·      Our world feels heavy. I do not really know any better how to express the heaviness I feel than the many who have responded to the events of last week, but I know I have prayed for a mom and her children whose loss was, and is, devastating. I’ve prayed for a family who recognized in grainy photos their son, wanted by the FBI, for the unimaginable. I have prayed for young people who feel they have said goodbye to an older brother of sorts, and young people who feel there is a segment of society that holds absolutely no space for them. I have prayed Jesus would be so near. Asked Him to bring comfort, and peace, and a shaking, so that all shall come to the One who is the Desire of All Nations. All of it. It is so heavy.

·      I’ve been talking to my boys about their plans for the future. Adulthood is right around the corner. Basically tomorrow. We have been talking about how we were created for work and how God intends us to be involved in a work that is for the good of others, the good of our families, our neighborhoods, our communities, our states and countries…indeed our world. What does that look like? We seem to be part of a culture that strives for the advancement of self. God’s ways are revolutionary. A dying to oneself for the good of others. May His Kingdom come in their lives. And mine.

·      One good work we get to be part of, I think, is the creating of beautiful things and the sharing of beautiful things. Aldi had fall mums today for $1.29. $1.29! I bought some. Nine to be exact. I bought them for neighbors. For friends. My back door. And I told the folks around me. And a lady in the parking lot. I wish I had given one to the cashier.

·      Susanna started college. I am so proud of her. We sure do miss having her around every day, all day, but I am thankful she comes home in the evenings. This week was the first week I did not cry as she drove down the driveway early Monday morning. No guarantees I won’t cry next week.

·      I’ve been thinking about what it would look like to gather unexpected guests around our table. How do we connect with people we do not yet know in a meaningful way that invites them into our lives? I am dreaming of a block party involving soup, if it ever cools down enough for soup. Maybe it could begin there…

By Monica Patrick

Brandon Lake’s ‘Count Em’ is the song that sparked this devotional. I was listening on my new MP3 player and ‘Count Em’ came on. I couldn’t get the words out of my head, “You are the Lord, holy!”. No doubt you could probably see the gears turning as I intently listened. Struck by the song's powerful lyrics. Compelled by the Spirit, I wrote this devotional…

God is holy and worthy; many people are known by descriptors. First, you may be thinking of descriptive names like “the king of fantasy” given to J.R.R. Tolkien and currently sometimes associated with Brandon Sanderson. But no, I’m primarily talking about names like “general” or “mayor”; these are names we are not worthy of but are still granted by God or by the people. Truly, if we face the facts, no one is perfect; actually, we are all sinners and should be sentenced to eternal separation from God. We are giving these titles, but unlike our holy God, we do not deserve them.

God's holiness is linked to His worthiness; He is holy and thus worthy. Last night I watched ‘Puss in Boots: The Last Wish’ for the second time. The movie balances animation, moral truths, and kid-friendly topics very well. In the movie, they often say “no magic required,” which is a simple but amazing statement. The overall truths in it are not what I want to focus on, though. Part of it is how the characters had to be content with what they had. This is something we can learn from; many will strive endlessly to be worthy of their title. But instead of striving for something we can never be, we should strive to be godly men and women. We will never be worthy, but if we are going to strive towards something, we must strive to be godly. God forgave our sins so that we can be where we are, so don’t fight to be worthy in the world's eyes. Instead, understand you are worthy because of Christ’s death on the cross and His victory over sin and death. 

By Seth Patrick.

Note from the author: the character from Chapter One whose name was "Bennett" is now called Clovis in both Chapter One and Chapter Three.

Ashtarn Gilgermosh Ziender stood atop the snowy cliff overlooking the small encampment of two hundred or so Colshmerians. Their tents were set up around a large cave that sank into the ground. Strange Gilgermosh thought. He had little idea why the Colshmerians did most of what they did, but this seemed particularly odd.

“Do you wish to postpone Ashtarn?” One of the Zondares asked. How did they do that? Surmise exactly what he was thinking when he didn’t even have a face to read.

