Future Imperfect

[DesertFly]

I would say that this is my first attempt at a fanfic, except that it's not, really. It doesn't come from the universe of Star Wars, Star Trek, Warhammer 40K, Babylon 5, Lord of the Rings, or anything but my twisted imagination, although I'm sure it won't be hard to find plenty of references to most of the above.

Anyway, enjoy.


Or else.....

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Future Imperfect

Chapter One: Preparations and Reminisces

It was David's first real battle. Oh, he had been in skirmishes before, raids on enemy outposts, quick strikes at supply trains, but this was the first time he would be facing well-armed, well-trained enemies who would be trying to kill him. It was a slightly unsettling thought.

But that was in the future. Right now he stood on a rock, intensely scanning the far end of the valley in which his army was encamped. He knew that very soon he would see the still, powdery snow kicked up by the stamp of three thousand feet at once. That would soon be joined by the glittering of the sun off of spears and helmets, and the dull thumping of a marching army. The enemy was coming, all right, whether he was ready or not, but even amidst the nervous anticipation he felt, he still couldn’t keep his mind from drifting back to his mother and sisters, and thoughts of what they were doing right now filled his head.

He was shaken out of his reverie by the rustling of fabric close behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he was greeted by the sight of Shon’del, his tent-mate, poking his head out of the tent flap and glancing up. “Morning,” he yawned, “Looks like a beautiful day to fight a war.” He reached to pull his boots on, then, after a careful look inside, shook the accumulated snow out of each one before gingerly pulling them onto his feet. The snow that had blanketed the mountain peaks on either side of the valley had descended during the night, covering the valley.

“Do you want an apple?” Shon asked, rummaging through the ration bag. “No, thank you,” David replied, “I’m not hungry.” “Suit yourself,” Shon said, looking sadly at the measly specimen he had retrieved from the bag. “I always say you should make as good a meal as you can, every chance you get.” “Though I admit,” he grunted as he clambered onto the rock where David stood and brushed away enough snow to make a dry seat, “the grub command gives us isn’t the best place to start in pursuit of that goal.” David smiled. He decided to change the subject to get his friend’s mind off the inadequate foodstuff. “I can’t believe you left your boots outside last night. Did you think it wouldn’t snow anymore?” “Hey,” Shon replied defensively, “It was warm here once.” He gestured at the husk of a vine still stubbornly clinging to the rock they sat on. “I was hoping that it was a good sign, and maybe spring was almost here.”

David shot a sideways glance at him. “You know that winter still has three months to go yet. And even were it due to be spring tomorrow back home, there’s no guarantee that the ice would thaw and the snow would melt here. The way the men tell it, it’s been winter here for over six years. “Brrr.” Shon shivered at the thought. “That’s too much for me. Some people may like it, but I think that even four months is too long for winter. When this war is over, I’m taking my pay and settling down on some nice warm beach somewhere. I’ll open a lemonade stand, marry some tanned local girl, and have myself a big family.” “If you survive this war,” David said lightly. Shon snorted. “Gah, you’re such a pessimist. Anyway, I bet you’ll end up living up on some mountain, all alone and by yourself.” He motioned back behind them, where the many tents of their army lay at the head of the valley, looking nothing more than as if a giant bag of nuts had burst, scattering them thickly across the landscape. “Aye, you don’t fool me. I know why you volunteer for sentry duty so often. You’re a loner, and you take any excuse you can get to get away from people.” David coughed. “I just like peace and quiet. I get plenty of excitement in battle. I don’t like dealing with the politics that go on in camp.” “You can say what you want,” said Shon, shaking his head, “but I know what you’re really like.” “Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meal to cook, and a flare to send.”



************************



Far behind the sentries, the rest of the army was just beginning its day. The shouts and sounds of an army just waking up had settled into a dull murmur as the messenger climbed the hill where Field General Wilek Valemov’s tent stood. The announcement bell had barely stopped ringing when Valemov himself appeared in the tent’s doorway.

