The Tsornian from Stormsrock by Mark Harris

This is another one of the opening chapters of Stormsrock, but this time it focuses on a completely different character, Dreskar, an orphan who survives from competing in an arena, something like the Colosseum in Rome. However, it is not too long before his life is flipped upside down, and he embarks on a journey of epic proportions.

The Prologue: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-prologue-to-stormsrock-by-mark.html
Crooked Pass: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/crooked-pass-from-stormsrock-by-mark.html

The grinding cacophony of the heavy steel gates being raised was almost drowned out by the thunder of voices. Dreskar stood in stony silence, gripping the shaft of his spear tightly, his expression emotionless. How many people are watching? He wondered. Five hundred? Six hundred? After a certain point the numbers became meaningless, amalgamating into a single faceless entity, watching his every move. He had to mentally remove himself away from his surroundings, and concentrate purely on himself and his opponent.  Directly opposite him, he could see what he was up against. It was a tsornian, a reptilian bird-like creature, three feet taller than him. He had fought one before, but not alone, and the last time he did so he was left with a deep cut along his side. If he had been alone, he would have died for sure. Dreskar stepped forward into the arena, his boots sinking slightly in the sand. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, but Dreskar could barely hear it. His eyes were fixed upon the tsornian, carefully watching its every move. The tsornian did the same to him, its red eyes following the tip of his spear. Dreskar knew that this would be a tough fight, his toughest yet, perhaps. Tsornians were a step above the mindless beasts that he usually fought, they were devious. The last one he fought had entered the battle pretending to be injured, causing him to be severely wounded, and his fighting partner, Rasha, killed. They had underestimated it, a crucial mistake. But he had never been more ready for this fight. The majority of his time out of the arena was spent training, and he was at peak physical fitness.

            This time Dreskar would not take any chances against his foe. He would need all of his concentration and skill to become triumphant. Their eyes still locked together, Dreskar and the tsornian began to circle one another. Strike first, he thought. The tsornian obviously had the same thought, as it charged forward, trying to catch Dreskar with its beak. It turned to face him, but by the time it had Dreskar had leapt underneath it, trying to stab its vulnerable underbelly. The spearhead pierced the flesh, but it seemed to have little effect on the creature. He ripped out the spear, and ducked underneath a swipe from one of its claws. The other claw came striking down from above, and Dreskar leapt to the side, and as the claw rose again for another strike, Dreskar’s spear was thrust deep into the creature’s arm. Die already! It might take Dreskar a dozen attacks to incapacitate the tsornian, but he knew that the creature would be able to slaughter him with a single well-placed claw. The spear was still firmly planted in the tsorian’s flesh, and when its arm rose into the air, Dreskar rose with it. The creature shook its arm violently, and Dreskar lost his grip on the spears shaft, and he felt a sudden feeling of weightlessness as he was catapulted into the air. He smashed into the roof of the cage, before falling back towards the ground. He hit the sand with a thud, but before the pain could register Dreskar was back onto his feet. Without my spear I’m in big trouble. The crowd was divided between looking onto the fight, horrified and in silence, and chanting voraciously for the tsornian to finish Dreskar off. They wanted bloodshed. That was what they came to the arena for. Seeing its opponent’s vulnerability, the tsornian charged once again. Again, Dreskar dodged out its way, but this time by less than an inch. Out of all of the arena fighters, Dreskar was one of the quickest, and he often used this to his advantage. But being quick won’t win me this fight if I don’t have a weapon. He needed his spear back. He let the tsornian approach him, his spear coming closer to his reach. The tsornian stopped in front of him. It’s either trying to lull me into a false sense of security, or it’s afraid I’m luring it into a trap. However, he had no secret weapon to use against the Tsornian. Combatants could only take one weapon into the arena with them, and it had to be approved beforehand. He leapt towards the spear, and tried to rip it out of the tsornians arm, but it was stuck fast. The creatures other claw came at him, and he managed to dodge the attack, but its claw caught the shaft of the spear, and broke it in two, the base remaining in the tsornians arm. Dreskar snatched his now significantly shorter spear out of the sand, and drew back, analysing his options. Now I can’t rely on staying out of its reach and dodging away when it gets too close. I can’t attack unless I’m right next to it. The tsornian’s scaled tail whipped round, almost knocking Dreskar to the ground. However, he managed to jump over it, and stab his spear into it as it came past. Again, Dreskar was carried by his spear, but this time he did not let go. Clinging on tightly, he started to work his way up the tail, and onto the tsornian’s back. He used his spear as a handhold, and as he past it, he wrenched it out of the tsornian’s tail and thrust it straight back into its back. The beast let out a cry of pain, but the shriek was drowned out by the crowd’s deafening noise. To his delight, it soon dawned on Dreskar that on the creatures back, he was out of its reach; its arms could not bend backwards and no matter how vigorously it shook, Dreskar would not slacken his grip. He twisted the spear around, feeling the spearhead dig through the creature’s body. It was evident from the amount of blood seeping from its back and soaking his white garment, and the noise the Tsornian made when the spear had entered its body, that he had pierced something important. He could feel the tsornian’s body grow weaker underneath him, and he pitied it. It doesn’t want to fight me. It was captured from the wild and brought here, just so that it could be slaughtered in front of all of these people. In that moment, he was disgusted by the jeering crowd, but also by himself. I’m more a part of this than any of them. I’ll give you a quick death, it’s the best I can do. He clambered further up the tsornian’s back, and swiftly finished it off with a final stab into the back of its skull. It dropped to the floor, dead. He had won.

