A Battle in Wittenberg

November, 1517

A stone chapel sat atop a small rise in the middle of an otherwise flat field. Dusk had begun to throw long shadows of the building across the wind swept grass.

Inside, a middle aged monk in the plain brown robe sat at his desk. One hand fidgeted with the rope sash that wrapped his waist as a belt while the other hand held a long feathered quill hovering above an ink well. He was lost in contemplation over the words that he had just read from the ancient script. The words were in Latin. Some things just do not translate well from Latin to German. Even worse, the manuscript was worn and faded parchment.

Moments passed, and the frustration of moving words from one language to another began to wear on him. He sat in the hard wooden chair with his brow furrowed and his teeth clenched, willing the words to obey and reveal their translation.

He jumped at the sudden banging on the door. The startle caused his heart to skipped a beat or two…

“What?!” His temper burned below the surface. For the past two hours, the monk had stared at the words on the page, but nothing seemed to make sense. He didn’t need an interruption.

The response was muffled.

“Clank, clank!”

This time it was the snarling lions head door knocker.

He jumped from his chair, knocking it backwards, banging his knee against the table and spilling the inkwell that held the feather pen. Cursing softly, he righted the ink well but the spilled ink was ignored until after he could properly reprimand the impatient person at the door for disturbing him.

The monk shouted “If only the bishop would have granted my wish for a gargoyle on my front stoop, I would beckon him to devour you that I might return to my study!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” came an unrestrained laugh from the other side of the door. “They say the sacred beasts do not dine on monks,” said smooth deep voice.

The man outside yanked door open. Wind rushed through the small room carrying leaves with it, scattering them along the wood floor. The glow from the fireplace flickered and cast angry shadows against the wall. He wore a black monks robe with the hood pulled over his head that revealing nothing about his appearance, rope belt at the waist, black leather sandals. He stood at least a foot taller than the monk.

The monk in the brown robe paused and reflexively stroked the top of his shaved head with his hand. “Rothmann,” he said now understanding the rude interruption.

“Yes Martin.” Again the deep voice carried across the threshold.

“I think my gargoyle would have a belly full by now. You are no monk.”

Rothmann pulled back the cowl and let it drop to rest on his broad shoulders. His most commanding feature was his dark visage. Close cropped dark black hair in a widow’s peak accented dark brown eyes and heavy brows. His beard was smooth, starting at the corner of his mouth and ending in a point where his neck ended at the top of his chest.

“And you? Do you still claim yourself to be a monk? You should venture more from your sequester. You should behold the mess you have made.”

Martin stared at the man through the doorway, and finally sighed “Ivan, please forgive me my manners, come in and warm yourself by the fire.”

“Thank you, Martin. Could you spare some tea?”

”Yes, of course. I was just going to prepare some for myself, the water is already heating on the stove. What brings you here?”

“The time is approaching. Many have read your Ninety-Five Theses. A gathering is beginning. You would be remiss not to be among the throng.”

“And why is that?”

“Surely you don’t deny, you are the horizon upon which the light of truth has risen.”

“Your smooth words are persuasive. However, I will not be part of your madness. Never have my words given creed to your actions.”

“I believe that you will change your mind. I believe that presently, you will be grateful for my actions.”

“Ivan, it is good to make your acquaintance once again, can we not talk of peaceful things. Here, sit,” he said pointing at an empty chair at the table where the spilled ink was still seeping into the papers.

“Bah ha ha ha ha,” Rothman laughed loudly. His voice boomed through the room, dominating the space. “Peaceful things such as tea? Martin, you have stirred a troublesome pot in more than one place. Not only does the church wish you gone, but there are darker forces plotting your imminent demise.”

Martin rose and fidgeted with the boiling pot of water. Neither man talked while he dropped the tea into two cups to steep. The silence grew heavy and accented the increasing sound of the wind battering the shutters.

“Ivan, you are a long way from home. What brings you to this part of the world?” Martin asked as he set the cups of tea on the table.

Rothmann sighed, recognizing the monk would not be rushed. He grabbed a stool far too small for a man of his size and sat. His knees pressed toward his chin. “I felt a pressing need to check in on you,” he said uncomfortably. A few moments passed as the two men shared stories of the most recent news, until both cups of tea were empty.

“Would you like more?”

Rothmann held up his hand, indicating that Martin should remain quiet. He said calmly, “No my friend, do not trouble yourself any longer. Thank you for the offer, but I regret that duty beckons with immediacy. I will depart. There is someone that demands my attention.”

Without a backward glance, Ivan Rothmann pulled the door open again and stepped through. The wind from outside sent the papers in the room swirling into a frenzy.

“Lock the door behind you,” Martin called, but Rothmann did not respond. He instead left the door swinging open.

“Rothmann!” yelled Martin. The monk ran across the room and looked outside. There was no sign of Ivan. Martin shook his head and pulled the heavy door closed. “There is nowhere to go, and yet he leaves without a trace,” he mumbled to himself.

Martin sighed as he turned to clean up the strewn papers. He bustled about, gathering parchment in one arm while chasing the unclaimed pages with the other. Every time he retrieved a piece of paper and added it to the pile, another dropped from his arm and fluttered to the floor. With most of the papers recovered, he set a stack of documents on the table and placed the inkwell on top of the pile. He then proceeded to collect the rest. Finally finished, he sat down once again and began rearranging the papers into their proper sequence.

Outside the gusting wind calmed down and gave way to an eerie silence. “Alright,” He said to himself. “Where was I?” He took a rag and cleaned the ink spill still puddled on the papers, and then returned his attention to the manuscript.

Clank! Clank! Bang! BANG! Clank!

Martin was startled again by the clamor at the door.

“I swear by all things holy, Ivan, you will be the death of me! Come in, will you?” Martin yelled without bothering to look up from his work. The door creaked open behind Martin. “Yes, Ivan, you have reconsidered, as expected, and have come back to discuss at length over more tea. The water is still warm. Go and help yourself.”

“No sir, I am no Rothmann, sir. Just a traveler wishing for guidance.” The voice was dark and barely audible.

Martin glanced up. A giant of a man stood in the doorway silhouetted by the fading sun. He wore a brown monk’s robe with the cowl pulled up. His head was bowed so his features could not be ascertained.

“Yes, yes. What can we discuss today?”

“You are Martin Luther? Composer of the Ninety-Five Theses?”

“One in the same.”

“Esteemed monk, I have read your documents and have issue with your writings. I wish to discuss them.”

“Pompous youngsters” Martin whispered under his breath. “Of course. What errors have you brought forth?”

Martin noticed the difference in the garb. This new monks robes were not tied at the waist, but hung loosely and draped the slatted floor of the church. The sleeves were long enough to completely cover the tips of the fingers.

“I have issue with the actions of others motivated by writings of which you are the source.”

“So you are here on behalf of the Church?”

“No, I am here on behalf of me.” Martin could hear the sneer in the man’s quiet rumble of a voice.

“You give me a great deal of trouble; I have no time for this. I have other business in hand that I should attend to. I bid you good day.” Martin motioned with both hands for the man to leave.

But the man did not budge. Rather, he lifted his eyes to meet Martin’s. The man’s skin was pale, as if the color had been drained from it. Where eyes should have resided, two pools of black liquid swirled. His teeth were sharp and hungry like a wolf’s.

For Martin, time froze in horror. “My God, Ivan was right,” Martin whispered breathlessly. “You are one of them.”

The visitor moved into the living space. “One of them? Believe me, there is only one of me,” he said with a grin that better revealed the white sabers in his mouth.

“You are nothing!” Martin commanded, recovering from the site of the beast. “You are but a shade of something greater!”

“Do NOT call me ‘shade’,” the creature said with quiet ferocity.

“I did, and will continue to do so,” Martin defied. “Listen to the sentence that I pronounce against you now, shade. The seed of the woman shall break the head of the serpent, and that includes the likes of you! Now leave me!” Enraged, Martin picked up his inkwell and hurled it at the beast.

The monster moved to the side. The inkwell crashed against the wall. Ink splattered on the floor and the beast’s robe. From within the sleeves of the robe, sharp talons extended below the cuff. The shade crouched low, both arms extended behind him. Martin stumbled up from the chair and fell, landing on his back. The creature pounced, clearing the distance between them in one leap. Martin rolled to the side as the claws from one of the beast’s hand ripped the folds of Martin’s robe. The Shades other hand swept up toward Martins face, claws extended for a killing strike.

