” The crowd boomed. “Can you dig it?!” The ovation
intensified. (Outside the arena front, the patrols were splayed
broken atop flattened stands, merchants buried underneath.)
“Can you…?!”
His mouth moved, but his words and the gathering were
diluted by what equaled a landslide in the not-too-far distance.
Grimbold heard this, but trudged along.
The multitudes peaked when the armed dozens streamed out
the two gates. When the giantess was in turn shackled to a
pillar she understood—as Grimbold already knew—there was
no point in further cooperation, her power reigniting.
All archers aimed. The melee combatants bayed, bracing to
brave her crackling shield for fun. They advanced—all present
felt the rumbling CRASH, pausing.
Many exchanged glances, but the participants resumed
approaching the restrained giantess.
Grimbold looked to the exit—
The reinforced entry doors detonated from off their hinges,
courtesy of a booted foot larger than he—
The gargantuan of a figure, way over his size emerged, intent
apparent.
The crowd screamed in quick terror. One of Grint’s random
minions ran around, waving. “Storm-Giant! Storm-Giant!
Panic!”
Grimbold watched, dumbstruck. The well-positioned Wakkat
jumped the gap left by the leviathan. The giantess grinned.
Deep brown skin was alight with her same aura, albeit to a
drastic intensity.
Mountain-range shoulders, titanic limbs and sinewy torso

aside, this being had muscles in areas Grimbold lacked areas.
His vest was long and dark, with bound plates of armor over
black slacks.
Grint screamed for them to take immediate action (other than
running). The bleachers above failed at effective evacuation.
Grint’s remaining five valets charged, to make names for
themselves (they literally were nameless). The starting four
vaporized on contact. The fifth, tardy in joining his late cohorts
halted, taking this given chance. He took a deep breath—
feeling protected he sped into his fate, reaffirming Grimbold’s
orc intelligence assessment. Attempts to stop this hulk were
unacknowledged with him treading those in range. Grimbold
watched the Storm lower a foot to the floor, squashing ten,
blasting fifty more.
The stoutest surviving closed upon him. And he produced a
black-and-gold set greatsword from its belted sheath, its blade
a clear-colored metal. With a down-to-up slash he swept away
too many, most cut apart trying to stop that sword. Grint yelled
some more. Several oncoming others—they were blown aside,
but one charged with a harpoon into his lower leg. It yielded no
gain, this Storm growling as all of that orc burned to embers.
Their efforts achieved nothing against him, but they struggled
on—
And then with a flash, the energy field was gone.
The defenders cried with glee at their startling, mysterious
fortune.
They then would fly upon the behemoth with reckless fury. A
warhammer swung. Twin blades found his back. Weighted
arrows struck an eye, splintering. Bodies leapt at the giant in
attack—
—until he had enough of it.
Flexing, the poor fools were flung everyplace. The Storm
reached, crushing the archers. He caught and smeared a lancer
into a wall with a fling. A sweeping hand dismissed the dual
swords orc—the streaking warhammer crashed into the bridge
of his nose.
Many cheered. Grint danced. The giantess watched.

The mallet elevated again, its wielder howling. Grimbold
held his relief even as the hit itself looked painful. But as much
as it could have hurt… it incensed the behemoth all the more.
He did not move when the weapon returned. His nostrils blew
a plume of air stirring the wild black hair lengths around his
livid expression.
Grint stopped.
The Storm-master seized the sledge-orc ripping free the
wielding arm, using that to swat him into the stands and its
scurrying spectators. A broadsword holder was advanced on;
he dropped the blade, hands up as if to deny complicity, and
then galloped. The smasher was agile, dropping to catch him
with an elbow to the back; that face displayed something above
‘pain.’
The remaining two pounced, the demolisher indulging their
axe or mace, granting extended tries—and they witnessed their
arms only reflect off. The Storm sheathed his blade. The two
looked at each other and began laughing with elation, from
assumed mercy.
But his stance reverted to ‘imminent doom,’ theirs to panic.
The giant snarled.
Grint lost hope.
Grimbold remained unmoving as the Storm put his fist into
the mace-orc, grinding him to nothing. He reached the axe-orc,
grasping an arm. This one dreaded the worst, exclaiming, “Oh,
I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
He relaxed his grip—to adjust it, hurling the helpless into the
main pillar, both shattering on contact. He moved unimpeded
to the giantess. With too little effort her wrist bonds were
snapped. The giantess would do the rest in detaching the binds
at her ankles. He took the doorway. But before following, her
stare found Grint, and she crossed the Circle in a couple steps
at him.
Grimbold kept wishing to keep unnoticed.
Grint had run for all he could, but could not escape her foot
finding his fleeing fanny. It was a glancing hit, but more than
enough to launch the poor dumb orc off—
—but, in Grimbold’s direction!