Dreskar wrenched his spear out of the tsornian’s skull, and only now did his ears become attuned to the roar of the crowd around him. He took a quick bow, and with his head held high, exited the arena. He did not want to be amongst these people for any longer than he had to be.

As he exited the arena, he was greeted by a man, who reluctantly tossed him a small pouch of coins. Dreskar opened the pouch, and counted ten iron shonos. Elated, he strapped the pouch to his waist, the white cloth of his tunic soaked in the thick blood of the tsornian.

  “Don’t tell me you wanted the tsornian to win,” said Dreskar, noting the bitterness of the other man.

  “You don’t have to pay tsornians. At least I didn’t bet on you to lose.”

  “You didn’t? I’m flattered.”

  “Whether I like it or not, you’re an annoyingly good fighter. You’re through to the next round.”

  “When is it?”

  “Three days’ time, at sunrise. You’ll be fighting whoever wins tomorrows fight.” Dreskar nodded, before leaving. He was competing in the Gresvensgal Flaming Fist tournament, which attracted some of the best fighters locally and from all across the Peninsula. The tournament’s name originated from the first victor, who became triumphant by setting his arm on fire and beating his opponent to death. Dreskar was one of the favourites to win, and his performance against the tsornian supported his ranking. This year there was forty-eight entrants, but as Dreskar had not been paired up with another fighter, he had been pitted against a tsornian. That had been his third fight, and now there were only fifteen entrants remaining, and there would be twelve by the time he next fought. But he did not have to worry about that now. Now he could relax, for the time being anyway.

            The sky was entirely clouded over as Dreskar emerged from the underground, bathing the city of Gresvensgal in a gloomy light. The city walls were so high that they blocked out most of the sun, so even on the brightest of days Gresvensgal looked dull.  The monotonous grey colour scheme did not help improve the city’s appeal. But in truth, Gresvensgal was closer to a fort than a city, and it had been deemed impregnable by the city’s rulers. Dreskar did not believe this, however. Everything has a weakness. He had changed out of his bloody fighter’s garbs and into more casual clothes, and he had left his spear in his locker back at the arena, alongside his other weapons. The regulators forbid the possession of weapons around the city, but Dreskar had a small dirk strapped to the inside of his leg. It’s too dangerous to travel without one, especially now. There was always the chance that another combatant would try and take Dreskar out of the tournament early.

            He headed to The Burnt Fly, an inn where he had for two years rented a room for himself. As he entered, he glanced around for familiar faces. Almost immediately, he saw two men he knew, Jett and Hachi, and sat down beside them. Tonight, he could easily afford a warm meal, drinks, and a bed. As an accomplished fighter, Dreskar was rarely short of money, but it had not always been so. He could remember many cold nights living on the streets, constantly trying to find the warmest and driest places to stay that would not get him killed. It had all changed when he had been caught up in a fight against another homeless man, and he recognised that he possessed a natural flair for combat. The next day he had signed up for a fourteen-to-eighteen years age restricted tournament, and he became the champion almost effortlessly. Many saw the teenager fights as barbaric and cruel, but for Dreskar it had provided a much-needed lifeline.