Impatiently he motioned the messenger inside, then sat down to a table where a small feast had been prepared. He began to butter a roll as he waited for the morning report.

“Good news, sir. All six of the sentry stations have sent up their green flares. No sign of the enemy so far.” “Good?” grunted Valemov. “I suppose you could call it that. I don’t like battle much myself, I don’t like sending good men to die. But in this war, I can’t help feeling that the sooner we get this fight over with, the better.”

Taking a bite out of a roast fowl, he continued absently. “We outnumber them three to one, but they’re fierce fighters. And I fear those druids may have a few nasty tricks up their sleeves to make life miserable for us.”

He stopped suddenly. The messenger’s face had gone pale. “So it’s true sir,” he stammered. “There’s been talk in camp, but I’d dismissed it as idle rumors. But to hear that the Druids of Fel’noth are with them…” He trailed off, as if paralyzed by memories of the tales he’d heard of the druids.

Standing, Valemov rounded the table and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up son,” he said. “You’ve got the best men in all the world fighting with you. They may be fierce, but we’re well trained. We’ve got the strongest tradition in the history of the world. The armies of Arthelon have never lost a battle, and I’ll be damned if a few sopping, magic-using wimps are going to beat us. Why, I bet they’ll turn tail and run the first time we go marching over the plain at them.”

The messenger hardly seemed to gain any strength from Valemov’s bluster, but he managed to pull himself together enough to finish his report on the army’s condition and leave.

As the messenger left, Valemov was struck by how young he looked. Too many good men had fallen during this campaign, and while it was true that their army hadn’t lost yet, the victories they had obtained were dearly bought with the lives of honest Arthelonians. Nowadays, it seemed that every time he turned around, Valemov saw some fresh-faced boy, just out of school, ready to be thrown into the meat-grinder of battle.

And what was it all for? Picking the remains of a prairie hen out of his teeth, Valemov reflected on the last seven years.



************************


Starting shortly after The Great Breaking, and continuing for almost the entire seven centuries since, the neighbouring nations of Arthelon and Saphonia had remained close allies and neighbors. Although they had their policy differences and political maneuvering, they had maintained open trade and frank dialogue, and on more than one occasion had come to each other’s aide when pressed. It was even said that in some distant lands the name of one was never mentioned without the other.

It came as a shock to all, then, when Saphonia, without warning or reason, shut its borders and broke all ties with its neighboring countries. Their mysterious seclusion lasted for over a year, when reports began trickling in from towns and military outposts on the border between Saphonia and Arthelon. It seemed that a large and unruly band of troops from Saphonia, augmented by foreign men, were invading Arthelon, pillaging villages and cutting a swath of rampant destruction. The foreigners flew an unfamiliar standard, a crimson swan on a field of black. It soon became clear that the raiders were aimed toward Trellix, the capitol. This move shocked and angered the citizens of Arthelon, as well as bewildering them. Arthelon had long been known for its military prowess, and even though there had been no need for a standing army for many years, there were still many who remembered the glory days of the military.

The marauding armies closed in on the capitol, and doom seemed at hand. Trellix had long since sent its women and children to villages far away and prepared for siege, though few thought that the men of the city, as brave as they were, would stand long against the overwhelming forces brought to bear on them. As the Saphonian army approached the city, its generals were puzzled by the reports of their scouts telling of little activity within the city. The army marched to the city and, as it was sundown when they got there, set up camp in the woods around it. Some archers lobbed a few arrows into the city, but there was no reply. The leaders of the army were wary, but in their overconfidence, they foolishly assumed that the city had been abandoned and was only locked to delay them while they broke into it. The middle watches of the night approached, and an army that had grown fat and lazy after encountering no organized resistance began to let their guard down and become drunk. They felt safe, for there was a guard posted at the main gates of the city, and even so, there was no hint of life or movement for many miles in every direction, including the seemingly abandoned city.