Grint flew into him, both orcs careening into a crumbled
wall.
Longbelly’s darkening sights saw the giantess leave.
His eyes closed. Orcs were so stupid.

4
“Company; halt!” Golen Gorrath, General of the Brehnir-del
Company shouted to the assemblage in tow.
Most stopped, but found inertia difficult on the icy grounds
of an aptly named Frozen Tundra. They tarried in ninety-by-
ninety formation, behind the five lieutenants and captain beside
him. They had undertaken hours of marching since situating
their horses (except his unique mount) with the common
escorts. Here, Golen accomplished what he believed existed a
halfway chance at: confirming the reports of a surfaced Ice
Dragon.
Though this place was days away from town by horseback
(and by its namesake, it should have no use for Brehnir-del
climates), this rumor was too serious to be overlooked. But,
something here was wrong:
…This Dragon was dead.
Crimson blemishes tarnished otherwise snowy scales, the
body splayed here before them—“What should be done? Find
the one to thank?” Lieutenant Felton Sparr spoke, with evident
sarcasm.
Captain Rell Vil, the most massive of this band, scolded,
“Remember your role Lieutenant—”
Golen lifted a hand for silence, fixated on something else
under the mid-morning sky. His sight, and the specific glare of
the Sun caught what looked to be at least the being of interest;

he knew what he ‘saw.’ “You, afar off! I am Golen Gorrath,
General of the Brehnir-del Company. I know you are there. I
can discern your very form. I order you to immediately reveal
yourself.”
Sparr and Vil traded glances—it was not yet freezing enough
for the General to have caught dementia. Vil nodded, and Sparr
approached their leader. He ventured, “Do you mean someone
is unseen before us?”
Golen remained facing forward… but it was if an unnatural
chill by itself answered: Yes.
The ‘sound’ had been sensed by every soldier present.
The men were shifting in place; Vil scowled all about.
Sparr beheld where the General scrutinized—that exact space
granted a subtle shimmer—one suspect came into view, before
the deceased.
Sparr felt the demand had precious little to do with it. The
Company saw someone of stature.
His back was to them.
The very air of him was gloom. A swept-back black mane
fell by broad shoulders to a dark, studded split tunic, slacks and
long boots. Blade sheaths adorned his forearms (the right was
occupied). His arms also were covered to the shoulder by
segmented metal greaves. Gloved hands left fingers bare. A
housed sword hung at his belt. If Golen was worried, he hid it
without flaw—“Why are you here?” For reply, the head rose
somewhat. Golen louder asked, “Be you a petty scrounger, or
is this your doing?” The head turned: there was a sharp-shaped
hairline, brown skin suffused by shaded glare… and flagrant,
red eyes.
And he lingered, those orbs glinting. The General asked,
“What business have you here, demon?”
Demon?
Sparr frowned—
This demon altered his attentions to the carcass going to the
belly, pushing a hand into the dense folds of its scales. “You
dare ignore me?” the General tried.
The demon caused sounds like rustling armor… until
uncovering and detaching one remarkable dagger, which bore a