Martin watched as if the world were moving in slow motion. He turned his head and cringed, waiting for the sharp edges to slice his throat. One claw caught his chin and opening a small, taunting gash.

Both Martin and the creature leapt to their feet. The pause in action gave them a chance to size one another up. The crouching demon monk smiled beneath the cowl. Martin reached a hand up to touch the cut on his face. It was clear the monk had no chance against the beast. The monster was toying with him, like a cat with a mouse.

But then Martin smiled a very out of place smile. The monster tilted his head sideways in curiosity.

Martin’s voice was oddly confident for a man about to die. Pointing at the monster, Martin declared, “Beast who dwells in the dregs of excrement, you are made of weakness and deceit. As a rat feeds on the garbage of the impoverished, you also feed on the sorrow of the suffering. Your muscles are made of twine and your fangs are but hollow molds of powder. You have no power here. You are the lowest, the least, and I have no fear of you. For you, despite your false appearance of physical might, are subject to a greater power. And that great power is the equalizer. And it has now come to claim you and return you to your rightful place! IN HELL!”

A voice boomed from the door behind the monster, “Mardock! Turn and face the force of justice. The Rothmann has come for you!”

The monster’s eyes grew wide in terror and its mouth hung open in surprise as it pivoted on its left foot to face the danger behind it. But before the beast could counter, a flash of metal swept in an arc and separated the Mardock’s head from his body. With a thud the monster’s heavy frame fell lifeless to the floor.

“Bah ha ha ha ha,” Ivan laughed loudly. “Fantastic speech Martin! A little over dramatic, but wonderfully done!” he declared loudly, stepping over the corpse of the beast and crossing the room to slap Martin on the back in congratulations.

“That’s what I like to hear. ‘Who dwells in dregs of excrement!’” Rothmann teased, mimicking Martin’s high pitched voice.

“‘Rightful place. IN HELL!’ Ba ha ha ha ha,” he laughed again. “It’s perfect. The perfect end to such a fowl thing.” Rothmann placed both hands on Martin Luther’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You are a most amazing man. Today I understand why you are wanted both here and across the veil.” Rothmann then turned, bent down, grabbed the body of the fallen beast, tossed it over his shoulder like a bag of flour, and began searching the room for the thing’s head.

“It’s over there. In the corner, by the spilled ink.” Martin said, pointing. Looking at the decapitated demon made his stomach turn.

“Ah, thank you. Very threatening, by the way, throwing an ink well. You could at least have hit him with it.”

“You were here the entire time?”

Rothmann smirked as he crossed the room and picked up the skull by its jaw. “We have to burn these you know. The stench of them is awful once the spirit’s been sent back across the veil.”

Martin did not need to be told. He stomach lurched again as the stench of the fallen beast began to fill the room. “Be safe” he said to Ivan, bidding him to leave.

“Be safe,” Rothman replied. Then the man turned and walked out the open door.

Martin sighed and moved to close it behind him.

Immovable Object Unstoppable Force

The box turned in his hands, flipping and twisting in frustration.

“Clotilde, this box will be the death of me!”

“Will you set it down for a bit? You’ve been obsessed with it since the battle, since the last phase of the moon. It’s evil. I am sure that is what the man in black is looking for.”

“There is no man in black. We have searched enough, there is no man.”

“There is. I told the guards that I saw him again earlier today.”

Ignoring her. “I know it. There is something with it. Look here…”

“No, Clovis, I will not. I have seen you throw that box across the room too many times. I will not let its cursed aura take a part of me as well.”

“These runes carved in the face have no beginning or end. They seem to, but everytime one stops it crosses another and continues.” Again he spun the box to follow the carved pattern and it moved over one edge along the length of the bottom and back up another side.

“Put it down on the stand and come to bed.”

“Ugh. There is something in this box, and it is haunting me. The rattling of it from the inside drives me insane. Someone put something in there. There is no opening. No way to open it. No slide lock, no seam, no hinge; but someone put it in there.”

“Please, the box will be there in the morning.”

As if she hadn’t even spoken, he continued, “Look at it, the different shades of wood are crafted to match with no ridges. It is smooth on all sides.

”There is a power to this box, and whatever is contained within.”

“Clovis. Please.”

And then she grinned in the corners of her mouth. ”Ask your new God to care for it while you sleep.”

“Woman, your humor is lost on me. I have been baptised. All of my men have been baptised. We have pledged ourselves to him. The least He can do is care for my box.” He slammed the box down on the table across the large bedroom, slowly walked toward his wife while grumbling the entire time, and slumped into bed next to her. He wrapped an arm over her stomach and looked at her with a longing look in his eye.

“No. You’re obsession with the damned box has become the focus of your desire. I suggest you figure out a way for it to grant you the pleasure that your attention deserves.” She flipped his arm from off her stomach and turned to face away from him.

Clotilde lay in her bed, listening to Clovis’ breathing deepen into the relaxed rhythm that meant snoring was not far behind.

Even though she hadn’t touched the box, she could feel it as it lay on the table on the other side of the room.

The man it black had visited her twice before, privately, but she hadn’t told her husband. She knew that if Clovis was aware that a man had approached her, his obsession would be unbearable.

One morning just past dawn, as Clotilde had moved through the courtyard enjoying the peacefulness of the early morning, the man dressed in all black had whispered to her from behind a column at the edge.

He had warned her that the ‘nostomonia’ that drew the box back to its creator would make it unbearable to ignore.

And then a second time, he approached her in the market behind tapestries hanging to dry after cleaning. He had asked if Clovis had opened the box. She didn’t understand why, but his intensity to find the box seemed beyond the interest of random curiosity.

Now as she drifted to sleep, her last sensation was of restlessness that seemed to emanate from the box. It led her to dreams of a short, strange looking man that yelled in frustration at a crowd of creatures. In the dream, the box was his, and he wanted it back.

As soon as Clotilde drifted into slumber, Clovis stopped pretending to snore. Nights were rarely a peaceful experience for Clovis. He never completely relaxed. After years of fighting the Gauls to the north, the barbarians in the mountains, and his cousins against the coast, he couldn’t afford to doze deeply. Now, with the box as a preoccupation, any relaxing was pointless.

Clotilde’s breathing was deep and relaxed.

In the stillness of the night, Clovis heard a soft scraping moving across the wooden slatted floors.

He didn’t move, but began to think through his actions. Mace and sword are out of reach beyond the box. The box lies beyond me and the creepers. Whoever it is must have stealth beyond human, I will have to be quick.

Clovis waited one moment more, to identify the sound and make sure he could place its location.

Another shuffling sound came from just beyond the edge of the bed.

Clovis shifted his head gradually enough to peer between the slits in his eyelids and chance a glimpse in the direction of the movement.

There was nothing to be seen, but the sound continued. A slow dragging sound moving slowly across the wooden floors.

Then there was a shimmer in the air. Just the slightest movement, all but transparent in the glow of the moonlight passing through the open window.

The open window! He had closed that window when first entering the bedroom earlier this evening.

Clovis rolled out of the bed into a fighting crouch to confront the wraith moving through the room.

Still, there was nothing but the gentle shift of breeze and the overwhelming feeling of being watched. The briefest of change in the air and the outline of a thin figure stopped fast.

A breeze drifted gently through the open windows, curtains shifting slightly back and forth.

Clovis remained in his place of defense, hunkered by the side of the bed, knees bent, ready to strike – at nothing.

After a shadow of brief movement, the sound of dragging across the oak planks became more distinct as it continued toward the box.

“Clovis, get to the box!” A resounding voice demanded from the flowing curtains. Then toward the moving sound across the floor, “Beast, you have no place here!”

With an instantaneous movement, the shimmering figure propelled itself across the room and through the window in a dash. The shuffling sound disappeared.

The bearer of the voice moved swiftly from the bedroom door to throw himself through the open window in pursuit of the specter.

Clovis grabbed the box and then sprinted past the bed to look through the window. There was no movement in the dark, and no sign of the man in the black robes that had spoken.

Longinus stood shoulder to shoulder with the dark shadow of the legendary warrior, Hrodman, and watched Clovis sparring with several other men.

Hrodman shivered and pulled the hood of his cowl farther over his eyes until nothing but his nose and chin could be seen beneath it. The setting sun was leaving a chill in the air.

The continuous clang of metal striking metal carried over the walls surrounding a large courtyard and echoed through the streets of the city of Paris.