Their complacency was to be their downfall, though, for as they partied, a soldier would go to get more drinks, and not return. A man, left passed out in his tent by his mate, was gone when his friend returned. Suddenly, with a roar, the hidden Arthelons leapt up from their hiding spots and began slaying all those near them. It seemed that during the revelry, a small force had rappelled down the city walls and snuck in from the surrounding forest, lying in wait until the Saphonians were least expecting it. They were helped in their efforts by the fact that the Saphonians had met little resistance so far, and in their confusion, a large part of the force was slain, and the rest retreated in what was little better than a rout. By daybreak, they discovered that they had been pushed back nearly twenty miles.

When the sun rose, the Saphonians were on the brink of despair when they encountered their main force, which had been traveling behind the advance party, occupying the towns and forts that the strike force had attacked and then left. The combined armies then prepared to march on the city again, this time taking no chances and making no assumptions. As they marched out of the forest where they had encamped and crested a hill, they were still surprised to find that the “small force” that they had been attacked by the night before had swollen to an army.

The Battle of Gorlan Meadows was brief but violent, and, despite their superior numbers, the Saphonians were again forced to retreat. This continued for nearly a month, until the enemy was finally pushed back to the border. The war, brief as it was, seemed over.

King Beneshal the Third took advantage of the period of peace to make an announcement to his startled subjects. He revealed that over a year ago, at the height of the festival celebrating fifty years of peace, the king had been visited by a mysterious man who offered the king vast treasures and unlimited power and the secret of youth. In exchange, he said, “The thing I want is but a trifle, a trinket to fall from the richly jeweled and munificent hand of one as generous as yourself, Majesty. Give me but your scepter, and all that I have promised, and more, will be yours. Your wildest dreams and idlest fantasies can become true.” Beneshal was not deceived by the man’s smooth words and flattering talk, and in fact was outraged at his flagrant defiance. Before the guards took him away, the man threw off the ragged cloak he wore, revealing himself as a druid of Fel’noth. He called out a warning: “I will have that scepter, even if I have to burn this city to the ground!” then vanished in a cloud of black smoke.
While the king didn’t think that the druid really posed a threat, he decided that discretion was in order, and called on his close friend and military advisor, Lord Valemov, to reconstitute the Grand Army of Arthelon. In his foresight, the king also realized that it would be best if this army was kept secret, so as to better act as a surprise force. (1)

Thus it was that Arthelon was very prepared when Saphonia attacked. What they weren’t prepared for was the speed of the assault, which was helped along by the druids’ infernal magic. Fortunately the men of Arthelon proved to be as fierce as their reputations, and turned back the first probing attack.

With the knowledge they gained from that battle, the king decided that something was sorely wrong in Saphonia, and he didn’t give his enemies time to regroup. Therefore, Valemov and his aides were able to successfully counter the tactics of their enemy, although the going was slow after the initial encounter. For six years they had steadily been pushing the Saphonians back, until now they were within a league of Saphonia’s capitol, Endlend.

This battle alarmed Valemov most of all because the druids, who had been manipulating the troops from behind all along, were finally joining the battle. With their plans falling to ruin around them, they were forced to fight themselves, if they had any chance of even surviving. And no one knew exactly what the druids were capable of.

This battle was going to decide the war, and Valemov would just as soon have it over. Pushing away from the table, he walked out of his tent, ready to review his army on the eve of their ultimate battle.

***************************



Footnotes


(1) It may seem absurd that any army of sufficient size to actually fight a war could be kept secret from the very people it was being drawn from, and indeed in the modern age it would be impossible. However, the realm of Arthelon was very large indeed, and this was precisely what made it possible. It was relatively simple for the king’s agents to recruit one or two men per village, and as many as a couple of dozen from larger cities without arousing suspicion, and the vast size of the country, coupled with the lack of any uniform sort of communication across the country kept all but the most well-connected and observant from having any suspicions at all.

[Ford Prefect]

Looks good and promising. Pray continue.

[darthdavid]

You ripped the scepter bit from sauron's messenger to the dwarfs in LOTR, didn't you?

[SCRawl]

"Future Imperfect" was also the title of an Incredible Hulk graphic novel, by Peter David, which was very excellent.