“No, our time is now.” The Zondares had debated long about when the High Faith should enter the conflict. While the main war may be between the Colshmerians and the Karldarians. The secondary conflict was between the High Faith and the One Faith. The One Faith had existed for thousands of years. In comparison, the High Faith was new. Nonetheless, it had quickly spread to several kingdoms across the known world. One reason for this was the power of the Ashtarns—Spokesmen of the fire god.

Now, as the Zondares had predicted the near end of the war, the High Faith would join the conflict. They were not a strong force, but joining, making a noticeable difference, and then the war being won almost immediately would be a huge victory for their religion.

Gilgermosh’s armor was large, powerful. It contained his dark, formless shape, punctuated only by glowing fiery eyes. Leaping high, Ashtarn Gilgermosh vaulted off the cliff, his fiery wings expanding behind him, filling the sky. He soared into the camp, his wings brushing the cloth tents and lighting them ablaze. As he crashed to the ground, the guards leapt up, the soldiers grabbing their weapons.

Gilgermosh released a brutal wave of flame that engulfed the attacking men, burning flesh off bone in seconds. Summoning his flaming weapon out of the air, he swung it, forming the deadly flame into the shape of a sickle. Slashing from side to side, he laid waste to the attacking foes. Spears and swords struck him, bouncing off his magic armor. He kept up his mad attack, flinging men through the air with a wave of his hand, and burning them from the inside out merely by thinking about it.

They were beginning to surround him, spears out, shields up. Almost a hundred men now, in formation and battle-ready. He transformed his sickle into a whip of flame and death, swinging it over his head in a swirling whirl which kept the soldiers back. He lashed the deadly weapon forward, each strike killing a man, but these were good soldiers, and within moments, they caught on. Every time he struck out, a man from behind him would strike him with a spear or sword, biting into his armor.

A commander gave the call to advance, and the soldiers approached him as one, from all angles. The whip vanished as Gilgermosh balled his fists, ready to ignite upwards with his fiery wings. At the last moment, his entourage of High Faith soldiers crashed into the men behind him, their sharp blades chewing into the unsuspecting soldiers. With a burst of flaming fury, Gilgermosh launched himself through the air at the men in front of him. He laid into the terrified soldiers, swinging his fists left and right in a burst of burning hot lava. Crunching bones and burning bodies, the smell of burning flesh wafted up, feeling out of place in the frozen wasteland.

As he approached the deep pit in the earth, he saw that it was surrounded by soldiers, men who clutched their spears tentatively. Suddenly, the ground began to grow; dust shot out of the hole in the earth, filling the air with the dusty smell of crushed stone. Heaving its way out of the darkness was a huge monster.

The beast stood at least three stories tall, covered in dark grey fur; its hideous muscles rippled just below the skin. This thing was wrong; wrong in every way. No part of the beast was symmetrical; its limbs were all different sizes. It had three, maybe four, great wolf heads writhing out of its body; some had necks, others were just eyes and snouts pushing their way through the mottled fur. The fur itself was spotted with large black scales, hunks of carapace which seemed to slash out of the flesh, leaving bloody paths around it.

The monster turned, its huge antlers swishing through the air. Gilgermosh hesitated; this thing was huge, each clawed hand as large as a human. And by the look of it, the monster was a ReMade, a terrible creature born thousands of years ago. Any naturally born creature would look normal, orderly. Not so with the man-made ReMades, deadly creatures knit together by dark magic.

With a roar, Gilgermosh leapt into the air, summoning a fiery sword twenty feet long, his great wings expanding, filling the whole sky. Swinging the burning blade down, Gilgermosh struck the great monster in the head. Or at least he tried to. The thing lurched back with surprising speed, his blade only catching one of the random three tentacles that sprouted out of the monster’s bulging chest.

Spinning with superhuman speed, Gilgermosh transformed the sword into a flaming axe, bringing it to bear on the swiping claw before him. His axe bit deep, sending a thunder clap through the valley as he broke the sound barrier. Slam! The claw, continuing through his attack, slammed into him, sending him spiraling through the air to crash into the stone below, shattering the hard rock as well as his back plate.