“Now they have switched from swords to battle axes and war hammers,” Longinus mumbled, “we will be waiting for hours.”

Hrodman let out a huge sigh, the breath turning to cold steam the moment it left the warmth of the cloak.

Longinus looked up at Hrodman. “Something wrong?”

“Yes, this is a waste of time. I don’t know Bashi cannot care for the box himself.”

“Seems to be of great import, for them to ask for our assistance.”

“Bah, what is important to others does not always demand the aid of Hrodman.”

“You realize that I am here also. That Bashi requested that I assist you.”

“Yes, a fact that he avoided to tell me when we last talked.”

“It must be critical. Besides, I think you and he share a kindred spirit.”

The hood shifted just enough for Hrodman to glance at Longinus, dark eyes blinking twice before looking away again.

The posture of both men never shifted. Their identical large muscular frames stood ready for action. Knees slightly bent, hands on concealed weapons.

“Hrodman does not need assistance. He allows you to remain simply because he respects Longinus the Spear Bearer.”

“Why did you not take the box when you were in the room?”

“Clovis should not be under estimated. As well, my concern at that time was the creature from Midian that was seeking the box, not Clovis.”

“What of this ‘box’?”

Hrodman looked up into the grey sky and then over at Longinus. “I don’t know much. All of the previous owners of the box have been inhabitants of the shadow realm. Built by a creature known as the Tinker, the box has the ability to change people, to bend them to the will of the holder. It is small, barely longer than your feet and as wide as your hands. There are intricate carvings that are used to open it, and there are only a few that have been able to decipher its puzzle. In Midian, Tinker had used the power of the box to increase the loyalty of others toward him, thereby increasing his followers.

“Tinker is also the creator the Lamina. The coins, of which one is inside the box, are of particular importance.

“The beings on the other side can only see us as a fata morgana -.”

“An illusion.” Longinus confirmed.

“Yes. It is difficult for the watchers from the others side to become present in Reality. It requires an incredible amount of strength. Most creatures could not cross. The Tinker forged small round disks of metal from the middle realm that resemble coins. They have a certain ability to grant easier passage into our world.

“How did Clovis come in possession of The Box and a Lamina?”

Hrodman sighed again. “In the Battle of Tolbaic, west of here, Clovis was being attacked by the Alamenni. The attack seemed strange, really seemed a useless waste of men and energy. Hyoi found that a Conculos from Cocytus named Fargoth was using the coin to talk to the Alamenni, to influence them to attack the area around Rhine-Westphalia. No one is yet sure what value this area had for Fargoth. It seems even his superiors still don’t know.

“Hyoi and my impetuous friend Bashi chose to stop the interference by ending the battle here eliminating the leader of the Alamenni-“

“Gibuld?”

“No, Gibuild passed and several lesser men attempted to contain and lead the Alamenni. All of them greedy foolish barbarians, seeking power. Fargoth tried to take advantage of it. If I had been aware, the repercussions would have been much more extreme.

“After Bashi put an arrow through the head of the barbarian leader, Clovis saw him and jumped through the opening left by Bashi as he returned to their realm.

“According to Bashi, Fargoth confronted Clovis, which was a mistake. Clovis eliminated a coven of Cocyti warriors and then ripped The Box from Fargoth as he cut his head off.”

“Has Clovis tried to use The Box or coin?”

“No. At least it doesn’t appear so. We are here for two reasons. To find out if he has used either, and to return The Box to Midian. If the coin is still with The Box, I plan to make Tinker eat it myself.

”We go now.”

They walked across the street and through the gates of the courtyard as the soldiers started to dissipate. Clovis was bare chested with no clothing but leather pants, Arma Vita Vivet, the shield breaker, swinging gently from his waist.

Clovis held a wooden sword in one hand behind him, crouched in a fighting stance.

“Lo, he approaches. The miserable monk. Huh, huh, huh.” Clovis let out a laugh as he swung a wooden sword and it cracked against Clotaire’s wooden shield.

“I had told Clotilde that you weren’t real until last night. You will not get what you came for.” He handed the sword to Clotaire and turned to face the approaching men. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

Hrodman turned his hood to face Clovis’ son. “Clotaire, would you leave us please?”

As if he hadn’t been standing upright already, Clovis seemed to grow to twice his size. He walked forward and met Hrodman toe to toe. Face to Face. Although the same height, Clovis’ width and build seemed to dwarf Hrodman in size.

Clovis growled, “Do not…ever…be so arrogant…to assume that you can command an heir to the Merovingian throne.”

Longinus backed away a step and placed a hand on the sword at his hip. Hrodman did not move. He calmly replied “Do not ever be so arrogant, misguided, or foolish to think that you can look Hrodman in the eye, much less inform him of his place.”

Clovis didn’t move, he simply pointed with his right arm to the exit. Clotaire placed his wooden weapons onto a rack at the edge of the practice area, turned and ran through the gate, shutting it behind him.

Clovis pointed with his left hand to the gate that the two visitors had entered through, and a soldier exited the courtyard and shut it behind him.

All three men stood motionless for a moment.

Clovis slid his left hand down along his side and around the handle of Arma Vita Vivet.

Hrodman crossed his arms and reached through folds in his robe. “Quite a barbaric weapon you carry.”

Longinus stepped back, away from the imminent pending explosion of metal on metal. “Clovis, if we can just explain…”

“Words are for the weak. Action speaks where words fail,” Clovis growled.

And then it began.

Arma swung up in a blur.

In one motion, Hrodman bent backward as the mace passed short of his chin, his arms drew two short swords from his robe up and crossed them in a blocking move as Clovis reversed his swing to bring it back down onto Hrodman. The mace met the blades and sent a ringing sound echoing through the courtyard.

The two gazed into each other eyes, weapons locked above their heads. “Impressive speed.” Clovis smiled. “This may be more of a challenge than I thought.”

Hrodman’s arms tensed like steel bands to hold his swords against the mace as Clovis strained to push Arma down. Niether could release pressure, knowing that giving meant allowing the other the freedom to press an attack.

Longinus slowly pulled his sword from its sheath.

Clovis shifted his eyes to Longinus sword and smiled. “Sad monk, it seems your friend is thinking of joining us.”

Longinus finished revealing the blade, extending the tip to point directly at Clovis’ midsection. Light seemed to dance along the length of the blades, swirling through Runes engraved in the steel. “I do not fear you, Clovis, I only fear the loss of a life.”

Clovis yanked Arma back behind him and leaned back as the two swords crossed in front of his face and away to the side. Continuing the motion, he spun in a circle and swung the mace across at waist level.

The broad sword in Longinus’ hands rang with the sound of a large bell and spun from his grip, landing several paces away.

Clovis immediately reversed his swing back and around toward the two blades being thrust toward his midsection.

With a yell and every bit of energy he could muster, he followed through with his swing.

Hrodman realized his timing was late, and his attempt to catch Clovis when his back was turned would fail. He pulled back from his stab to find Arma moving full speed to intersect them.

Hrodman tightened his grip on both swords and twisted in time to save them. The strength of the swing of the mace would have broken them as well as his hands and wrists. Both swords jerked his wrists to the side and forced him to release the swords to fall with a clang on the grass.

Clovis finished his swing and paused in a crouch, facing Hrodman, but looking at Longinus to make sure that he was still far enough away not to pose a threat.

Hrodman bent at his knees, dark eyes piercing straight into Clovis’ stare. Clovis stepped back from Hrodman and stood up straight. “By all that is holy, your eyes are not the eyes of a mere mortal. They carry the pain and anger of generations. What has sent you here?”

Hrodman offered no response. Clovis shifted his gaze to look at Longinus. “You, as well, bear a sadness and determination unknown to man.

“Although I fear you both, and the eternity that wells within your stare, I cannot allow you to pass from this place. You have challenged me, and thereby the entire Merovingian Dynasty.”

“Attempt what you must, but I came for the box that you took from the unholy creature. I cannot leave it alone, for it bears a dark strength that you do not comprehend. I will banter no longer.”

A sadness passed between the three men, with understanding that a resolution seemed impossible

The crowd that watched from the top of the fortress wall would never be able to describe the flurry of action that erupted below them in the courtyard.

Longinus backed away and knelt on one knee. Clovis flinched his arm forward, sending the full power of his massive arm and chest into the mace. Hrodman bent backwards and sideways into a roll that placed him directly above the two discarded swords. Completing his role, he rose back to his feet, slightly crouched, ready for the next attack.

