---

---

By Emmanuel Williams

November 1, 2026

*

Circling Dorian, William suddenly lunges directly at him. Sword forward, catching his opponent’s left collar bone. The brown tunic rips as a gash opens in Dorian’s skin. Enraged, he begins hacking wildly forward. William side steps, tripping his foe flat on his face. As Dorian rolls to his back, William stomps forward, digging his shortsword deep into Dorian’s chest. Stepping off his ribcage to dislodge, he runs off, leaving a choking Dorian fading into blackness…

Dorian floats in the distance, washing ashore to a beach with white sand, without a cloth to hide his skin. The sea pushes out of his lungs, and he can breathe again. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he looks about for an answer to where he has found himself.

All that appears is the sight of knights standing guard in full armor at the sides of a bonfire that’s the only landmark on the entire island.

“Help!”

He slowly gets to his feet, somehow weak though he doesn’t remember swimming a single stroke. Covering his giblets, he staggers toward the fire.

Close now, he can see several men in different shades of robe seated on throne after throne in a half circle ending in knights on either side. From the center, he is hailed in rough tones.

“You there!”

Dorian stopped dead from the impact, though he could not stop his shivers. “Yes?”

“You have been given great destiny!”

“Um… yeah, sure. It’s probably a pair of trousers. Have you got any?”

“Shut up and listen! You are here, therefore you are worthy.”

“Worthy? Of what, sir?”

“The Isle of Greywood must return to honor. The Queen is not worthy. We can no longer stand by when there is one who is worthy among you.”

“So, it’s not me then. Well that’s a relief. And… who are you?”

“We’re the spirits of the Isle. The Guild of Greywood. And your task is simple…”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Whether you like it or not, you must take the sword from this fire, and deliver it to William of Greywood.”

“What? The cunt who just drove his sword-”

“Take the sword! Now!”

Flinching at the last word, Dorian ventured forward, and tentatively reached his hand into the blaze. It was warm but he felt no harm. Sure enough a hilt could be felt. And out of the wood it clearly had been stuck in came a glorious sword. Once the red settled off it shown silver to the eye, its hilt woven with nothing but leather, it could be assumed to hold no value but its duty. In Dorian’s hands it was light, all its weight was in the blade itself, its long, vibrant blade brimming with vitality.

“And make sure he keeps it close,” the spirit resumed. “For the sword will give him glory, and the throne of Stoneland. From which he will rule the entire land.”

Dorian paused to himself. Cursing the talk he heard of paradise after death. “But how can I fulfill your task? I’m dead!”

“You will return, as a spirit. Once your task is complete, you will join the place even beyond here.”

“Alright, alright, stop selling it.”

“Good lad.”

“How do I get back?”

“Like this,” said a knight off to his right, and then snapped his metal fingers.

*

STICK AROUND FOR MORE “WILLIAM OF GREYWOOD”