Hero of midgard 3 a litr.., p.43
Hero of Midgard 3: A LitRPG Adventure,
p.43
Paulus was similarly unfortunate. His neck was lacerated in seconds as he failed to grab a shield to protect himself. It lay just out of reach of his twitching fingers. Though the attack came from the east, Paulus, as he died, looked to the west, as if he expected the enemy there.
Chaos erupted.
Screams of men and horses rose as more arrows tore into the camp. In morbid fascination, Morgan watched the death that came for them so unceremoniously. So many of them probably believed themselves to be the deliverers of death, not its recipients. To come home heroes and not laden upon their shields.
The Drakin, born of Elves and Dragons, emerged like a wall of fire from the western slopes of the camp, confirming Paulus’s suspicion. They cast off their burn-resistant Gyldur hoods and roared into the night. Their cavalry and infantry cut down their foes without mercy. They were aided by the simultaneous attacks on both flanks of the camp.
It was impossible to tell who was gaining the edge in the battle.
Their fire lit the battlefield, but not enough to pierce the chaos. It didn’t help that Morgan’s vantage point below the clouds was hindered by the winged Eldrakes. The hybrid Drakin, who resembled their Dragon ancestors more, provided an aerial assault. They gouged out the men’s eyes with their claws before returning to the sky to escape the Ronian spears.
Any sense of smell was not present in this dreadful dream, and for that, Morgan was glad. The air would have been rancid with blood and urine as the souls of many were ripped from their hearts.
He wanted to shut his eyes and not behold the slaughter. It would be better to ignore the reality of blood rising to the ankles of both armies as their lives sank into the Void.
But he couldn’t look away.
It only deepened his resolve to disappear, to be done with this world that didn’t care. Their screams were all the confirmation he needed.
There was nothing heroic here, no glory, no poetry, just death and fear. He doubted King Magnicus had considered this when he sparked this holy war a century ago.
Morgan exhaled and dropped lower, pulled toward the destruction below. The fiery breath of a Drakin burned through him onto a Ronian knight. A Drakin’s molten guts spilled beside him. Allied Elves and Dwarves speared a fallen Ronian into the mud, who was barely Morgan’s age. He gurgled blood, gasping through his last breath. Morgan couldn’t help but notice the young Ronian shared the same look of fear and dread as the disemboweled Drakin next to him.
Before despair could drag him under, something seized his wings. A second later, he hurled skyward.
The air knocked out of his lungs as he burst through the clouds. His feet graced their fluffy puffs, soaked in the luminous glow of the moon. Standing across from him upon the clouds was a hooded figure with its back turned to him. The robes were more white than milk and just as fluid.
“Hello?” Morgan’s voice croaked.
A gust of wind was his answer. It rustled his feathers and parted the cloud between them to reveal the fate of the Ronians below.
“Morgan Krios.” The voice was deep and feminine.
His knees buckled under the weight of her words and dented the cloud. It didn’t seem to come from the figure in front of him, but from all around and even within him. Fear danced its way through his being. He didn’t recall drinking any energizing juva before bed. It was the only explanation for a dream like this that shook his very essence to the core.
Perplexed, he said, “Yes?”
“I have called you by name.”
“F-for what?”
The clouds opened up in response. A great deal of time must have passed, for the battle had long since concluded. But that’s not what caught Morgan’s eye.
Riding towards the back of the victorious Drakin army was the Grand Derasar. The elected Drakin military leader dressed in golden armor like the sun’s radiance. A black cape bearing the mark of Judux et Cadullum draped the winged Kiagor. The mount’s white form resembled that of a lion, but it paraded three times as large. Its horns terrified even the Anakrum riders around him. The leader, dressed in splendor, stood out from the other commanders. His scaled gauntlets squeezed the reins of his Kiagor in frustration.
Using his knowledge of the Domerian Tongue, Morgan could tell that Judux received a disappointing report. A group of Dwarves and Drakin informed Judux that King Gulmund hadn’t been found yet.
Judux dismissed the scouts with a decisive flick of his hand. The leader puffed his chest high as he gave orders to his Eldrakes and cavalry in the Drakonnian tongue. The specifics of his commands became clear when they departed to silence any Ronian who escaped the butchery. They carried out the will of Judux with immediate results.
“Sleepless death,” the powerful voice said.
His eyes trembled as he looked up from the clouds and upon the back of the ethereal figure before him. The sentinel was still watching the horizon in dedicated silence.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “You’ve called me for sleepless death?”
“Will you Shepherd my Shadow of Cypherus?”
At the mention of the mythic hero of Divonholm, confusion coiled with fear in his gut. He didn’t need to be a Valkryn scholar to understand the weight of being named the Shadow of Cypherus. He was the harbinger, the cursed echo, the one foretold to undo what the hero had built. The world feared his return.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for a curse.
But Morgan did not bow to prophecy. He had no interest in fulfilling anyone’s nightmare, especially not one that already felt too familiar.
“W-who are you?”
“Before the founding of the earth, I knew you.”
Those words thrust like a terrifying gust of wind into his heart. They were both terrifying yet refreshing. Such intimacy bled from each syllable and echoed throughout the cotton clouds. So much so that he began to choke on the lump in his throat. It had emerged from such an understanding that he never knew existed.
“What do you want from me? I’m not who you think I am, and I have nothing to offer.”
“You have all that I need!”
The words of power boomed from the Void and struck his chest, the weight forcing him to his hands and knees on the cloud. His eyes dropped to the glowing warmth that was his heart. It beamed with light more wonderful than the sunflower fields of Feldrem.
Whatever was in his heart, it was beautiful beyond words.
The feet of the hooded figure turned to him in the moonlight. Lifting his head to the figure’s eyes, all Morgan could do was stare at his beauty. The glowing figure contrasted with the now blood-red moon behind him. His face was like that of a man, but not made of flesh. Rather, like the ethereal swirls of the cosmos, ever-changing and translucent. His eyes burned like the sun in all of its brilliance.
“But I am nothing.” His words barely escaped through his silent tears. “I am no Shepherd that you speak of.”
A seismic boom erupted from the bloody moon behind the figure. It was a falling star, heading for the clouds.
The man of light paused for a moment, but not out of fear, then met Morgan’s eyes with calm assurance.
“You shall be.”
The shooting star followed his words, incinerating the clouds and everything on them. Morgan’s sight became nothing but a searing white light. He could feel the burning pain in his thundering heart, causing him to scream himself awake. His chest ached from how fast his heart beat. But in the same breath, there hummed such a beautiful note of peace that his mind could not understand.
The word “Shepherd” hung faintly across the looming shadows of his room. Its feminine tone was a mystery, or madness.
Continue reading Birth of Destiny.
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3 Free Prequel Books
2 LitRPGs, 1 Epic Fantasy
Ragnar raiding Valhalla to steal Mjölnir… Julius Caesar fighting every Roman emperor in a Battle Royale in Rome… 20 action-packed foundational origin stories of the epic fantasy Shepherd Saga series…
All are FREE for free email subscribers :)
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
G. A. Jensen is an Amazon best-selling author of LitRPG adventures and Epic Fantasy stories. As a history teacher, his books contain page-turning battles, adventure, vast lore, lots of magic, and, of course, history.
He and his wife enjoy life with their German Shepherd, named Latte (they love coffee), along with their two kids in Oklahoma. Marriage, family, friends, and his faith are all gifts he cherishes deeply, along with an active lifestyle and frequent Fika (did he mention he is Swedish?).
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G. A. Jensen, Hero of Midgard 3: A LitRPG Adventure