Rising with a groan, Gilgermosh narrowed his flaming eyes. Eyes of judgment. He attacked with a flurry of perfectly timed strikes, blow after blow, dodge after dodge. He could move the monster, send it crashing against the stone cliffs with just a thought. But for all his skill and incredible power, he could not bridge the distance, could not get close enough to hit the beast’s head or neck. Every time he landed a blow, the body part would regrow, but not the same as it had been. The great lizard-like tail grew back into twin fox tails. But regenerated nonetheless.

Gilgermosh was beginning to tire, his eternal flame growing dim. He lunged at the beast, his flaming wings causing the air to sizzle and blur with the heat he put off. Abandoning his weapon, Gilgermosh created two huge orbs of raw flame around each hand. He clobbered and crushed his way past the massive arms, around the tentacles, and landed a thundering punch on the creature’s jaw. Well, one of them at least. The cataclysmic blow sent a burst of flame searing out in all directions, shoving the brute onto its back with a crash.

Raising his hand, Gilgermosh summoned a great fiery dart in the sky, easily as big as the monster. And with a violent mental thrust, he shoved the massive spear of writhing heat down. But the creature caught the blow.

Rising, the huge monster held the fiery dart in his malformed claws, the burning flame biting into his flesh. Gilgermosh’s eyes widened. That couldn’t happen. The ReMade thrust the weapon, causing Gilgermosh to dodge to the side. But he was too slow. The strike, moving at incredible speeds, struck him hard in the chest, melting through his chest plate and burning his misty body beneath. Gilgermosh cried out as one of the heads bit down on him, razor-sharp teeth shearing right through the metal and ending his life. The whole battle was over in just thirty seconds, a battle of the ages. Thus, the current Ashtarn died, the fiery magic temporarily snuffed out, to one day be reborn in another man.

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Cold. It was the only sensation Corin’s body remembered. His mind could still think back to the sun on his back, but his skin had forgotten that sensation. He huddled in the snow as the wind bit his face, rushing past him and funneling through the pass. Every muscle in Corin’s body wanted to turn, to shield his eyes from the wind. But he was on guard, scanning the part of the pass that was in front of him. Any movement could jeopardize his currently invisible presence. He had to focus; he’d done this before. He would be okay.

Crunch. He didn’t react to the noise; it was behind him, and besides, only the silent tread of a Reaper Commando could generate so little sound in the crunchy snow. “My shift over already?” Corin asked. He pitied the man sent to replace him, and he was actually considering taking the man’s shift since he was already here when the Reaper spoke.

“An urgent message has just been received from Command. You are needed back at camp.” Corin stood; his powerful muscles groaned as he pushed himself up. They were frozen solid and refused to move. It was Argloer, the youngest of the original Reaper Commandos; he’d been only sixteen when Corin’s father had died. Next to him was a large Sporlack with a dark grey coat. Corin’s eyebrow raised; this animal would stick out like a sore thumb on the white landscape. It must be an important message if Simeon had sent such a fast Sporlack.

After he swung up into the saddle, Corin rode off at full speed, his body bent over the animal’s back. It wasn’t that bad; the wind blew in the same direction he was moving, and the rhythmic movement of the Sporlack rubbed life back into his cramped muscles.

Moving quickly to his tent, Corin entered the warm interior that had been his living quarters for so many years. Simeon was there; he seemed to command the small room, his firm posture setting him apart from Corin and Teff, a huge man who was slightly taller than Corin, and infinitely broader. Here, in this tent, were possibly the three greatest fighters in the Frozen Lands. And each one was looking at the young female messenger standing in the back. A male scout may be faster on his feet, but almost all messengers rode Sporlacks, in which case, the lighter females could move faster. Besides, there were so few available men now, so many had died.

Corin seized the letter that the messenger handed him. Opening the letter, he scanned it quickly. “It’s from King Aldrad,” he said, looking up. The letter had been infused with the many levels of secret code phrases used to ensure the letter wasn’t a forgery. “He summons the Reaper Commandos to come to the main war camp with as much haste as possible.” There was a pause; they all knew that this meant, something big, the only reason the army would abandon defending the Ardogy Plains would be if they were planning an offensive strike, a big one.

Then Corin realized they were waiting for him to give orders. King Aldrad wasn’t technically his superior; Corin was a king just like the older man. And it was up to him to decide what course of action to take. “Go tell the men, Teff.” He said, “We head out in one hour.” Teff nodded, ducking his head to avoid the tent roof as he exited.