[DesertFly]

You ripped the scepter bit from sauron's messenger to the dwarfs in LOTR, didn't you?

Not as such, no. It's really more just a cliched fantasy-type Macguffin to show that the druids are eeevil and provide a motive for their actions (taking over Saphonia and attacking other peaceful countries). Of course, their motivation will be explored in a little more depth later. If anything, I ripped the sceptre idea off of Aladdin.

"Future Imperfect" was also the title of an Incredible Hulk graphic novel, by Peter David, which was very excellent.

I was unaware of that, but now I resolve to try harder to bring my quality up to that mythical level.....or something.

[Elheru Aran]

A bit basic, but promising enough. Just don't let yourself get cliched.

[DesertFly]

And now, part one of chapter two.

Chapter Two: The Other Side and The Battle

Far across the valley stood the camp of the ragged remnants of the Saphonian army and their druidic leaders. Although known as the enemy by the Arthelonians, demonized and hated, the men who made up this army were as tired of this war as their adversaries.

Before their first and second ill-fated excursions into Arthelon, the druids had traveled far and wide, visiting the other countries on the continent. In each, they promised wealth and power beyond imagining for who would do their bidding. In the same way that they had tried to trick King Beneshal they had come to King Habad of Saphonia.

Habad, although a good king and just, was not benefited with the same far-seeing wisdom as his counterpart to the east. His love for his people was absolute, but it sometimes blinded him to the realities of the world.
For twelve years a horrible plague had afflicted the kingdom of Saphonia. The surrounding nations had helped as best they could, sending medical supplies and those gifted with healing powers to try to stem the tide, but steadily the sickness spread, resisting the best efforts of even the wisest to contain it.

In the midst of the suffering came the druids. The king was wary of these dark messengers at first, but they claimed that they came in peace. They were quick to capitalize upon the foothold they had by demonstrating some of the remarkable powers they had at their command. The royal household was not untouched by the plague, and the druids saw that their opportunity to sway a kingdom to their bidding was at last at hand.

The first they healed was the king himself. They then moved on to the royal court, preparing bubbling potions and performing arcane rituals from times long forgotten.

Some in the court saw the darkness that touched these druids, and from which they drew their power, but the king was no longer interested in his advisors. He had seen the powers of the druids for himself, and, in his concern for his people, asked the druids to heal his land.

“We cannot,” replied the head druid, his face hidden in the shadows of the hood on his ornately detailed robe. “As great as our powers are, we still possess not the means to free a realm as great as this.” The king could not accept that and he begged and pleaded. The druids, seeing how much it meant to the king, withdrew from his presence and sequestered themselves in their quarters. For three days any who passed by heard odd noises, blood-curdling screams, deep laughter, snarls and growls spill from beneath the door to their quarters, along with a thick, black, acrid smelling smoke.

Finally they emerged, and it seemed that they had fought a mighty struggle in those three days. They were pale and haggard, and their eyes to a man were bloodshot and rimmed in crimson.

“We have considered your request,” the head druid said at last. “Although our powers are not powerful enough to help your people, they can become so. But to gain such magic is not easy, nor does it come without a price.” King Habad was beyond caring any longer.

“Name your price! Anything in my kingdom is yours; any treasures or holdings that I possess are yours! Just remove this plague from us!”
“Very well,” cried the druid, and seemed to those who watched closely that an evil glint came into his eye. “To maintain and amplify the healing powers my brethren and I possess, I will need your scepter.” “Take it,” the king replied. “What use to me is my throne with no one to rule over?”
The druid bowed to the king and retired with his band to their quarters. A week later, he once more requested an audience.

“Oh gracious king,” he began. “My emissary has just returned with disturbing news. He visited the king to your east, who holds a similar scepter. My emissary visited him, but he was met with scorn and dismissal. When he attempted to explain the situation here and the fact that we can help matters, he was chased from the city like a dog. We encountered similar situations in the surrounding nations, but were able to acquire the scepters”

“What?” bellowed the king, his face livid with anger. “If our neighbors do not want to support us, then I see no reason to support them!” It was on this very day that the order came from court to close all borders and cease trading with the surrounding nations.