Recognition began to dawn on Hrodman. His swords would never be a match for Clovis’ mace and the speed and strength that wielded it. He stepped forward watching Clovis begin the swing of Arma, and thrust both short swords at Clovis hoping that Clovis would be caught off balance by the straight forward attack.

The mace shifted direction to deflect the swords, exposing the back of his wrist to Hrodman.

Hrodman released the swords and reached forward with his left hand to grabbed the wrist. He reached forward with his right hand and peeled back at the fingers that held the mace. He poured every bit of strength into his arms and hands. The mace fell to the ground.

Clovis reversed his now empty grip and latched onto Hrodman’s arm, then swung his arm with all of the force that he could collect, spinning Hrodman into the air and through the racks that held the sparring weapons.

Hrodman stood slowly, holding two short staffs in his hands, and began to move them in a consistent pattern in front of him, creeping toward Clovis.

Clovis began to bend to reach for the mace at his feet, and Hrodman sprang forward, slamming each of the sticks into Clovis’ empty hands.

Clovis yelled and jumped backwards, opening and closing his fists to test that they weren’t broken.

Hrodman advanced forward, keeping the sticks moving in a rhythmic pattern.

Clovis began bouncing backwards and forwards to the movement of the sticks, and at once shot both hands forward, intersecting the swinging pieces of wood with his palms.

Shifting the pattern without hesitation, Hrodman avoided the grasping hands and brought both rods the smash into Clovis’ massive upper arms.

Clovis let out a scream.

The beating didn’t stop. Without ever losing momentum, the rods struck Clovis’ body with a consistent rhythm. After a few seconds, every muscle in his body ached and begged not to move.

The sticks dropped down. One hooked under his left knee. The other pressed up against his throat. Hrodman slowly applied pressure, taking Clovis off balance, cutting off his breath, pinning him against the ground. Clovis twisted and used his arms to apply pressure, but the more force he used, the more pressure the weapons applied to his throat and legs.

As his vision began to blur at the edges, and breath coming with strained gasps, Clovis grabbed onto the sticks and began to slowly twist.

Hrodman’s face twisted in determination as his arms and wrists could not resist the force applied.

Clolvis pulled and twisted slowly, releasing the wooden weapons from their points of leverage.

Throwing his weight behind him, Clovis fell down backwards, pulling on the weapons and kicking up into Hrodman.

Hrodman flew once again into the air.

Longinus watched as the flight path of Hrodman carried him in slow motion through the air. Hrodman, now disarmed again, twisted to land perfectly on both feet, facing Clovis.

Clovis stepped forward, casting aside the pieces of wood. Both men taking heavy breaths, struck out continuously in hopes of making contact. Neither one did.

Swing.

Kick.

Jab.

Grab.

It continued while both men failed to make contact.

Clovis took a deep breath, almost stumbling forward, and swung his arm in a great arc.

Hrodman ducked and then kicked out with his right leg.

Clovis jumped over the sweep and landed with one leg, the other stomping down on where Hrodman had been crouched.

Hrodman saw the jump and knew the next move would be the crushing foot. He rolled on the ground, catching Clovis’ supporting leg between both of his and continued to roll, forcing Clovis to fall in the direction of the roll.

Clovis landed with a thud that knocked the air out of his lungs. Laying on the ground, he scanned the area for Hrodman, preparing for the next attack. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hrodman laying just out of reach, panting for air.

“Huh, huh, huh.” Clovis began to laugh. “You are the toughest bastard I have ever known.”

Laying on his back, gasping for air like a fish yanked from the ocean, Hrodman replied, “Likewise, Hrodman does not allow a battle to continue long enough to lose his wind.”

“Is that it, then?” and Clovis began to roll to his knees.

Longinus stepped forward between the two men and placed the tip of his sword gently against Clovis’ chest, pressing gently as Clovis lay back on his back. Then he looked down at them, face full of disgust. “Do the pair of you even know what you are fighting for? You cannot, because there is no reason.”

“Oh, there is. He’s meaning to take my box and the rattle inside it.”

“You mean you haven’t opened it, the box?” Longinus continued.

“No. It scares me. The box bears with it a dark that I do not know. I brought it back from the dream, but the feeling of that dream remains with the box.”

Hrodman sat up and looked at Clovis. “You massive, thick headed, gargoyle, grinning oaf. Why do you fight for something that you know not of?”

“Do not make me kill you when I finally catch my breath again, black monk. I still do not take kindly to insults, even if you are a fine warrior. Respect for your king is still demanded.”

“Oh, you are NOT my king, il mio coscia pugno, spesso ingegn, buone intenzioni maschio bestia.”

Clovis looked up at Longinus. “What did he just call me?”

“Uh, it’s in the speech of the Romans. Something to do with ham fisted and thick brained, but well meaning.”

Hrodman laid back down, still breathing through deep gasps.

Longinus sat next to Hrodman.

“Do you recognize this?” Clovis reached into the pouch as his waist and produced a round wooden disk half the size of his palm. There was a rough “G” carved on one side. He turned the wooden marker and showed an “I” scratched in the other side.

Hrodman tucked his hand into his belt and produced a similar round disk carved with the same letters. “Aye, it seems we have a common admirer. The little bastard. And it seems we are brothers in the same fight.”

Clovis, staring up into the sky, said, “You’re not taking The Box.”

Hrodman replied, “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. We are warriors fighting the same enemy. You are a man worthy to be reckoned with. But you should know, just as what happened this past evening, others will come looking for the objects. When they do, you and your family will be in danger.”

“You were the intruder last evening. Do not take me for a fool.”

“You are no fool. It was I that spoke to you in the night, but there was another in your room last night, seeking the box. You saw him, you were stalking him.”

“Tell me more, dark monk.”

“There are others, like the one from whom you acquired the box. They will find a way to retrieve what they believe belongs to them. I know nothing more. I have nothing more that can be shared.

“But I know one who does. Longinus, we have to find Bashi.”

“Bashi!” Clovis yelled, “He is one of the pixie warriors from my dream, I heard the other speak his name.”

“Yes, he is the very same, and it was no dream, dear king.”

With a grunt, Hrodman and Longinus stood and walked across the courtyard and to the gate.

Hrodman stopped and turned before leaving. “Guard yourself, Clovis, the battle has yet to be fought.”

The two warriors continued into the streets of Paris.

After Tolbaic

Aetas Ipsum, 64ae43or (c.497), Midian

“What happened to Fargoth?” asked a smooth voice from beneath a black hood.

Hyoi turned to face Azo and paused before answering. He tilted his head sideways and studied the way Azo’s black robe hung loosely from his body. How can he be so strong, with such a thin frame?

Hyoi had only interacted with Azo a few times in the past. Each one had led to conversations that neither of them felt comfortable with. They contained questions and conversations about battles, both past and ongoing, that could lead to the exchange of information deemed inappropriate. Hyoi turned to scan the deserted village and the hillsides for other Malacovi.

The village was at one time a fairly populated area, with a central cross roads, church, houses and stables, and a large graveyard. With the exception of the monuments and the abbey, the buildings were merely a fata morgana, a shadow or mirage.

The town was suffering from neglect. Roof tops were collapsing. Doorways leaned heavily to one side. Hyoi could see clearly through all of the buildings except for the sanctuary, the monastery and a large sepulcher standing in the center of the tombstones. This place would make a perfect location for an ambush.

Hyoi gave a deliberate sigh and replied, “Fargoth took the battle to Reality. He left Midian and was influencing the outcome by eliminating Franks as they battled the Alemanni.”

“It happens. He was willing to take the risk, and I am sure it was, filling, for him. More importantly why would you be concerned? You have never before cared about Tolbaic, the Gaul tribes, or the Franks for that matter. Why are you involved now?”

“In the end we were merely observers, although we were ready to interfere if Fargoth’s intentions to manipulate the pointless events in Reality were to have a detrimental effect on us in Midan.

“I am wondering, though, why does Tolbaic hold such value to the Malacovi that a Shade would be sent to guarantee the outcome?”

Azo avoided the question. “To your point about observation,” the smooth voice paused, considered for a moment how to proceed, “you are the only ‘observers’ that seem to have survived Tolbaic. Fargoth had at least a coven with him, and none are accounted for. I will assume that I would have to return to Pandæmonium to find them starting over again.”

“That would probably be a correct assumption, although we had nothing to do with their disappearance, not directly anyway.” Hyoi’s voice was calm and a little playful.

