Master Caliburn stood atop the eastern rampart of the besieged fortress, wind lashing at his weatherworn robes. Below in the courtyard, massed shapes of orcs and twisted beasts seethed, lit by the fitful glow of torches. The stench of blood mixed with the sulfurous tang of dark sorcery. Jagged breaches marred the once-proud walls, letting enemies spill inside. The defenders—many wounded, all exhausted—fought with fraying hope.
Caliburn's gnarled hands pressed flat against a massive stone altar, its surface etched with glyphs older than the fortress itself. He could feel the intangible hum of the ancient runes even through his trembling fingers. It was a desperation he'd hoped never to embrace: a forbidden summoning ritual that might breach not only his own realm's laws of magic, but the boundaries between worlds.
For days, rumors had circulated that the Dark King Malachar prepared an unholy rift on some distant front. Whispers spoke of a portal meant to unleash horrors from beyond, or to empower Malachar's armies with demonic strength. Whether truth or rumor, Caliburn felt it—a noxious pull in the arcane currents that blanketed Avalion, evidence of Malachar's black sorcery gathering strength.
As captain of the Mage Order and long-time advisor to Avalion's royal family, Caliburn normally opposed any use of unsanctioned summoning. But the fortress was on the brink. Reinforcements were too distant, the garrison battered, and dawn too far away. So he prayed, lips quivering with the Old Tongue: "Spirits that guard the realm, if Malachar's portal must be opened—let my invocation twist it. Let this fortress claim whatever champion lies beyond. Let the Rift's power be turned to our salvation instead of our doom."
He raised his voice, chanting syllables that resonated in the very stone. Beside him, two young acolytes of the Order tried to keep up, their staff-tips flickering with weak arcs of light. A swirl of energy collected above the altar, first blue-white, then shifting violet. Caliburn felt the swirl intensify—some foreign magic pulsing within it, as if Malachar's distant portal was colliding with his own. A sickening sense of entanglement washed over him: two spells bridging worlds.
From the dark stairwell on Caliburn's left, guttural roars. Three orcs burst onto the rampart, bestial snouts gleaming with bloodlust. One brandished a crude war-axe, another carried a spiked club. All stared at the swirling magic overhead, then snarled at the robed mages.
Caliburn shouted at the acolytes: "Hold them back!" The acolytes tried to comply, launching a wavering bolt of fire that guttered out too soon. One orc charged, splitting an acolyte's staff in a brutal swing; splinters and sparks flew. The other young mage screamed, stumbling away as the second orc lunged, war-axe raised.
The fortress battlements shuddered under the continuing assault below, and the clang of steel on steel rang through the night. Caliburn willed himself not to look at the horrors claiming the courtyard. All that mattered was finishing this ritual—connecting the rift's crack between worlds and dragging a champion, or many champions, through. If they could get a single fearless warrior, an ancient guardian, an angel… anything.
He pressed his trembling hands to the runes once more, channeling the last of his power. Words older than Avalion ripped from his throat:
"By the lifeblood of our land, I command the Rift: Turn from the darkness! Summon forth hope!"
A thunderous jolt cracked through the ramparts. A wave of energy exploded from the altar, hurling orcs backward in a spray of rubble. One tumbled over the wall, shrieking into the blackness. Caliburn's ears rang as the swirling portal ballooned into a ragged, violet maelstrom overhead. It crackled like a storm of living lightning, arcs whipping the air.
Pain lanced through his skull, and the runes on the altar seared with brilliance. For an instant, he sensed Malachar's presence—some black funnel in a faraway place, sucking life from the land. Their magics tangled. Caliburn cried out, forcing his will upon the synergy. If Malachar wanted a demon, perhaps he would get an unexpected gift instead: defenders from another realm.
At last, the rift yawned open. Blinding white light erupted, then dimmed to a swirling darkness. The wind roared, tearing at Caliburn's hair and beard. He stumbled, nearly losing consciousness. Something, or someone, was coming through the tear in reality.