The king also began planning an assault upon Trellix to retrieve the scepter, reasoning, “If they won’t give me what I require to save my country, what choice do I have but to take it?” Within weeks he had mobilized what army he had. They were about to march upon Arthelon when the king began to have second thoughts. Although he was certain that his course was necessary, he was not certain that his army would be able to accomplish its mission. Even the reassurances of the druid did little to assuage his fears.

He was still wavering when he received news that ships had appeared over night in the harbors of Samaran. The dark ships were filled with mercenaries from Enchion, a dark and brutal land that lay far across the sea. The druid explained that these men were the king’s to command, and that he should waste no time marching to his prize.

So it was that the Saphonians turned upon their former friends and allies, plunging the land into a war that was only now reaching its climax. The mercenaries had long been slain, many of them from underestimating their opponents in the first battle. It was a mistake that few of them lived to learn from. The men of Saphonia had fared better overall. For, even though they were not nearly as brutal and skilled as the mercenaries, they were also less arrogant, and they knew of what the Arthelonians were capable.

For seven years they had been on the defensive. Seven years in which the plague that gripped the land continued to spread. Seven years in which the sons of Arthelon and Saphonia both fell like wheat before the thresher’s blade. Seven years that had worn away the spirit of man and beast alike.

Now, those who slept fitfully in threadbare tents and kept watch in worn boots were the tired remnants of a once mighty army, and, like their Arthelonian counterparts, wanted nothing more than for this battle to be over so they could return home. Or to what remained of their homes, at least. The Arthelons had proven to be as brutal as their adversaries, and they often burned whole villages to the ground after slaughtering their occupants in the name of revenge. Defeat seemed inevitable, but the druids did not suffer deserters. They were in command of the army now. The king had met the army with reserve forces when they were first pushed back to their border, and although his presence was a morale boost, it didn’t change the fighting ability of those under his rule.
For seven years the king had lead his army, sharing their pain and misery, until, in the last battle, a lucky arrow arced through the air and struck the king in the neck, killing him. The king’s son was only a lad of three, and most of the men with experience in war in the kingdom had been killed, victims of attrition. The druids had little trouble in setting themselves up as the leaders of the nation. Now they too were preparing for the final battle, and although no one was certain what the druids were thinking, careful observers could tell that they were troubled as well.

[DesertFly]

A short part two of chapter two. Part three (which is much longer, I promise!) will be up soon.


The day was wearing on. On both sides of the plain, men had feverishly worked to prepare for combat. Tents had been packed. Swords and spears had been sharpened. Bows had been strung and test shots fired. Shields had been polished until they gleamed in the bright winter sun. Banners and standards had been washed and mended. David and Shon’del had returned to their camp and been sent out as rearguard for the army.

Well, thought David, that was what should have happened. Shon was gone, that was certain, but Misty, David’s beloved grey mare, had thrown a shoe, stranding David squarely between the lines of the two advancing armies. With a sigh, David swatted Misty on her flank and sent her galloping up the valley toward the Arthelonians. With any luck, he would be able to retrieve her after the battle and get her shod by one of the smithies. With luck, they would win the battle. David shuddered. With luck, he would survive.

David was no warrior. He was an imposing man, coming in at over six feet tall and with a body structure that would make a linebacker proud, but that was a result of his previous line of work, work that hadn’t included violence. David had in fact never been in so much as a fistfight before he joined the army. He was trained now, he had practiced with the sword, with the bow, the staff, but his muscular physique was due to his life before the army.

[DesertFly]

Here's the part 3, chap.2.