Azo pulled back his hood and scanned the sky, moving his hypnotic eyes to pan from the fading sun in the west to the deep blue dusk growing to the east. The air was clear, the cloudless sky seemed vast, and in the distance on the west edge of the horizon a fine mist rain could be seen against the disappearing orange glow. “I find it serein, knowing that rain is falling on the flip side of the veil, but we stay dry. You know that we are in a peaceful place. We can speak freely. The lack of clouds bear witness of our safety.”

“Yes. It is not my concern of retaliation or attack that prevents me from speaking. It is my need to protect everyone involved.”

“‘Involved’, interesting choice of words.

“So, let me ask you then. Fargoth was in possession of a Lamina. I am sure you know of this, since you know of his influence over Tolbaic.”

“Of course I am aware. It is why we were there. It is improbable that he could pass so freely across The Veil without the added assistance of a portal. Fargoth was not that strong.”

Azo hesitated to continue. He knew that speaking more would betray information that none of the Elysion like Hyoi had knowledge of.

Azo looked around, making a joke of looking directly behind where Hyoi was standing, exaggerating his movements, “And where is the beloved Bashi? Not in his usual place behind you?” The smile that crossed his lips revealed sharp teeth clenched together.

“Bashi is busy.”

“Busy with?”

“Finding someone.”

“Ahhh. There are only a few ‘someones’ that you would need to search for. When was Longinus last seen? Must be several hundred years now?”

“It isn’t Longinus that he is looking for.”

A serious frown crossed Azo’s face and his eye lids narrowed over his swirling pupils. “There is no need for Hrodman. We have not committed an offence that justifies his involvement.”

“I did not say his name, and certainly not regarding anything involving you.”

“He is a most unpleasant individual, indeed. Should I warn anyone of his participation?”

“No, I don’t believe that he will interact with any, of you.” Hyoi paused. “At least not unless you involved yourself where you have no business. What is it that you are looking for, Azo? Surely not Bashi. What information will you pry from me that I wish I had not shared?”

“Fargoth, was in possession of something, um, unapproved.”

“Unapproved? And who are you to determine if something is unapproved. Were you and Fargoth not equal Malacova?”

“Unapproved by Mander. He was not aware that Fargoth was going to use the,”

“Yes?”

Azo paused to collect his thoughts. “There is an object of great value. One of a kind. Fargoth was in possession of it. Are you aware of anything unusual that Fargoth might have been carrying?”

“Other than my knowledge that he was using a Lamina to interfere with Reality, I am not familiar with any other objects. Even more specifically, I never beheld the Lamina.”

“Hyoi, I will inquire of you one more time. It is imperative that we find Fargoth, or at least the object he was in possession of. If we do not, you realize that we will become active in our search, both in Midian and Reality.

“So I will ask you several questions in a different way, hoping to reveal some truth while maintaining your integrity. Did you encounter Fargoth?”

“Yes. Yes I did. Actually, he contended with me.”

Azo paused, his eyes searching for some sign of insincerity. Hyoi was not known for dishonesty, but more for merely hiding information that could be considered “sensitive”. “You said earlier that you had nothing to do with Fargoth’s disappearance.”

“That is correct.”

“Hyoi, do you know what happened to Fargoth and his twelve warriors?”

“Ahhh. Now we are covering some ground. Yes, I watched as Fargoth was, removed.”

“And his coven?”

“Yes.”

“Surely not Bashi.” Followed by a throaty chuckle.

“Ha, no, not Bashi, although you underestimate him.”

“Then who or what was it.”

“I only speak of this, because I hope to avoid further conflict; having you and your cohort rooting around for an object we are not in possession of can only result in terrible outcomes. Surely you do not want to involve Michael, and I have no desire to meet Mander face to face. A man crossed the Veil. He eliminated all thirteen of them, without my interference. The last to perish was Fargoth.”

“Again I will tell you, Hyoi, if you are involving Hrodman without provocation, this will end poorly.”

“I assure you that it was not Hrodman. Hrodman acts on his own, and it has been quite some time since he has crossed into Midian. I don’t think he likes it here.”

“When the battle occurred, did a wooden box present itself at any point?”

“Ah, yes. Now we have it. I was waiting for you to confirm what you wanted me to admit.”

Azo clenched his teeth again and shook his right hand down and away. Long talons extended from the nails on his fingers and hung below the sleeve of his robe.

Hyoi smiled confidently, gently resting his hands on the two blades that hung from his waist. “Easy, Azo. If you attack me, you will start an irreversible course of action. And you know that you are at a disadvantage.”

With a growl, “Tell me then. Did you see the Box?”

“Yes, briefly, I saw a box clutched in the hand of the human as he fell backward through the veil.”

“Will you tell me anymore?”

“No, I don’t believe that there is any more that I could share, that would leave us both on neutral ground.

”If it matters any, Fargoth was up to no good, and the outcome would have ended the same, whether by my hand or another’s.”

“Hyoi, one day, your sincerity will be the undoing of you. Until then, I must respect your candor.

“You know that it is only a matter of time before we find the man.” Without another word, Azo spun and walked away toward the town, leaving Hyoi alone on the hill top. I am sure, and I am also sure that you will regret the day you involve him in the drama of Midian.

Hyoi walked down toward the town, and entered the broken chapel. “How long have you been hiding there?”

Bashi crept around the corner and emerged from the nave. “I have been following Azo since he crossed the Rhine. By the way, the water is extremely high for this time of year.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes, I found all three.”

“Three? You mean you found Clovis as well?”

“Of course. Why have Longinus and Hrodman spend time searching, when I can tell them where to look?”

“You engaged Longinus first?”

Bashi shrugged. “Yes, it is hard to get Hrodman to do anything, but he is much more amiable when Longinus is willing.”

“And how was Hrodman?”

“Grumpy as usual. He complained that we wanted him to interact with a decedent of Merovech, and then went on a rant about how Merovech was useless in the fight against Atilla, and that any son of his was likely to be just as much of a waste of his time. He kept griping to Longinus after I left.” Bashi walked out into the open air and stretched. “I really like it here.”

“Did you contact Clovis?”

“Now,” Bashi turned to look back at Hyoi, still standing in the doorway, and a sly grin crossed his face, “would I do something like that?”

Battle of Tolbaic

c.497 AD, AI65ae94or

Battle of Tolbaic; Zulpich, North Rhine-Westphalia

Clovis looked down the hillside and across the valley. A boy was running up the grassy slope toward him with reckless abandon. The lad reminded Clovis of himself when he was a page, serving the Merovingian king, his father, Childeric.

Life with Clovis’ father had been a constant assault on Clovis’ self-esteem. Childeric would ponder while stroking his long black beard, “Son, I was going to ask you to move that boulder, but you probably aren’t strong enough.” Or, “That goat escaped again and won’t come back on his own. I would get him but I don’t have time right now, and there is no one else to do it. I guess I will do it later.”

Like most boys, Clovis longed to please his father. Clovis left no challenge lay unanswered. As Clovis grew, the tasks his father chose became harder. By the time Clovis was fourteen, Childeric had a difficult time finding chores his son couldn’t finish with ease; but that didn’t keep the aging man from trying.

At the age of eighteen, Clovis stood two hands taller than any other man in their land. His shoulders were broad and strong like the flanks of bull, his arms rippled like a mountain range, and his legs were as strong as marble. He was unmatched in strength, speed, or intellect; all of it developed through repetition and determination.

All of Childeric’s challenges contained puzzles that demanded much of the youth, but the toughest was an errand that required Clovis travel into deep Germanic country to bring back a mysterious wild horse. Childeric wanted to use the stallion for breeding. The job forced Clovis to learn a new language, study the behavior of wild horses, negotiate with barbarians, and fend off highwaymen looking for plunder.

When Clovis matured into adulthood he began to understand why his father had insisted on education and strength. As king, Clovis was forced to daily prove he was more worthy of the crown than all the other warriors around him.

Loud crashes broke Clovis’ focus from the boy and brought an end to his reminiscing. He cringed as a boulder from a trebuchet landed and rolled through his army, indiscriminately crushing warriors in the field below.

Clovis stood alone atop of the hill, waiting for a change in the way this day was progressing. So far, things weren’t going well. Clovis shifted his feet and his leather armor creaked, his eyes rose to take in the sky.

Rays of sunlight carried a purple glow as they passed through the black and grey clouds and cast a surreal light on the field below.