“You know what this means, right?” Simeon asked.

“I know,” Corin replied with a sigh, “do you really think this could be the end?”

“Very possibly, the Colshmerians are running low on supplies, and with us receiving no reinforcements… well, neither side can continue this war. It was bound to come to a head sooner or later.” Corin nodded. It was time to end this.

The Karldarian camp was huge, sprawling trenches encircled the camp, huge tree stumps sharpened and stuck into the snow around the perimeter. Giant spikes of jagged stone shot out of the cold plain, many topped with wooden watch towers. Hundreds of yellow lights blanketed the ground. They had ridden Sporlacks on the way here and quickly stopped on the outskirts of the camp. Corin swung off the large creature, his boots crunching on the snow. The other Reaper Commandos would set up camp. He, Zenon, and Simeon set out for the command center near the middle of the camp. Zenon had been Simeon’s second in command back when he’d led the Reapers.

Corin passed in between the long rows of leather huts that sprinkled the valley. Each army had its men separated by large wooden bridges. The bridges spanned the rock spires that shot out of the snow, and the long wooden stilts that supported them acted as a symbolic barrier between the different armies.

Roughly six minutes passed as the three men kept up their brisk walk through the mass of armed men. It was truly terrifying how large the mass of men was, thousands upon thousands of tents and shacks, all supporting the combined military might of a whole continent. It had been a while since he’d last been updated on the numbers, but six months ago, the Karldarian force had been roughly 126,000 men strong—almost half of what they’d set off with sixteen years ago.

“Corin!” a voice called behind him. Corin turned; King Finnegan was approaching with his squad of bodyguards in tow. King Finnegan was young, almost as young as Corin; his father had also died during the earliest parts of the war. But while Corin’s entire army had been wiped out, only the Reaper Commandos surviving. The former King of Forgaln had died in a battle his side had won, quite substantially too. Thus were the risks of riding into battle; you never knew when a stray arrow might kill you. Luck didn’t tend to care about social status.

“Finn!” Corin said, a rare smile on his face. The two clasped one another’s forearms in the greeting customary among both Karldarian and Colshmerian males. Corin and Finnegan were close friends, partly because they were the only Karldarian kings under 40 and partly because their kingdoms were so close. Their fathers had been strong allies too; two of the most powerful militaries in all of Karldaria had banded together for years to defend their highly coveted sea borders, which brought such wealth to all port cities.

Now, in this time of war, Finnegan was more important than ever; by mere luck or talent, the Forgaln armies were the least depleted over this war. The Ildril Plague had stopped any reinforcements from joining the Karldarian side of the war, which made conserving manpower incredibly important.

“How are you?” Corin asked, releasing the man’s arm.

Finnegan smiled back, “I’m doing well, we took Stormfast just a few weeks ago. I must say, I’m surprised you’re here. When they summoned me, I thought we were just planning an offensive, but if they’re willing to give up the Ardogy Plains, it must be big.”

Corin nodded, “So you haven’t been given any more information than me?”

“No, my forces just got here. I had to oversee the stationing of my camps, but then I headed straight here.” They had been walking as they talked, Finnegans twelve bodyguards giving them wide berth but also clearing the way. Zenon and Simeon walked a little behind, talking to one another. In true Reaper fashion, the mere look of the two heavily armed and muscled men in long white cloaks granted them an even wider berth than the bodyguards provided.

“How goes the western offensive?” Corin asked as he sidestepped a jagged piece of rock.

“It goes well,” Finnegan responded, “almost completely captured, the meager forces left have no way of launching a rear assault now, and even if they tried, we’ve taken every fortified city to the West of the peaks, so they wouldn’t make it far.”

Corin knew this, of course, but it was one of the few topics of conversation that the two of them had available, conquest. When you grew up fighting a war, there wasn’t a lot of time for hobbies or other such topics of mutual interest. Just bloodshed.