David was a lumberjack. His father had been a lumberjack, his grandfather had been a lumberjack, his grandfather had been a lumberjack, and so on. The Emmison line had an unbroken tradition of lumberjacking stretching back to the days when Arthelon the Just and Saphon the Brave had their first childhood spat over who had the shovel first, because, Mommy! I had the shovel first and Saphon stole it from me and he said his sandcastle is bigger but I know mine is better and besides he’s a poopy-head! (Despite these early sandbox disputes, Arthelon and Saphon managed to grow into their names, which gave their future subjects much relief. At least, it would have given them relief, if they had ever been worried, but they weren’t likely to be worried, since this was just a mere childhood spat. I mean, what subject of any kingdom has heard of their ruler’s childhood spats? Not many, I’ll wager.)

Wood ran in David’s veins, so it was only natural that he would take over from where his father left off when Thomas Emmison kissed his wife goodbye and hugged his son and daughters and rode off to war. David was only thirteen, but he was already beginning to fill out the frame that he would be wearing comfortably in three years’ time. David took quickly to lumberjacking, as had his ancestors before him, and it wasn’t long before he was up before the break of dawn, scouring the forest for the prime stands of wood, sometimes taking hours just to listen to the forest, to feel the rhythm and the life of the forest.

The men on his crew at first tried to ask him how he was always able to find the best timber, but quickly gave that cause up as hopeless when all David could do was shrug and say, “I just feel it, that’s all.” Popular opinion in the Rusty Blade was that David was completely off his rocker, but as long as the trees that they fell commanded the highest prices on the market, his men weren’t going to complain. “Besides,” old timers would reminisce, “If he’s crazy, it must be hereditary.” Really old timers could remember back to when young Alva Emmison would talk to trees, over fifty years ago. “That’s right, tree-craziness runs in the Emmison blood. Not that I wouldn’t mind some of that craziness sometimes.”

It was on the eve of his sixteenth birthday that David heard the news of his father’s death. He was returning from an early celebration of his coming-of-age with some of his buddies when he rounded the bend to his house. Something was wrong. The shutters weren’t closed. It was dark, surely Mother wouldn’t have forgotten to shut the shutters. Someone’s here. I hope she’s alright! David spurred Misty into a gallop. As he neared the porch he saw the light streaming from the open door as well. Now he was really worried. Swinging off his horse, he dashed into the house, almost colliding with the grim-faced man who was standing silently by the table where Mother was sitting, face pale, clutching a letter as if it would sprout wings and fly out the still-open windows.

David was as shocked as his mother upon hearing the news. As he lay weeping in bed that night, a resolution hardened in his broken heart. He would go. He would join the army, train up. He would be part of the righteous hand of justice that swept these bastards from the land. Those druids would rue the day they first looked at a book of dark magic. A smile creased his tear-streaked face in the dark. Dreams of mighty hero David, his blade red with the blood of evil men, his arm rising, falling, rising again, smashing the skulls of those who opposed him lulled him to sleep that night.

The next morning he arose before dawn as was his usual habit, penned a brief, but to the point note to his mother, bundled together a few articles of clothing and some provisions, and saddled Misty. As he thundered away in the pre-dawn mist, his thoughts turned to his father. His resolution was still strong, and strong it remained that day, and the next. By the third day, he began to have second thoughts.

No matter, though. He had determined to join the army, and if there was one thing David wasn’t it was a quitter. Fortunately, he was nearly to Geennew, the largest local city and home to a barracks for the army. Within a few hours, he would be part of something larger than himself. He would be fighting, not just for revenge for his father, but for the whole country. Soon, he would be a soldier.

[DesertFly]

Comment! Comment, I command thee!


*Sound of crickets*

*I wander off, mumbling something about "no great writer appreciated in their time." Later, I'm found stumbling through the streets of Richland, completely soused, half-dressed, singing loudly and out of key.*

[DesertFly]

You know, I'm gonna keep on pumping out this story, whether anyone reads it or not!

So there, world! Ha!

*sigh*

[DesertFly]

Chapter 2, Pt.4

Now David was a soldier. He stood amongst his fellow soldiers, a line of brave men that stretched the width of the valley, helms gleaming in the sun, swords sparkling, ready to draw the blood of the enemy. In front of the line General Valemov sat astride his snowy white steed, flanked by two bodyguards. All stood as still and silent as the gray rocks that composed the mountains that flanked the valley.