The dust of battle filled the air. The sound of crashing metal, thundering hooves, screams, and shrieks pushed all natural noises aside.

Clovis winced at the clinking of poorly fitted armor. It grew louder as the young runner arrived at the top of the hill. He attempted to bow while still running to approach Clovis.

“The Alemanni have…” the boy wheezed with exhaustion.

“Slow down and breathe,” Clovis said firmly.

“Yes sir,” the boy gasped. “The Alemanni…have…the advantage, my King. We are being pushed back every minute that passes.”

“We’re you sent up here to tell me that?”

“Yes sir, my King.”

“And I assume your father sent you?”

“Yes sir, my King.”

“Look down there, boy” Clovis said as he gazed at the battle field. “What do you see?”

“I can see the entire battle, my King,” the boy said not looking up from the ground.

“Tell me. From down below, could you see me standing here?”

“Yes, my King. Very clearly, my King.”

Clovis gritted his teeth. “You tell my men down there that the next runner that they send up here to tell me something that I already know better be carrying that ugly Seubian banner and claiming victory or I will send the runner back in six different pieces.

“Uh, yes my King. Yes, sir.” A frightened look crossed the runners face.

Clovis smiled at the young man. He whispered as if telling a secret he didn’t want others to hear, “And don’t worry, I probably wouldn’t do that to a promising warrior like yourself.”

The young man’s eyes beamed with hope. “Yes, my King.”

“Now go!” Clovis ordered. The runner turned and sprinted back down into the fray.

Clovis could see his soldiers were being pushed back from the area around Tolbiac, but he also knew that if he could stop the Alemanni, the mash up of Seubian barbarians that called themselves “All Men”, he would stop the Seubians altogether.

A gust of wind blew his long braid across his back, brushing the thick dull top edge of Gladio Vita Vivet. The name meant sword breaker. A sword itself, it was uncommon in that it bore only one straight razor sharp edge that angled sharply at the very end to meet the spine of the blade at a point. The dull edge was as wide as a man’s thumb and only narrowed where it joined the sharpened edge at the tip.

The wind turned into a breeze, shifted direction, and brought with it the unmistakable scent of filth caked on unbathed bodies. Clovis’ men all bathed regularly. He demanded it.

He slid both hands into the gauntlets that hung from his waist. They were leather gloves inlaid with a crosshatch of silver strands that ran up to his elbow. Four silver shards, sharpened to exact fine edges with needle sharp points, were woven into the gauntlet above each knuckle and extended out past the ends of his fingers. When making a fist, his hand resembled an extended lion’s claw.

His right hand gauntlet was smooth with the exception of a raised section that ran along the top of his forearm. When he curled his fingers and pressed a leather pad on his palm, a blade extended out across the back of his hand and locked in place to the surprise of victims.

“You men have made a mistake,” Clovis said calmly to no one in particular, still looking down at the battle.

An unseen voice carried from the grove of trees behind Clovis. “We have you. You are outnumbered and the only place for you to flee is into battle, where we are advancing swiftly, and your men will soon meet their demise.”

“And how long have you practiced that poetic declaration?” Clovis said with a dismissive laugh.

No answer.

“Come then, let’s see you,” Clovis said spinning on his heal and striding toward the forest to meet the challengers.

Twenty men crept forward from the trees, forming a half circle around the giant King. Clovis could see the fear in their eyes. It was all he needed to confirm what he knew. They would all be dead in moments.

The men crept closer, but moved slower as they realized that they were close to striking distance.

Clovis smiled. There was no fear in his countenance. He made a dramatic gesture to pull his black braid to the front of his chest to clear the handle of the sword on his back.

He flexed his massive right arm to emphasize the Merovingian family crest that combined the fleur-de-lis with the outline of a bee.

He opened and closed his fists to stretch his fingers, preparing for what was to come.

The men’s expressions betrayed them. Clovis knew that seeing him in person they had realized all the rumors were true. One man stumbled and Clovis snorted, unimpressed.

The first attacker ran forward, placing himself directly in front of Clovis. With one hand the assailant held a double edge sword high above his head, with the other he grasped a shield to protect his left side.

The second and third attackers took the cue from their comrade. They charged from Clovis’ left. One carried a spear and shield, the other wielded a battle axe with both hands.

Well, that makes no sense. Why attack all from the same side.

He swung his left gauntlet back and gripped the mace hanging from his hip – Arma Vita Vivet, the shield breaker. He spun in a circle counter clockwise as the first sword came sweeping down, parting the air where Clovis had been standing. The sword drove into the dirt and created nothing but a breeze. Clovis, already spinning in anticipation of a standard attack, use the momentum to swing the shield breaker toward the oncoming enemy.

Arma Vita Vivet was hand crafted by Clovis. Like most standard maces, there was a ball on the end of a short stick. Unlike other maces, the ball was more of a teardrop shape beginning with a point. Running from the point to the back of the ball were six raised edges that served as wedges. When Arma contacted a shield, the wedge forced open a crack in the shield. Usually the shield broke completely in half, crushing the forearm of the man holding it. That was what Clovis hoped for.

He was pleasantly satisfied as the first attacker fell with the smashing sound of the mace splitting the shield, breaking his forearm, and shattering most of his rib cage, never to return to battle.

Attackers two and three presented more of a challenge. The clumsiness of a battle axe made the defense fairly simple, but it would not matter if the weapon made contact while he was dealing with the second swordsman.

Clovis dropped into a crouch as he finished the swing of Arma and hung the mace back on his hip. The advancing men pressed forward, opening their stances and beginning their attacking swings. Clovis could hear others advancing now, behind and to the right.

Well, I need to finish this quickly. This distraction is pulling me away from the battle below.

Instead of backing down into a defensive posture, he dropped into a crouch, looked up, and braced himself like a panther ready to pounce.

Decision made, he jumped forward toward the attackers. He could tell by the startled look on their faces that they were caught by surprise, both of them caught mid swing with completely exposed stomach and ribs.

He lifted both gauntlets. The left hand with metal claws pointing at the midsection of the axe swinging warrior advancing on his left side.

The right wrist bent his hand down, where fingers pressed the release for the hidden blade to extend.

Clovis stopped moving forward as he made contact with both men. The Gauntlets stopped when the blades were fully embedded within the sternums of both victims, one on either arm. He stood to full height, lifting each body up in the air and turned to face the rest of the Seubian soldiers.

Since he had been a child, Clovis had wanted to grow as his father intended: a mental, spiritual, and physical giant, a myth among mere men. Mentally, he was the first of his family to learn to read. The first to speak other languages. The first to study science and nature. He understood the world he lived in like no other king before him.

Spiritually, he’d searched to know what was really there. Unfortunately, no god had ever impressed him enough to take seriously. All were no more than glorified reflections of the clan that had created them. Clotilde, his wife, never stopped harassing him, begging him to accept the one true God of the Catholic Church, but Clovis would not concede. His decision to refrain from acknowledging God became more solid after their first child died shortly following his baptism as an infant.

Physically, Clovis had never stopped moving something bigger or throwing something farther. When his father wasn’t challenging him with some task to test his skill, he had a routine of standard exercises to pull and push and swing and jump. He found ways to lift his own weight, but soon enough he had grown too strong, and looked for other ways to grow. That had led to lifting boulders and throwing animals.

Now, holding the two warriors in the air, he looked at the remaining men. “Do you all wish this fate?” he screamed.

There was no response.

Very well.

Clovis dropped his hands and both bodies slid off of the gauntlets onto the ground at his feet. He reached both hands behind his neck where Gladio Vita Vivet rested between his shoulder blades and grasped the handle. The metal made no noise sliding from the leather sheath, but it seemed to glow, even in the gloom of the beaten and bruised sky.

In group, the next three men advanced. Clovis smiled. With Gladio, it didn’t matter what weapons the advancing men carried. Gladio had a way with metal. He never started with Gladio in battle, because he feared it and even more feared himself with it, and the damage that could be caused.

In a situation like this, with no one and nothing that he cared about within immediate proximity, there was no reason for restraint.

Clovis had forged Gladio after almost losing a challenge from a barbarian warrior on a journey through the Black Forest. The barbarian had wanted Clovis’ bear skin coat, and Clovis had no intention of handing it over.

The barbarian was strong, and swung a battle axe with more might than most. When Clovis held up his father’s old double edged sword to defend himself, it deflected the blow but cracked in half from the pressure of a direct strike.