Shadows coalesced. First, Caliburn glimpsed the silhouettes—angular gear, strange attire. They stumbled onto the fortress battlements in a cluster of confusion. Three men, with short, black staffs that gleamed under torchlight. They were no winged war-angels, no shining knights of legend. But in their stances, Caliburn saw the discipline of warriors. One shouted something in an unfamiliar tongue—an urgent bark to the others.
An orc scrambled to its feet, roaring as it swung its axe at the newcomers. In response, a deafening crack of "thunder" shot from the small black staff, muzzle flash sparking. The orc jerked and dropped, blood pooling on the stone. Caliburn had never seen such a weapon: no bolts of arcane flame, just savage mechanical thunder. Yet the result was unmistakable. Another orc rushed, met by a barrage of similar blasts, and slammed dead against the rampart.
The fortress defenders in the courtyard heard the strange thunder, some turning to stare in open-mouthed astonishment. Their one remaining acolyte, crouched near a toppled brazier, gazed fearfully at the men. Caliburn, though reeling from the strain, understood with a burst of intuition: Malachar's rift had been hijacked. Instead of bringing a monstrous champion for the Dark King, the swirling energies—shaped by Caliburn's desperate pleas—had yanked these three men across worlds.
Exhaustion overwhelmed him. He locked eyes with one of the newcomers—tall, broad-shouldered, with keen, calculating features—and mouthed something that may have been "Help us." Then darkness claimed Master Caliburn, and he collapsed onto the cold rampart.
••
Below, the courtyard was chaos. Orcish squads battered at the fortress gates with a ram, ignoring the thick arrow volleys from the final pockets of human defenders. Fire licked at the base of the walls, sending acrid smoke skyward. Wounded men cried out, their armor and shields splintered. The fortress's banner—Avalion's crest of a soaring griffin—lay in tatters.
Amid that ruin, those defenders who could still fight suddenly heard staccato bursts from the ramparts. Pop-pop-pop. It wasn't the ring of steel or the fizzle of spells they knew. It sounded mechanical, biting, and savage. They saw hulking orcs topple as new arrivals in strange gear fired bursts of that thunder-weapon from the parapet. Some of the braver defenders shouted with renewed hope, pressing the orcs from below. Then more blasts hammered across the courtyard, sowing confusion among Malachar's ranks.
Atop the rampart, the three men quickly secured their position. One knelt by the fallen robed figure—Caliburn—checking his pulse, calling out to his teammates in clipped, efficient tones. Another scanned the perimeter, eyes hidden behind a pair of odd green lenses. The third, a radio device strapped to his helmet, cursed quietly at the static in his earpiece.
None of them understood how or why they were here. Moments before, they'd been in a collapsing compound in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, investigating a bizarre stone covered in glyphs. Then the ground had quaked, a vortex swallowed them, and they crashed onto these ancient battlements. Their training refused to let them freeze: they had come under attack, so they returned fire. Survival first, questions later.
More orcs charged up the staircase. One brandished a battered shield, snarling. The lead soldier—Jason Cooper, a lieutenant—raised his M4 carbine and squeezed the trigger. The creature howled, blood spraying from lethal bullet impacts. It crumpled, momentum carrying it face-first down the stairs, crashing into its comrades. The rest hesitated, uncertain. They had never encountered weapons that spat death with no incantations or runic symbols.
Ducking under a shattered arch, Marcus Miller—team medic—braced the unconscious robed man (Caliburn) and signaled to the third soldier, Derek Hawkins, to keep watch. Derek nodded, taking a vantage point with his rifle's scope. Through the scope, he saw horror in the courtyard below: orcs rampaging among dying men. A battered group of defenders in battered armor seemed pinned behind fallen rubble, outnumbered five to one.
"Grim," Derek called softly to Jason Cooper, "we either hold up here or drop down to help them. But we're out of place and out of time."