Soon, they arrived at the Command Tent, a huge thing, supported in the center not by a wooden pole but by a tall, thin stone tower with battlements on top for scouts. The hard, leather-like fabric was attached in a wide circle around the top of the tower and then spread down, forming a massive enclosure inside of which was an entire community, complete with two-story wood houses and even a miniature fort to hold temporary prisoners of great importance.

Moving quickly inside the group made their way into the large tent near the base of the center tower. The tent was built on top of stilts, a weapons forge beneath. They quickly climbed the stairs, crossed the short bridge that spanned part of the large, multi-storied command complex, and entered the Council Tent..

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Clovis Terriduke lay awake at night, the cold air caused his steady breathing to come out in clouds before his eyes. He lay in the midst of an Organshed camp. The vision had come just seconds ago, a dream that had shown his father’s body, caked in blood. It was not uncommon for DarkWalkers to see visions through Dark See, the fifth of a DarkWalker’s abilities. Even normal Darklorers, members of his people who had not inherited the ability to be DarkWalkers, could see visions of a loved one passing. But for a DarkWalker, it was more serious. It was now his responsibility, as the new Terriduke, to fulfill his father’s oath to these people and then avenge his father’s death.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Corin sat near the middle of the long wooden table. Sixteen men sat at the table, seven on each side, King Aldrad at the head, King Quince at the foot. To Corins’ left was Finnegan, to his right was Hierlore Everett. Everett was a large man, as heavily muscled as a Reaper and almost as battle-hardened, he was old, old enough to have a long white beard that was braided into strands each of which reached almost halfway down his chest. He was also the only one who sat at the table who wasn’t a King. He had been the regent of the Frozen lands for forty years before the Colshmerians had invaded.

The Karldarian kingdoms had bought the frozen lands justly, each one buying a chunk of the land from a different Colshmerian kingdom and forming it into the land it is now. Still barren, sure. But populated by the odd town and fort, enough to protect and provide for the numerous hunters who killed the massive herds of snow white bulls that grew here. Bulls that had the same size as a normal cow but grew to full size in a third of the time. The Karldarian had long milked the land, putting it under a regent and splitting the profits for hundreds of years. Now the Colshmerians thought they could just steal it? No, the Karldarian army had been swift in retribution. But ever since those blasted wizards had cooked up a plague to strike all of Karldaria, cutting off all reinforcements, the battle had been a lot closer than the Karldarian had anticipated.

The room was filled with many other people. Corin’s warrior’s instinct, to often needed to be turned off, wouldn’t allow him to stop analyzing the room, stop him from tensing slightly anytime someone walked behind his chair and into his blind spot. To kill him now would be foolhardy; if one Karldarian could be slain, then none were safe, and if the alliance broke at this pinnacle of the war, the Colshmerians would wipe them all off the face of the earth.

Still, this didn’t stop Corin from eyeing the room: seventeen kings, one regent, two scribes, eight Hierlores, one mediator for if things got heated, two of King Quince’s bodyguards (the man wasn’t seated near the back out of disrespect, the paranoid fool wanted to stay near the exit), one trusted servant to get refreshments, and Zenon and Simeon, who weren’t technically supposed to be here, but no one would refuse them entry.

“Greetings everyone!” King Aldrad called, “I am glad we all could make it in so short a time frame.” King Aldrad looked the part of a king. He was tall, all broad-shouldered, though not particularly muscular like Corin, Finnegan, and a few others. But he made up for it in presence. The man carried himself with perfect confidence, his solid, square, brown beard set below piercing eyes which demanded respect from all who looked at them. He was a leader of kings if ever there was one. And while the fiercely independent and war-loving Karldarians would never accept a single leader to be head over them, it was hard not to respect King Aldrads’ enate authority when in a room with him.

And so, the King had taken on a sort of unifacial leadership position amongst the council of Kings. The mediator hadn’t been used in years, so great was the man’s control over a room. “Most of you likely know why we are meeting here today, though some do not.” He was, of course, talking about Corin, who’d been in the South, Finnegan, who’d been in the West, Quince, who’d been in the North West, and King Talmword, who had been patrolling his fleet East of the peaks.

“Our spies and two separate Warlocks of disputed authenticity have reported that the entire Red Council has met at Castle Nogard. The other twelve Kings who were here when this information was confirmed, as well as myself, think it would be wise to attack swiftly. If we can kill the entire Council and rout their army simultaneously, it will mean the end of the war.”