Clovis had ended the fight quickly by jumping forward and twisting the barbarians head in a circle, but he wasn’t okay with the way his weapon had failed.

Upon his return home, he worked for three cycles of the moon to develop a weapon that would never be the weaker in a straight up duel. The result was Gladio.

Clovis allowed himself the momentary madness that came so easily to him and gave himself over to primal rage. With merciless swings of Sword Breaker, shields were cleaved in two.

The attackers came on but their hesitation was their undoing.

With each swing of a sword that was meant to harm Clovis, he parried the attack with Gladio and smiled through gritted teeth at each contact. The first swing would destroy the incoming weapon. Clovis would reverse the direction of the blade and swing back again, splitting open the armor of the enemy.

Standing in the midst of bodies Clovis stared down at the severed and crushed and broken men. He raised his head and glared down at the two surviving men. His chest heaved with giant, but controlled breaths. Gladio was still clutched in both hands. Blood dripped from the tip and formed a pool in the curve of a broken shield.

“Go now, and you live to tell of what you have seen.”

Neither moved.

Clovis twisted the sword in his hands so that the sharp edge was facing up and the thick spine of the blade toward the ground.

He pulled the sword back toward him with both arms and tensed the muscles in his arms. The point of the blade was lined up directly in line with the heart of the closest warrior.

The man didn’t run, he held up his shield. “I cannot run. I have sworn a duty to protect…”

With an expelled breath and the unwinding strength of pent up energy, Gladio shot forward in a straight line. The point pierced everything in its path. It carved a upside down “v” shaped hole in the shield, continued through the iron breastplate, and exited the armor that protected the back of the soldier.

I suppose I should have let him finish. Now I will never know what he thought he was protecting.

Clovis pulled the sword back through the holes. He arced the weapon in one sweeping motion, the sword came overhead and down. The last man standing watched without moving. His eyes grew wide under the rim of his helmet. He seemed ready, but hypnotized by the speed and merciless strength of the monster in front of him.

The blunt edge of the blade finished its descending arc and collided squarely with the top of the warrior’s helmet, driving the victim to the ground in a crumpled heap. The metal of the helmet caved in under the force of the blade and crimped, pinching the blade with bent metal, the remains of a skull still trapped inside.

Clovis pulled up and back to withdraw the sword, but it wouldn’t let loose. Several times he tried to free the sword, but with each tug the entire body of the collapsed man came up off the ground several feet.

Realizing the sword wasn’t free, he would relax and the body would fall back down to the ground.

Clovis stopped for a moment and looked around him, to make sure he was in no immediate danger, and then tried again to pull Gladio free to no avail.

He lifted his left foot and stepped down against the neck of the fallen, and pulled slowly as the sword began to separate itself from the metal with a grinding shriek.

I am glad no one else is here. This is embarrassing.

With one final pull, the sword separated from the helmet.

The adrenaline started to wane and the sounds of battle once again grew and demanded his attention.

He stood and slid the weapon back into the sheath on his back.

He turned and walked back to the edge of the hill. What he saw was what he feared. While his men for the most part didn’t seem to be wounded and dying, they had given too much ground. He was losing. Even if he were to run down and join the battle, it would not guarantee victory. He placed the gauntlets back on his hips, hanging each of them from circular hooks. He had designed them to allow the heavy gloves to separate from them when a hand was inserted and a downward pressure to the back was applied.

He sighed. The thought of losing pained his chest. It wasn’t only the personal disgrace that troubled him. With leadership came responsibility. The livelihood of his warriors families were the true motivator for victory. He searched the field looking for any solution. He scanned the horizon in hopes of noticing some weak point in his enemy’s line, but there was none. He played each scenario in his head. He ran through the maneuvers. There was no escape. The weight of defeat weighed on his shoulders.

What now oh great and mighty king. How will you accomplish this task? How will you overcome this challenge?

He watched as his left flank broke and the enemy attempted to swarm his ranks. His warriors fought ferociously, trying to correct their mistake, but it was only a matter of time. Clovis sat down in the dirt and watched everything fall apart in the field beneath him. There was no hope. There was nothing left.

Then a thought dawned.

Clotilde wants me to convert. Let’s see what her god has to say about working out a deal with me.

He moved to kneel and continued to bow his head as he seen his wife do.

Better to bow to a god than the other king on the battle field.

“O Jesus Christ, you…”

I can’t believe I am doing this…

“…Who, as Clotilde tells me, are the son of the living god.”

Is this truly my last hope? Look at what I am reduced to.

“You who give succor to those who are in danger, and victory to those accorded who hope in Thee.”

Ok, here it goes.

“I seek the glory of devotion with your assistance: If you give me victory over these enemies, and if I experience the miracles that the people committed to your name say they have had,”

Am I sure about this?

“Then I will believe in you, and I will be baptized in your name.”

There, I said it.

“Indeed, I invoked my gods, and, as I am experiencing, they failed to help me, which makes me believe that they are endowed with no powers, that they do not come to the aid of those who serve.”

I should have known better, I knew they wouldn’t help. This is stupid, but how can I lose?

“It’s to you I cry now, I want to believe in you if only I may be saved from my opponents.”

His head now was on the ground, his eyes were still closed.

The screams of his men erupted from the valley below.

In frustration he swore loudly into the dirt.

I knew it was all a lie. Even her god can’t help us.

He rose quickly to his feet.

I will not watch my men be devoured by the hoard. I will die by their side.

By the second step down the hill he realized that he couldn’t quite tell what was causing the commotion, but the surge of fighting was suddenly going in his favor. The orange banners with the yellow lion in the center were fleeing, and his men were pursuing.

As he gazed at the field, from the corner of his eye, Clovis noticed a shimmer in midair not more than two paces to the left. He spun his head, and the shimmering air was broken by the outline of a body disappearing through it.

Without thinking, he jumped head first into the blur and rolled as he fell to the ground to break his fall.

Pushing himself up onto his knees, he turned to look at the battle, and saw his men chasing the Almenanni, but his vision seemed blurred. They were almost imperceptible and fading more the longer he stared through the blurred air.

He looked around him and recognized the landscape, but nothing else was familiar.

The sky that had been the color of a terrible bruise was now a swirling mass of dark and angry clouds that seemed centered on the battle below and cast an eerie light across the scene.

The grass, trees, even the rocks, all seemed to shimmer with a greenish glow.

Slowly he stood and spun in a quick circle. The men he had just defeated were no longer at his feet. The last man defeated, with the crushed helmet, gone.

In their place were two men standing at the edge of the forest.

“What have you done?” the taller of the two said to the other. They hadn’t yet noticed Clovis.

“He asked for help, and we needed to change the tide of the battle, both here and there.”

“Bashi, you cannot mess with Reality. It bears unknown consequences.”

“The Malacovi do. So have you, and Michael and Gabriel.”

“Only when commanded, and you and I are not Michael or Gabriel.”

“It needed to be done.”

“Yes, but an axe through someone’s head was not the way.

“We can’t stay. When the Malacovi realize what has happened, they will pursue us. And just you and I cannot defend against them.”

“Hyoi, look.” Bashi said, looking at Clovis.

“How did he cross over?”

“I don’t know.”

“He can’t stay. Take him back.”

Facing him were the two warriors that had been speaking about him but not to him. Both men carried two long thin curved swords. They matched his height and were well built, but nowhere near his strength.

In the second that he observed them, he had sized them up. Warriors with no armor…strange. Clothes are loose, pants and tunic don’t restrict movement.

A dark, haunting voice from over his shoulder added to the conversation. “You have messed with the wrong Bellemus. That battle ground was pivotal, and we were not to interfere.”

Clovis spun again to view a an approaching crowd of dark soldiers.

The one that had spoken to the two warriors about interfering wore a long robe and had no weapons. The hood completely covered his face, long sleeves dropped well below his hands, and the hem of the robe brushed against the grass as he walked.

Behind him and walking to the top of the hill were a group of the nastiest looking warriors that Clovis had ever seen. His mind struggled to identify them.

Each wore poorly fitting armor and carried crude weapons such as clubs with spikes or long dull blades with hooks at the end. One held a two handed battle axe that was more than half the size of Clovis. They varied in height, from Clovis’ shoulder to five hands above Clovis’ head.

Twelve ugly ones, one spooky guy, and the two pixies behind me. This will be interesting.