resemblance to the deep-golden hilt in black bindings jutting
from its covering on his arm. His new (?) prize was bound in
crimson material, close to shortsword length. Its edged razor
was clear in its color, again perhaps as the one he already
possessed.
Golen shouted, “Demon! You will surrender your armor and
arsenal.” The demon examined it. “You will submit to
interrogation, or face immediate and indefinite incarceration.”
The demon sustained.
“Yield!” Golen presaged.
“We should leave this, sir,” opined Sparr. “We came for the
threat. If we—”
“You are outcast, Felton Sparr,” Golen dictated. “When we
return, you will be prosecuted for cowardice.”
The demon began to lift the blade for the vacant case. It was
his; and he butchered this Dragon for it. Golen motioned for
his new first lieutenant—the demon averted the shearer aside,
instead of re-sheathing it.
That soldier ran the distance sword coiled, swinging to—the
upending dagger was nonchalant in blocking, this demon not
turning. None saw the shift. The fast-lowering arm repelled the
man, who slipped backward to fall hard.
He stood, and returned—
—but the carver was into his stomach—the demon was next
found faced to the Company upon one knee, having somehow
rotated behind the Companyman, knifepoint upheld to the rear
of the head. It was then found the man was slashed up his
back…! The soldier collapsed registering trauma, his lone
move since being gut-pierced.
Golen signaled his last three lieutenants.
The demon stood, to stride onward, the extended view of his
face exhibiting an ageless structure. The trio encircled him the
first tensing, the other men attempting to restrict advancement.
The first slice was shirked, with dexterous ease. A lunge was
sidestepped—but the last warrior cut down through the torso—
before any rejoiced, the man realized he had scored no actual
contact.
The three stifled surprise, continuing all the bolder.
He became akin to vacuuming flashes of shadow around

these attempts, up to a dozen tries between them—and having
indulged their mounting hopelessness, he then chose to react:
In motion he severed a throat, lashed a face, and impaled the
third in the side. He ended it eyeing Golen, arm inclined so the
last fell off the blade to join the others upon the permafrost.
The demon revolved his dagger to an airy noise, making the
blood fly off.
He cased the cutter—then he leaned to the side, calm in his
avoiding the from-behind chop by the Captain.
Vil roared his indignation at the failed backstab. Another try
glanced off those armguards. Rell growled. “You had best
rearm. You face Rell Vil, Ogre Captain of the Company!”
This demon stared, daring.
Vil howled, unleashing several cuts—
The men cheered as the fifth touched solid stomach. A sixth
careened into his neck. But watching Vil, the demon remained
intact. Rell lunged—the demon reached and drew his sword: A
black-bound white hilt based its likewise pallid triangular
point, bright green runes lighting the honed straightblade. The
demon inverted the dense metal overtop and then plunged it
into the ground—
Vil came, but the eruption of light struck him and all the
Company. Vil stopped, shielding his face with the free hand.
He recovered.
The monster was not here.
Rell faced Golen, who was glaring. But he was too proud of
chasing off a demon to care. It would be hunted down soon
enough. Rell raised his sword, joining the celebratory cheers.
He bellowed: “Hhrrraaaa—” The enshrouded hand burst out
his chest clenching his heart, “Aaaahh—!” making his cry end
in torment!
Vil dropped his sword. The demon released the organ to the
cold surface.
The slumping Rell saw, and then looked to behold the stare:
He was unworthy to see it coming, it imparted.
Rell Vil fell off the limb to the ice, now seeing nothing. The
demon tarried there, the crimson matter trickling through his
lowered hand upon the rime. He looked at Golen. The General
dismounted, aiming his sword. “Take him…! Slay him where

