Meddo Malik studied the battlefield. The enemy was arrayed before him. Endless ranks stretched beyond the limits of sight, forming innumerable rows that soared over his head, plummeted below his feet and faded into the incomprehensible distance beyond. The enemies nearest were discrete, but those further away melted into gray nothingness, eager to feed itself on everything Meddo’s people held dear.
He did not face this host alone. An equally large force stood between Meddo’s home and the destroyers. Meddo was at the vanguard, as were all that remained of those of the Blood, those who by birthright and oath were obliged to protect their home, as they had done for generations beyond remembering. Behind those of the Blood were countless others, and although they were of lesser status than the warrior class, they too came to defend their home. It was not dreams of glory that girded them, but the certainty there would be nothing left to stand for should they fail. The destroyers would sweep over their civilization like fire over drought-lands, leaving no trace of what once was.
Like a piece gliding across a game-board, the leader of the destroyers advanced. Meddo had seen this monstrosity before. His image was branded with fire onto the hearts of Meddo’s people. It was all there, the brilliant green armor fashioned in the likeness of intricately woven cane, the shimmering gold cape emblazoned with the eight marks of the clans, and the tall horned helm that hid the leader’s face but left no question as to his identity. On its brow glowed the savage glyph of Balthazar, Son of the Mountain, immortal god-king of the outcasts, now come with his horde to reclaim all they had lost.
Horde, Meddo thought. Savages. It is all they are and all they have ever been. They will come no further.
Balthazar sat astride a great jagged rock. It was a dangerous mount disguised as dead stone, but Meddo knew ancient hunger burned in its core. Meddo Malik did not quail. He was mounted as well, atop a dark cloud of anger, a thunderhead of unfathomable grief, the collective anguish of his people, who would never forget all the lives blotted out by the Son of the Mountain. Meddo urged his mount forward.
The god-king accepted the challenge, unsheathing his sword, the legendary blade of fire that cackled and danced. The tongue of flame insinuated itself into Meddo’s heart, attempting to cow him with its message of disdain for all things. It did not boast in vain. Nothing withstood that sword’s deadly touch. Still Meddo moved forward. He would challenge armor with flesh, stone with shadow, and against fire he would wield lightning.
Meddo Malik unleashed the storm. Now the god-king dies.
But it was not to be. There was no lightning, no fire, and for a moment that somehow lasted forever, there was nothing. It was as if everything that was, suddenly was not, and then was again.
Where am I?
Meddo’s mount was still beneath him, but it careened and writhed as if its senses were shattered. Meddo was tossed about, unable to get his bearings, and for a moment strange perceptions invaded his awareness. Then, just as he thought he was lost, everything became clear. His shadow mount righted itself in blue sky, with a sprawling wilderness below. Meddo looked for his enemy and immediately found him. The god-king did not fare as well as Meddo. His fire was extinguished and his jagged stone was dead.
But where is the battlefield?
The shadow, ever obedient, showed him a battlefield. It was not like the one they left, where there was no solid ground, no up or down, no east or west. Far below, two armies clashed where a silver river ran through a lush green land.
This is wrong, thought Meddo, I don’t belong here. He examined the battle more closely. He did not recognize the army on the south side of the river, but the other army, he recognized. They were the enemy. And they were winning.
I don’t belong here.
I am warrior. This is a battlefield.
I don’t belong here.
The enemy is here.
I don’t belong here.
They are winning.
I don’t belong here.
“I am of the Blood!” Meddo urged his mount into battle.
I don’t belong here.
He descended on his enemy and killed hundreds before they knew he was among them.
I don’t belong here.
They tried to defend themselves, but their efforts were useless.
I don’t belong here.
They ran from him, but his lightning found them.
I don’t belong here.
They died and died and died and died.
I DON’T BELONG HERE!
Meddo awoke with the words on his lips. Mercifully, there was no one there to hear. It would not do for the king’s subjects to hear him screaming in the middle of the night. But it could have been worse. A long time ago, when Meddo first started having such dreams, he would spend the remainder of the night tossing and moaning, tortured. That was years ago. These days he would simply lie quietly and wait for his heaving chest to relax and for sleep to return. If sleep would not come he would begin repeating his mantra, his prayer, his one wish and his doom. I don’t belong here.
But this predawn morning Meddo made up his mind that today things would change. He was in danger of losing his mind. The nightmares had to end, both the real and the unreal. It was a promise he made to himself often enough, and as always, it was accompanied by impulsive action.
“Guard!” Meddo called. “Summon Saint Lampus. I want to speak to him immediately.”
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