A slight stir arose among the seated kings, each one who had not been present turning to his neighbor to ask for elaboration. The other Kings, feeling awkward just sitting there, turned to one another, speaking in hushed tones. The Red Council was the coalition between the fourteen Colshmerian Kings. The Karldarians were winning the war, but that could be sped up dramatically with the execution of all the Mern leaders at once.

King Quince spoke up, voicing the question they all had, “And what if we lose? This is a dangerous gamble; the Red Council is only meeting because they know we are winning the war. If somehow they defeat us in this great battle, our armies will be crushed the same as theirs. Furthermore, why attack them when they’re defended in so a strong castle? What if they are only meeting in order to plan a unified strike? We could meet them on the field where the balances are more even.”

“The amount of bloodshed a prolonged war would bring is worth the risk.” King Aldrad replied. “We have spoken long about this whilst waiting for you to arrive. There is no doubt that the Red Council is meeting to discuss a new plan since they are losing so substantially. And while it is true that they may choose to attack us all out, our best strategists find it more likely that they will resort to guerrilla warfare. A step which would cripple us, possibly beginning another ten long years of bloodshed.”

Several kings nodded, but the cautious Quince was not convinced, and by his face, neither was Finnegan. “I still say it’s a gamble.” Quince continued. “It is unlikely that the Colshmerians will beat us in a fair fight, but with the aid of the fortifications, they might be able to kill as many of us as we do of them. And as we’ve been forced to learn all to clearly recently, the Colshmerians, unlike us, can reinforce their men with new soldiers. We on the other hand, are crippled thanks to the Ildril Plague.”

“And what are these rumors about the enemy possessing ReMade?” Finnegan cut in. “Can anyone confirm these claims?”

“I can.” Said King Talmword, and a number of other Kings nodded and grunted their assent.

“As well as these ReMade, the Colshmerians are hiring mercenaries to supplement their troops; several have even purchased Hogmacarties.” Finnegan continued. “Who here has had to deal with Magicians or warlocks?” He asked. Corin, along with several others, raised their fists to signify that they had encountered such beings. “And what of Dragons? They say that in the far east, they are breeding the great beasts again. A single Dagon could turn the tide of the battle.”

King Aldrad stood, his chair groaning audibly as it relaxed from the weighed. He seemed to loom, rising above the seated men. Corin himself was as tall as Aldrad, and Everett and three other kings were close. But as he stood, palms splayed across the table, in a move that was not unlike him, he seemed to encompass the entire space, to be bigger than life.

“You bring up good points, King Finnegan.” He said. “But that is exactly why we must attack now, they are growing more powerful, the more men they hire, the stronger their forces grow. No man can predict the future, and thus, we cannot predict when the war will no longer be in our favor. We must snuff out the meager flame that is their army before they can throw fuel on the fire.”

“As for your worry about losing too many irreplaceable men, King Quince, I have important news to share.” With a wave of his hand, a scribe stepped up. The man was balding and hunched over slightly, but his arms were scarred and muscled, like a soldier. At least he had been, before whatever injury had caused that limp.

“Our leading scientists have been hard at work for years now,” he began, “attempting to find a cure for the Ildril Plague.” The Ildril Plague had been unleashed in Karldaria in the beginning years of the war, moving quickly, it had infected almost everyone, from the oldest beggar to the youngest duke. It didn’t kill like most plagues did, though; it simply left behind a magical sickness, one that prevented the infected from being able to survive in extreme cold. They had found that it didn’t affect the levels of icy chill that were reached in Karldaria; it had to be well below the freezing point of water. But on the coldest nights in Colshmeriana, it would kill anyone infected. This clever plague had completely blindsided the Karldarian forces, leaving them with plenty of supplies but no new men. An entire army on the other side of the sea that couldn’t come to help. Until now.

“Well, thanks to the capture of certain high-level prisoners,” the scribe continued, “we were able to discover what form of magic created the plague, and by replicating it, we have found a cure. It is slow working and needs to be administered to each individual, but it can be cured. It just takes time.”