he stands!”
The hundreds, less he and Golen, engaged. Felton could not
believe Golen wanted this! But he could not assist; he would
be considered an enemy obstructing justice, being accused of
treasonous abandonment by ‘cowardice.’ The soldiers would
match him also (though in this confusion, none had confiscated
his sword).
Brandishing the twin daggers the fiend waited, moving not a
moment before the first of them gained striking distance—he
leaned in, unfurling a sequence of incisions upon a man before
any of them could be felt. The twenty-fourth cut cast the since
lifeless, sundered body aside as the others arrived. His ensuing
ire found those the nearest—half their numbers fast fallen in
the haze, he disregarded efforts bouncing awry, if not ghosting
through his body. Golen searched with desperation, warriors
crowding his sight. Some attempted to restrain the terror for
others to strike, but he ended all enclosing. Felton Sparr
witnessed this unfold, knowing Golen would not consider
retreating. Felton grasped to pull one man back, but was
shoved off. The former comrade eyed Felton a moment sword
raised before turning, deciding it was of better use against the
creature. Sparr cringed when torn armor and the like were cast
his way. A fighter searched for the battle—the demon stood
before him. The man raised his sword, shouting. Stung in the
neck, he perished before falling.
The General found his path to the destroyer then (all bodies
notwithstanding). “You are mine!” The demon persisted on,
fixating upon another who readied his blade, but hesitated.
“Fight!” Golen admonished.
This man consented, attacking. Seeking death, he was
intercepted by the dull flash across his midsection. He expired,
blood crystallizing upon touching the Tundra, as the majority
lay gone.
Cadavers decaying in his wake the slayer lifted his sights,
deciding to find Golen.
Expecting quick attack, the General instead saw the demon

walk. Several survivors ran to intercept the confrontation to be
cut aside in stride. Golen ran at him; the adversary evaded the
swinging for a time in surges of wavering void, even parrying
with the longknives. But as Golen continued the press, the left
dagger was reset. Confused, Golen persisted—the demon
gripped his wrist. He cried out. The foe twisted that arm behind
Golen—and he stuck him in his lower back, hand inverting to
withdraw the metal before it could be blemished.
The General trembled to the ground.
Unable to save anyone, Felton witness a residual two dozen
banding together. The second razor was returned.
Elongated claws were bared.
Felton watched them perish at each streak of after-imaging
glare, broken bodies cast like refuse.
Nearby, Golen moaned. Sparr motioned him to hide his
suffering. Perhaps he still could be helped—but he gave a stare
demanding distance.
The assassin faced a final soldier who pointed and spoke to
him, too far to overhear. A last word made his eyes flare—he
flashed by the man hand extended, having torn asunder his
midsection.
With a mute cry, the Company was undone.
Even if Golen resisted aid, he would not be left to this
nonexistent mercy. Felton looked—
He was here.
Supposing swift death… the victor instead looked to Golen.
“You demanded demise.”
Gorrath had paled, shivering without control, but was able to
rejoin with a defiant scowl. Golen Gorrath still did not move,
managing to stifle enough of his suffering to ask, “What are
you?”
“Demise.”
This chastisement completed, the demon turned from them.
Felton moved to lift the General to step, Golen accepting the
help.
They were far along when the staring monster again called:

“How many?” This demon voiced indifference, but the intent
would be unmistakable:
“...How many to send one message?”
***
“…This is of deadly care Captain Farrell,” Commander Ithir
intoned. “If Iron King is to help the other nations, we must do
our parts.”
Harlan nodded. “Of course, Commander. But, I do not yet
know what you expect of me.”
Ithir nodded. “Yes. That is what we shall speak on now.”
(Nolan and Rolan struggled to keep awake.) He indicated the
desk map. “Brehnir-del boasts martial law. They want no king.
The Elves in the Upper Lands are ‘too good’ for us,” Ithir
dragged a hand upon his goatee. “The Mountain City Dwarves
are always treasure-delving. The Solars would make for
mighty allies, if we could find them...
“Perchance the Storm’s Hold giants?” he tried.
“Disinclined.”
The Commander paused. “Perhaps Gorrath? Not the General,
the city.”
“Too close to Fell City and Dead Lands.” Harlan assessed.
“It seems the King wants these peoples together.
“…Under his direct advising.”
Ithir chuckled, clapping Harlan on the arm. “Your intuition is
ever sharp.”
“And anyone wary of this initiative will see it work then sell
in?”
“And keep each other informed of noteworthy developments
amongst their respective kingdoms.” Harlan looked down,
hand cupping his chin. Commander Ithir would continue. “I
know it seems like it may be too big, too much. But if it better
insures us of keeping all peoples alive and well, it is well worth
it.”
Harlan faced back. “What of those who will call it the ‘Iron
King rules everything around me’ plot?”
“That is the hazard to his vision,” Ithir said. “We need to
show the other kingdoms the true value of it. They would be
better equipped to protect their lands. We could all profit from