Jason grimaced, glancing at the reeling fortress. Even from the rampart, it looked close to falling. He ground his teeth. "Master Caliburn—the robed man—needs immediate care, but if those men below die, we lose what might be our only allies."** They had no clue how to get home, but one fact was sure: if they let the fortress fall, they'd be left alone in an unknown land, surrounded by orc hordes.
He turned to Marcus. "Saint, you stabilize him. Hawk, you're on overwatch. I'll see if we can at least keep the orcs from overrunning the courtyard. Then… we figure something out."
Marcus nodded, rummaging in his kit for basic medical supplies. This was a different world, but blood was still blood. Carefully, he checked the man's injuries—mostly magical backlash and bruises. No visible blade wounds, but the old mage was teetering on the brink of shock. Marcus pressed a canteen to the man's lips, dripping water, hoping it might keep him from slipping further.
Meanwhile, Jason hopped onto a partially collapsed section of stone, leveling his rifle downward. Orc archers lurked at the courtyard's edges, launching arrows at the last defenders. Jason fired two controlled bursts, scattering them. It felt surreal—he was effectively in a medieval siege, but with modern firearms. The orcs never had a chance at range.
Below, a few defenders took heart, raising battered shields and surging forward. The momentary confusion among the orcs bought them precious seconds. One man in half-plate looked up at the rampart, squinting, as if silently thanking whatever new gods had come to help. Then he led a ragtag charge that bashed into the orcs' flank.
Ears still ringing from gunfire, Derek slid into position near Jason. The courtyard fight was savage. But the key was that the orcs were unprepared for these "thunder-sticks." Already, more orcs withdrew from the open yard, dragging wounded or howling curses in their coarse language. The fortress might yet hold—if only for a short while.
A roar from the staircase pulled their attention. Another squad of orcs tore up the stone steps, ignoring the bodies of their fallen. Derek rattled off shots, felling two. Jason pivoted to handle the rest. Gunfire flashed, echoing against the ancient walls. The orcs collapsed under the barrage. Smoke curled from the M4's muzzle as Jason swapped a fresh magazine.
In the courtyard, the battered defenders finished off the remaining orcs or sent them scattering into the shadows. The fortress was littered with corpses—human and orc alike—amid the acrid haze of burning pitch. But, for the moment, the onslaught slowed.
Marcus pressed a hand against the old mage's forehead. "He's alive," he murmured, "but he needs real care, or a decent place to rest. We can't do that here."
Jason nodded grimly. The swirling portal was gone—collapsed after delivering the three of them into this madness. The robed man presumably knew something about it. Without his knowledge, they were stuck. "We find a safe spot. Then we find out how to fix whatever—wherever—we are."
Derek scanned the horizon. Two moons hung in the sky, tinted by the smoke. "We're definitely not in Helmand," he muttered, half to himself.
Jason looked out at the battered courtyard, the defenders trying to regroup. "We're DevGru," he said softly. "We survive. We help these people—maybe they can help us figure out a way home."
Marcus gently lifted the mage, hooking an arm around his shoulder. Derek covered them with the rifle, warily eyeing the stone steps for further orc reinforcements. If the fortress still had a commander, they needed to connect with them fast. More orcs could breach the walls at any moment.
And so, under flickering torchlight, the three strangers from Earth scrambled into the fortress's interior with the unconscious mage they had unwittingly answered. Beyond the broken gates, Malachar's legion still gathered, churning like a black tide on the horizon. Above them, the altar's runes faintly glowed in the aftermath of colliding magic.
Caliburn's desperate plan—and Malachar's dark rift—had converged, hurling modern warriors into an ancient war they never chose. As the fires in the courtyard smoldered and the fortress walls groaned under siege, the men from another world prepared for a new fight, uncertain whether fate had saved Avalion… or doomed it to a stranger, more unpredictable future.