Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice Of Souls

Introduction

RETIREMENT. It’s such a beautiful word for it is a word that signifies a great deal of change in a person’s life. For some, it simply means not having to get up for work anymore. For others, it isn’t the end of an era, it is the start of something completely new. A happy start in one’s autumn years, where one can finally take it easy and rest those old bones. Maybe take up a new hobby, or do something you once did when you were younger. As long as it isn’t extreme sports.

For those about to retire, it seems like something to look forward to, a milestone. A chance to stop and take control of things.

Some people don’t want to retire because they’d rather carry on a while longer. And I say Godspeed and all the best. Nothing against you retirees though, no offence meant! If you enjoy working then why stop?

And some people just can’t physically stop. Even when you’re millions of light years away from home, when you’re fighting the forces of evil with all your might, even though you’re now aged 67 and every muscle in your body says “No!” it is that incessant tyrant of a brain forces the body to keep going. Retire now? Bollocks!

There was a man out there who people called ‘Alf the Unstoppable’, because firstly, his name was Alf, and he never fully understood or acknowledged the need to stop, or slow down. A rather stubborn fellow to say the least.But good fortune was indeed in his favour over the years, as even though he had risked life and limb countless times, travelling to various points in the galaxy and sometimes beyond, Alf had reached the age when he would nowadays be entitled to a free bus pass.

This was Alf, the cunning fighter, warrior, adventurer, but not least, a hero.

So, where did our senior citizen find himself? Not acting out of character, near the end of this tale (which artfully, I have put at the beginning of this story), he found himself charging down a hugely long, torch lit stone corridor, cool breeze whipping through his thinning white hair and handlebar moustache, his battered and worn leather armour dripping with sweat on the inside. Eyes always forward, mouth gasping for as much air as possible. Completely focussed on the prize.

In his right hand, he wielded “Tran”, which was his name for this mighty war hammer that gave its user enormous strength when held. Even the weediest boy (or girl) could pick this up and be able to break massive boulders in two with it, then pick up the pieces and throw them great distances. But like all magically powered objects, its power would not be finite, needing to be charged up now and then.

At the end of the corridor stood a magical door, leading to the inner chamber, where the masterminds of this terrible atrocity were based, attempting to make their escape. Even though Alf wasn’t that magically gifted, the intense magical energies being utilised in the room beyond gave him goose bumps.

The door would be protected by a complex magical ward, requiring a magic-user some time to dispel and open. But there wasn’t time for that, for THEY were getting away and if the others couldn’t simply catch up with him, it was, well, their loss. Again. They would have to deal with the leftovers.

The door was protected, but the surrounding wall wouldn’t be. Right, you bastards!

Alf, while still running, gripped the end of the mighty hammer by the end of the shaft, stopped running and began to spin around, as if this was the Olympics.

Faster and faster he began to spin, the centrifugal forces becoming greater than any normal man could withstand. The strength that the hammer lent to its master enabled Alf to remain holding onto it.

His arthritis protested greatly. Alf’s brain then promptly cursed the arthritis for interrupting and released more endorphins to counteract the rebellion.

Below the spinning man, a blur of leather boots smouldered. Pain from the heat made the feet protest too, but they were seldom listened to either.

Alf was spinning at such an incredible speed that his own blood began to pool outwards, which was a really odd feeling.

His senses were fully trained to pick the right moment to let go. Now.

Tran shot away from its master at a thousand miles an hour at the door, finally shattering on impact, breaking the door free from the supporting wall. Alf shot the other way, somersaulting through the air and skidded, squeaking, backwards on his ruined shoes.

Alf should have fainted or at least, fallen. But that would be giving in, that would be surrender. Suddenly to his right, a voice spoke.

“Alf?”

Alf turned his head and saw Grimchan, the green hooded sorcerer. He, with the unseen face and bony, gnarled and grey hands.

“What? Oh, it’s you. Come on then, the door’s open.”
“We’re all here now.”
“Well stop trying to chat me up then.”

Behind them, the remnants of the resistance charged. Friends, survivors. Good enough. Led by Alf, who just wouldn’t have anyone else in front, they charged forward, letting out their war cry, which reverberated all the way down the corridor.

Alf unsheathed a pair of short swords. He smelt it ahead before he realised what it was before him. A fully grown eight foot high Sinbala Hellbeast was resolutely charging the other way to buy these bastards more time. Of course, Alf was completely undeterred.

Grimchan chanted “Xopaphialias!” and blasted the beast with an arcing bolt from his right hand, shredding its skin, spitting black blood. Others threw more spells and chants, slowing the beast’s mind and weakening it.

And Alf leaped onto its head and plunged his swords into its skull. Not enough. This thing still lived, even when pumping stinking blood from its black and leathery hide, and still charging with brown tusks ready to gore.

Everyone assaulted it. Spells, arrows, blades. But the task was swiftly done. The beast was dead.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Alf led the charge again. Beyond the door was a shimmering energy, but no one was seen. Grimchan shouted to Alf:

“Dark Portal! They’ve created a Dark Portal! They’ve escaped!”
Alf shouted back, “Then we’ll follow them then.”
“You don’t know where it leads!”
“Don’t care. Will it hold?”
“A good few more minutes.”
“That’s all we need.”

The heroes spilled out into the massive golden chamber, towards the shimmering and smoking column of dark light in its centre.

Then came the thought of retirement. But this last fight needed to be fought before that.

And what happened next? Well, I’m not in the mood for spoilers yet. But I will tell you all about how they all got to this point, and all about who these bastard enemies are, what atrocities they committed here and so forth. Let’s begin.

© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009

Another blog rises from the great Abyss

Some day, when I look back on all of this, I'll either be proud or emit a "hmm" and think what could have been.

Anyway, this blog, fresh from the Abyss where all blogs originate from, but without that fresh smell of originality, is a story blog. A story blog for me, a "wannabe author" who decided it would be a good idea to publish some stories for free. A man's got to make himself known, and the best way is to showcase your talents to the world, and let the audience gasp in awe at the developing masterpiece that would surely ensue.

So, less talk and more action. I'm also writing a novel which I plan to get published at some point, which probably won't be for free. Man's got to eat.

Finally, for anyone who wants to subscribe to this blog, I love you forever...

Luke