Opposite the Arthelonians, the Saphonians were arrayed in their own line. To a man, they wore a grim expression, one that mixed sorrow and defiance. With a shock, David realized that few of the of the soldiers on the opposite side were uninjured. Just a quick glance across the enemy line revealed missing eyes, arms that had been mangled, scars and bandages and bleeding wounds. David discovered that he felt sorry for the enemies he was about to fight. Yet, despite their injuries, they stood straight and strong, defiance shining through every crack in their armor and tatter in their clothing. David even began to feel some admiration for them.

The Druids did not stand at the front of their army. They were cowards. That was inherent in their nature. But they were not the true Druids. The true Druids, while cautious, prized the acquisition of power above all else, and they realized that it was sometimes necessary to take risks in order to realize the next level of knowledge and power. The order that had spawned the Druids of Fel'noth had long ago been destroyed, victims, in the end, of their own mad lust for power. The last true Druid, before being hunted down and destroyed by the very people he had once ruled over, had compiled all the knowledge his order possessed and scribed it into tomes of power, in the hope that one day they would be rediscovered and his legacy would live on. So it happened that one day a young man found the dark volumes. His natural arrogance and desire for dominance was amplified and expanded by the teachings he uncovered in the books, and soon his body was ravaged by the dark powers he used, his visage echoing the darkness in his soul. Ostracized by his own people, he traveled far and wide, gathering those whom he deemed worthy, those who shared his views and desire for power.

Now he stood with those who remained of his new order, the strongest and most evil. As strong as they were, however, they were also weakened by the war, their energy sapped by the spells they had used in their futile attempt to turn the tide of the war. For all their malice and greed, these new Druids had but a fraction of the power their ancient namesakes had possessed. With their armies all but beaten and their plans in ruins about them, even the most arrogant of the druids felt a quaver in their heart when they considered the prospects before them. Already some of the newer members had talked privately of leaving the nation of Saphonia to its fate and hiding away, but their leader still felt that there was hope. He too was anxiously awaiting the outcome of this battle.

[DesertFly]

Crap McCrap deleted.

[DesertFly]

I know all my loyal readers out there have been eagerly anticipating the next installment of my fiction, and I hate to have been denying them for so long, but I've been doing both an extensive amount of world building, as well as taking care of real life concerns. Also, I'm not entirely sure exactly how I want the next few sections to proceed. I have an overall shape of the narrative, but the details are proving tricky to pin down. However, I do have several later sections that I have worked out. Expect to see them soon. They are non-contiguous, but capable readers may be able to put the pieces together and figure out exactly what is happening.

[Ford Prefect]

Well, I'm glad at that. Perhaps you should take a break and try putting together an outline of story. It may take you only a few days and you could put together a third of your story (works for me. I literally can't get stuck, because I know what happens for the next eighteen chapters).

[DesertFly]

The existence of an overarching heirarchy for the sheepkind is
disputed hotly in academic circles, but the reality of the creatures
themselves is indisputable. Information concerning their biology
and society is scarce. Few have studied them in detail, and leading
animologists argue whether they even have a recognizable social
structure.

-Excerpt from The Royal Arthelonian University's Official Encyclopeadia of Fauna and Phenomena, Farawell Edition

[DesertFly]

David was shaken out of his reverie by a soft bleating. He looked up at the meadow his party had camped in earlier. There was no sign of either of his companions. In their place stood a flock of sheep, hundreds strong. Among them David could see every breed that he recognized, as well as many color patterns that he hadn't seen before, and hadn't even imagined sheep could have. The moonlight over the glade softened the already fuzzy scene and added an aura of surrealism to it. Gradually, David realized that the sheep weren't eating the abundant grass surrounding them. Well, one or two would occasionally reach down and grab a mouthful, but for the most part they seemed to be content to just stand there. In fact, it almost seemed they were talking amongst themselves. An earlier David would have dismissed that conclusion immediately as rubbish. This David, however, had seen too many impossible things happen to disbelieve anything, anymore. New figures began appearing at the fringes of the throng. They were human, or at least had the general shape of a human, but none of them looked familiar. David considered trying to introduce himself to them, but he didn't really feel like dealing with the fight or flight response his appearance always created in others at first meetings. Besides, there was something about this that just felt right. The sheep nearest David were definitely giving off the vibe that normal intruders were not allowed, and that David himself was toeing the line fairly closely just by being there.