Clovis glanced one looked back where the battle had been, but nothing was left there that would be familiar. Even the dark swirling cloud had dissipated and given way to an equally gloomy grey sky. In the valley, there was no sign that there had been a struggle.

He faced the ugly group now stopped at the top of the rise, and a thought occurred to him.

Is it a coincidence that this is all happening immediately after I talked to Clotilde’s God?

He turned his head enough to address the two men behind him. “Just answer me one question.”

Hyoi answered carefully, “Yes.”

“I asked for help. Were you that help?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“So be it.”

For the second time in less than five minutes, Clovis gave himself over to the darker part of him that was boundless strength under malicious intent.

Clovis’ gauntlets were weighing heavy on his hips, begging for him to slide his hands into them.

Gladio Vita Vivet rested on his back, vibrating with anticipation.

Arma Vita Vivet, seemed to call out for him to wrap his fingers around the handle and feel the satisfying crunch of shield and bone.

The flexible armor that covered his chest and formed his pants, inlaid with the bones men and animals stitched between layers of leather felt ready to absorb the pounding of enemy weapons. Knees bent.

Arms bowed.

His entire body tensed in a crouch.

He noticed as he moved that every action felt faster and easier and enjoyed the feeling as his muscles tensed for action.

As he slid his hands back into the familiar spiked gloves, Clovis wore a smile that seemed like he had lost all reason.

Arma in his left hand, Gladio in his right. A mass of creatures that needed reconciliation. They had evil intentions, and a power that they did not deserve. He could feel it. He couldn’t describe it, but he knew it was there, with the one in the dark cloak.

I am the great leveler. The equalizer. The source of justice and judgment for those human or supernatural, weak or strong, one or many. I will reconcile. This is where I belong.

He pounced, aiming for the hooded man in front, but his jump carried him over the creature, landing him in the midst of the eleven orc like ugly creatures, crushing one below his feet.

Pleasantly surprised by his extra strength and speed, Clovis didn’t hesitate to spin and swing, mace and sword smashing and cleaving beasts seemingly without effort.

I have never felt this strong or fast.

A snarling hunched back beast with two long teeth that jutted up from his lower jaw ran directly toward Clovis. With a flinch he swung Gladio in a perfect straight line. The sword slid between the helmet and breast plate and cleanly severed head from body, leaving a black liquid spewing out of both.

When he stopped to take a breath only one monster was left standing. It stepped backward in fear and tripped over a pile of broken armor with remains inside.

Clovis slowly hung the mace on his belt. He slid his sword carefully back into its leather casing.

The orc stood up again and started to back away. Clovis clenched the gauntlet in his right hand into a fist and leapt after the orc. One swing, and the orcs face shattered under the weight of the blow, and the beast collapsed on the ground and his feet.

In the quiet of the aftermath, the only sound was the sound of metal on wood. A rhythmic thud moving at an incredible speed.

Thunk, thud, ting, thud, swoosh, ting.

Clovis turned and saw the three remaining men engaged in battle. The hooded creature that had not shown any weapons had four long talons extending from each hand.

The two others were swinging their swords in a consistent defensive pattern. Every time the metal contacted the claws, it gave off a muffled sound that resembled an axe striking a tree.

“This is not the way to win!” the one called Hyoi was yelling.

“You cannot speak of winning! You have interfered,” hissed the hood as he made a wide arcing swipe with the claws in his right hand.

“Bashi, get Clovis back through The Veil!

“Fargoth, stop this now. I will not engage you.” Hyoi stepped aside to avoid the swinging arms.

“It is too late for that.” Sneered Fargoth.

Bashi ran toward Clovis and paused to take in the carnage that lay at his feet.

Clovis smiled an evil smile and said “this is just the half of it, I have just as many at my feet where I came from.”

“Clovis, we can’t stay. Come with me.” A blurred section of air shimmered open next to Clovis.

“No, that man in the hood possesses a power that he should not. I will not leave without bringing that power into balance.” Clovis sprang forward as he finished.

Fargoth didn’t see it coming. His robe was torn from his body by a leather hand with four long claws that left deep gashes in his back. The box that was tied to his waist by a rope sling was in the other gloved hand and pulled until the rope snapped. Then the same fist snapped backward, the single extended blade separating his head from his body and sending it spinning into the grass.

Without looking, Clovis jumped backwards far enough to carry him through the tear in the Veil, and he landed on his back looking up at a black and blue sky.

The sounds of war rushed into his ears so suddenly that he cringed.

The same runner came up the hill carrying the banner of the defeated and retreating army. “You said I had to bring this if we came back up, my King.”

“What has happened?”

The runner bent over, trying to catch his breath. “We were being pushed back…and…the commander of the…the…”

“Yes, yes, the savages, go on.”

“Yes, someone put a battle axe straight through his skull, helmet and all. They are all retreating… and we are in full pursuit.”

Clovis looked at the box. It was a small wooden rectangle barely the size of Clotilde’s hand when making a fist. The pattern on the surface of the box was intricate. By joining different species of wood, the changes in texture and color created runes that intersected. Turning it over and over, there was no apparent latch or trigger to pry it open.

He held it up to his ear and shook it, and heard a muffled rattle from within. He gripped it with both hand to find a seam or joint. The box gently vibrated.

“Majesty, did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, yes. Excellent news. Let us head back down into the valley and congratulate your father. Do you know how my sons fared?”

“Yes, majesty. Theuderic and Childebert are unscathed. Chlodomer was injured by a boulder from the trebuchet, but he is believed to be able to recover.”

“That is good.” A pause, and then he looked down at the messenger, “…and Clotaire?” Clovis hesitated to have favorites, but his youngest son at 16 years old seemed to hold a special place.

A grin crossed his face. Obviously the boy was fond of Clotaire as well.

“The trumpet sounded, the Gauls retreated, and we pursued. When we passed a catapult, Clotaire and several others were able to turn it and launch rocks at the fleeing hoard. It is believed that he killed at additional fifty men trying to flee.”

“Excellent! That’s my boy.”

In another place, Hyoi sighed as he stood before an imposing warrior wearing similar loose fitting pants and tunic, both shimmering royal blue. The warrior had one hand on the hilt of a sword that hung through a loop in a belt at his waist.

“Hyoi, I have never seen you with this expression on your face.”

“The news is…troubling.”

“I notice you did not say upsetting, concerning or bad.”

A slight smile crossed Hyoi’s face. “No, it isn’t any of those. Really, it is more of an interesting situation than anything.”

“Ok, continue.”

“Ok, Bashi accidentally pulled someone through The Veil.”

Michael glanced briefly at Bashi, grimaced and turned back to Hyoi. “That is not unprecedented. Did you take that someone back?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. He returned on his own.”

Michael looked at Bashi, and then back at Hyoi. “You have no more time, tell me what I need to know.”

“It was Clovis.”

“Clovis?! That is interesting. What happened?”

“Clovis…um…stumbled upon a group of Malacovi…and a mardock that had The Box…with a Lamina inside.”

“And?” Michael asked with a troubled tone.

“Clovis made fairly quick work of the grunts, and then disabled the shade Fargoth. It was he that was carrying the box.”

“Where was this?”

“Tolbaic.”

“Interesting that the shade had a coin and The Box at Tolbaic. What we thought was just a simple battle must have been more. They were trying to create a Bellemus, and they wanted to guarantee victory.”

“Yes sir.”

Bashi interrupted with a smirk. “He has both.”

“Who does?” Michael asked, addressing Hyoi without even a glance at Bashi.

Hyoi slowly answered, “Clovis does. Both of them. The Box. A Lamina. In Reality.”

There was an extended pause.

Bashi said, “Clovis made a promise to serve God.”

“Is Clovis serious about the promise he made to God?” Replied Michael, again focusing on Hyoi.

“He seems to be, although it is soon to tell.”

“Yes, this very interesting…we seem to have an unprecedented opportunity.” Michael pondered. “Thank you Hyoi. We need to secure Clovis for our cause. Maybe Longinus could help?”

“I’m not sure that Longinus could control Clovis, but I will find out.”

Hyoi bowed in respect and walked away.

Bashi looked at Hyoi and whispered, “Do you even know where to find Longinus? I haven’t seen or heard from him since he was contacted by Hrodman.”

“It has been a long time, but I am sure that he has not travelled far from Jerusalem since the crucifixion. We can involve Hrodman if necessary.”

Bashi grunted, “I really don’t like him. Michael hates him.”

“I know, but some things are necessary.”