close ties; trade goods, armaments. All needs could be met by
this.”
“We have that already. The affluent southern houses collude
to happily decide what each other will do with their properties
and investments.”
“Point taken,” Ithir conceded. “You will be glad to know this
will not require you to be stationed abroad like before…
“But, I will never to the day understand how you turned back
Harkanon.”
Before Harlan could answer, a soldier entered saluting. “Sirs!
There has been a… happening… or two.”
All exchanged glances and followed the guard outside,
emerging into a swarm of animated gatherers. Multiple persons
spoke over one another with neither Harlan nor Ithir able to
catch all they talked about. As the patrolman attempted to lead
them through the masses Harlan became drawn to the Arena—
Ilanna lingered just passed it, surrounded by many.
They were cheering her.
He frowned, approaching.
He stared with disbelief at her disposition. Her clothing was
tattered, even torn in spots. He then found Nadelle, who
scowled a pit into one poor guard trying to communicate.
“…S-so I armed her on his orders. I thought he would just
show her up, not try to hurt her.”
Harlan was there, looming. “Who?”
Nadelle stepped aside.
“Lieutenant Mir, sir. He goaded that woman into a fight...
But, she had some moves in her.” His eyes had glazed over.
“That woman was nice—”
Harlan narrowed his eyes. “Sir!” the guard stopped there,
adding a salute. “…The Lieutenant was carted off after losing
consciousness.”
The Captain looked over towards Ilanna. She returned a shy
smile, shifting into a grin when Harlan winked his approval.
Random voices continued overlapping, but one rose loudest:
“That was something! Even a Titan should think again before
trying her!”
All within earshot had hushed.
The speaker was the grey-haired Girith (‘the Grim’) Gotten.

In terms of respect, he was Duran Sparr’s opposite. A soldier
approached, head shaking. Girith stuttered as the man began
shoving him. Harlan motioned the watchman to end the harsh
treatment. He relented contritely, departing. Girith saluted.
“Thanks, Harlan!” then also left—
“Captain…! Something you should hear,” Ithir called out to
Harlan, standing with another gathering. He looked to Nadelle,
and then joined the Commander.
She watched him leave, but then was drawn to commotion
behind her.
Joaquin’s bearer was talking to Ilanna, herself distracted by
shouting all around. “…Something you are not telling—”
“Strange,” interrupted Nadelle, her stare taking him. “I am
sure it was nothing unusual.”
“It was nothing unusual,” he mumbled leaving.
Ilanna peered at the sorceress.
“Nadelle,” Harlan entreated of her aloud, “Would you join us
here?”
She turned to Ilanna.
“I know, Nadelle.”
“Head home. We will think of something.”
Ilanna bowed then moved. Nadelle watched her first, before
going. Both Captain and Commander were with a messenger,
also Nolan and Rolan… and guests. By a nod he indicated at
the squat bearded figure present, flanked by two mail-clad
defenders a head taller: Dwarves.
“I am Oaken,” began this dwarf. “They are Henley and Kole.
We are here from the Mountain City, for Drumar the Dwarven
King of the Mountain...
“We have a mutual dilemma.”
“They found the body of a Dwarf scout, along with six of
ours,” Harlan informed her. “This was discovered between our
borders and theirs. We do not know—”
“I’ll tell you what happened!” Henley interjected, clenching
upon a staff-hammer. “With numbers they thought perhaps
they could overcome a Mountain Dwarf!”
“Enough,” Oaken said. “We came to cooperate, not throw