(I'll finish this off when I'm not nodding off at the monitor.)

[DesertFly]

David's wispy friend was nowhere to be found. That in and of itself was no big surprise, David had come to expect his random disappearances whenever the situation seemed the least bit dangerous. He wasn't sure why a dead guy feared any physical danger, David certainly didn't. Usually, though, Na Nta was eager to experience any new thing that they encountered. David could understand. He hadn't travelled very far during his days on earth, and if anything, Na Nta's life had probably been even more boring than his. Living in a monastic order dedicated to some forgotten god was no way to live, in David's opinion. Maybe the deity Na Nta's religion worshipped actually existed, David couldn't be sure, but whoever this god was, he wasn't helping them now. David was just going to have to survive on his own.

[Ford Prefect]

Perhaps it would be best if you waited to you had a more sizeable update. Though this newer stuff has a nice reflective feel to it.

[DesertFly]

Back to the original chapter:

Malton uttered a curse under his breath. This army around him was hardly worthy of the name. The peasants who it contained were weak, and stupid. He didn’t know why he put up with them. Check that, he did know why he put up with them, it was just difficult to remind himself sometimes. He sighed theatrically (in a way that would have impressed the head of his old troupe, if he had still been alive to see it. Malton had learned a lot since his time as an amateur player, including how to suppress his natural aversion to violence. That had come in handy.) Reaching into the saddlebag that contained half of his earthly belongings (with the other half being in the other bag, naturally), he rummaged around and pulled out a tattered old book, its leather cover age-worn and stained. Carefully he flipped the tattered pages, past chapters he had long ago studied past the point of memorization, and arrived at a relatively fresh section:

Chapter XIV: How to Destroy Those Upon Whom Your Displeasure Rests
(And Look Stylish Doing It)
This was definitely a chapter he’d have to spend some quality time with in the future, but for now, a quick introduction was all he had time for. He scanned down the subheadings. Conflagration, seismic destruction, inundation, tempest, all of them looked nice. He chose seismic destruction.

Seismic Destruction
Does your enemy have far too many people preparing to destroy you? Have a problem with an army that just won’t wait? This easy to use earthquake is guaranteed to leave them shaking in their boots. Simple preparation required. Please turn to Volume 7: Everything Earth.”

Malton cursed much more loudly this time. What was the point in doing a spell so you could survive and retrieve other volumes if you had to have one of those volumes to do the spell in the first place? His head spun a little, but Malcon grabbed reality again and scanned the list once more. Most of the spells required knowledge contained in other tomes. He began to grow desperate. Wait, here was one.

Other Options
Although I normally wouldn’t recommend this, there is one final course available to you, if all others fail. Calling upon a higher power is humiliating, yes, but it’s far better to be alive and humiliated than smug and dead. Most of the Eternals don’t seem to look kindly on what we are doing, but there are a few who might be willing to tip a battle in your favor, for the right price. The one I’ve found most amenable to helping mortals like us is Ganjin. In fact, if death and destruction is what you’re after, he can be almost convivial. The biggest problem is contacting him. Usually he can only be summoned by mass death, sacrifices work well for this, but if you don’t have a thousand prisoners or willing subjects lined up, there are other ways…

Malton read this with a great deal of interest. It looked like he had finally found something he could use. Reading carefully, he pulled out his wand and prepared to follow the instructions.

[Ford Prefect]

Uh-oh in a big way.

[rhoenix]

You have a good start, and some good players in place - but do you have your plot planned out? I look forward to reading more.