baseless accusation.”
“We take this to Iron King. He will know how this should be
investigated,” Ithir said.
“King Drumar bestowed upon us total authority to solve this.
These sentries are at your disposal,” Oaken said.
“What would you require of me?” Nadelle asked.
“Your reputation precedes you. I am hoping your king will
allow your personal attention.”
“…‘My King.’ I just have interests here.” (Being near these
here dwarves gave her a rising sense of discomfort.)
“Harlan said you would say that. And that you would still
help,” Oaken said.
She nodded. “Good,” Ithir said. “We haste to the Halls.”
Moving, he looked around the Arena grew clear. “Now, where
is the girl I kept hearing about?”
Harlan gleaned comfort from her coolness. (She hoped this
uneasiness would fade.)
They went northbound.
***
“Tell me why,” Ivar Starken, Iron King of Iz-Dale, requested
of the three captive thieves.
He faced away, arms folded in back, standing before the
chamber balcony overlooking the city proper. His throne and
war desk was to his right, an expansive lounging area at his
left. This bound audience was made to kneel paces between
him and the entrance by four guardsmen. They scarcely were
cognizant. “What gave you the right to terrorize a shopkeeper
and her apprentice?”
His bronze-trimmed black-iron armor reflected sunlight, its
helmet set upon that bureau. It was of his long ago design. “We
needed anything we could get. To sell for food,” the smallest
claimed.
“Starving? In my kingdom?” He turned around, discontent
souring his features. Dark hair, rugged ruddy complexion and
his goatee gave that stare more of an edge. “What do you take
me for?”

“But… King, have we not suffered enough?” the largest
labored.
The third wheezed. Ivar said, “If you lived here, you would
have known our stance on your actions. Yet you know who I
am. One chance: Who sent you to test our defenses?”
A swollen face made eye contact dodgy. “We work for no
one. We—”
“Transfer them to the dungeon for armed thievery.” The King
glowered. “Expect execution.”
They began shaking, the third wheezing. The posted pickets
stood them up to march through the opening throne doors—
Ithir, Harlan, Nadelle, and a trio of Dwarves then passed by,
the thief wheezing harder upon seeing her.
“Iron King,” Ithir said, saluting. Nadelle stared. Harlan
nudged her. The Dwarves exchanged glances. Ithir said, “There
has been a grave development…”
“A patrol has been slain,” answered the King.
“How—?”
“I have my ways, and complete faith in you. Hopefully
Nadelle has agreed to assist?” he said, smiling at her.
She did not return one. “I will do all I can to avenge the Iron
Guard.”
“Splendid. Oaken, King Drumar will soon be at ease for our
respective losses. The Inn awaits.”
The Dwarf bowed. The party exited back to the hallway.
“Nadelle, a moment?” Ivar called after her.
Her progress stopped, and then she turned and approached.
“Thank you,” he pressed, “I know we are not on the best of
terms. I know what you think of me. But, this must be done.
Think of the trust this could build. We would be that much
closer to bringing the other nations onside.”
“Under your rule.”
“If need be.”
“As always, I warn your reaching not to exceed its grasp.”
“Yes. And also, gratitude for watching the thieves while in
holding.”
Nadelle scowled. “And you are talking to—”

“Me,” said another female voice.
Airmid the Grey-Elven warder emerged from camouflage—
making her heretofore undetectable—beside him. He smiled.
“Airmid here has also told me of an interesting development
today at the Arena…”
—Thank you for reading!
Please search the “The Dead Lands: The Titan” page on
Social Media.
Continue below for the novel summary:

LEGENDS
RISE
Under the expanding reach of Iron King, Iz-Dale is a
haven amidst the horrors-ridden Dead Lands, where
Ilanna has fashioned a living in the realm for herself with
her mother Ilaria.
Among friends, her mentor Captain Harlan Farrell of the
Iron Guard, and an ally in the sorceress Nadelle, life is
comfortable, considering.
But, when Cruthik the Elder—an incredible enemy out
of Nadelle’s past—reemerges to rule and extend the
fabled Lands, Ilanna will soon leave the City after an
untimely Orc invasion to find her comrade, previously
departed to investigate a recent slew of murders.
Ilanna will see the rivaling factions and rogue killers
that walk the Lands, realizing her long-contained secret,
especially hidden from the King.
For beyond the relative safety of her home there rages a
Demon, and a vengeful Storm-Giant. And there are others
yet with their own pursuits, who fight to resist the
spreading danger.
But who is the deeper—and Undead—threat lying in
wait, and why is this being content to do so?

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