  “You fought damn well,” Jett said, greeting him. “When you lost your spear I thought you were as good as dead, but you pulled it around. Let me buy you a drink.” Dreskar was reluctant, but Jett insisted. “It’s the least I can do; I made a small fortune today betting on you.”

  Dreskar courteously accepted, and Jett stood up, and stumbled towards the bar. Jett’s state of mind was hardly surprising, Dreskar could not remember a single time he had seen him sober.

  “Sounds like a terrific performance,” Hachi said, raising a flagon of beer to his lips.

  “You didn’t make it?”

  “I couldn’t get in. It was packed full. You know, you’re the first person since Halgor the Hunter to slay a tsornian by yourself in the arena. People are saying that you might win this thing, you know.”

  “I can’t let myself get overconfident, that’s when I’ll make mistakes, which could get me killed.”

  “Indeed. Who’s your next fight against, then?”

  “Whoever wins tomorrow morning’s fight. It’ll either be Falio of Solomsburg, or Jorren, who I’ve fought against before. One of the strongest men I’ve ever fought, but certainly not the quickest.”

  Hachi smirked. “Jorren calls himself the Skullcrusher, does he not?”

  “That’s right. But I don’t intend on letting that huge obsidian hammer of his come anywhere close to my head.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a serving woman approaching them. “Food, anyone?”

  “What’s cooking?” Dreskar asked.

  “Lamb and potato stew. Killed the lamb myself, yesterday.”

  “We’ll have three bowls.” Dreskar paid her and the woman left, just as Jett arrived back, slamming down a flagon of beer down on the table in front of Dreskar, so hard that some of the liquid jumped into the air and onto the wooden table.

  Jett raised his cup. “Here’s to Dreskar, the greatest fighter the peninsula has ever seen.” The three of them clashed their drinks together and drank deeply, and they continued to drink late into the night, only stopping when Jett passed out, so Dreskar and Hachi together hauled him into a bed upstairs, and then they too decided to retire for the night. 

Prologue of 'When Kingdoms Crumble', by Ben Garry (Part 2)

Introduction and Part 1, here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/prologue-of-when-kingdoms-crumble-by.html

The sun dawned golden and glorious on the first morning of the new age. General Cholem rose from his bed in the temporary quarters that had been allotted to him within the palace and crossed to the room’s floor-to-ceiling window, basking in the light. The cloudless daybreak was yet another good omen to add to the multitude that had saturated the Freedom Uprising from the start.

            The nobles from the surrounding area, most of them relatives of King Kaidezhe, had been brought into the palace over the course of the night, unharmed save for a few unavoidable flesh wounds. They were being kept somewhere in the far wing of the palace until their grand appearance later today.

            Cholem’s mind skipped from the prisoners to the forthcoming events of the day.  The rest of the Freedom Council should ride into the city in the next few hours, then, together, they would formally address the city’s population, the final step in establishing the new order in Jeshrual. After that, messengers would be dispatched to take their words to the other Jeshrulian towns and cities and they would be followed out by Freedom Council officials ready to take up local government posts in those areas. After years of bloodshed and struggle, the monarchy and its barbaric, ancient regime had been overthrown.

            A smile creased his strong, authoritative features, momentarily skewing his meticulously shaped beard. He slipped out of his night-shift before pulling on a set of simple clothes, the picture of humility, the embodiment of peace. With his head held high, he strode out into the palace corridors. A pleasant smell drifted into his nostrils. It would seem that his soldiers had encouraged the palace staff to prepare breakfast as normal. General Cholem’s smile broadened; today was a good day.

            In the suburbs of the city, supporters of the Freedom Uprising – and there were many – lined the street that widened out inside Horizon Mount’s inner circle to become the boulevard that led up to the jewel in the city’s crown, the King’s Palace. The people waved banners and shouted praise as the members of the Freedom Council rode past them, into the city proper. Each council member made a point of smiling and waving at the crowds from the backs of their beautiful stallions, riding regal and proud like angelic princes.

            They came from all corners of Jeshrual, the sowers of the seeds of sedition in cities from the north to the south and the east to the west of their country. Riding in pomp and finery, their status was clear to all and the people adored them as they had adored the kings of old, recognising the roles of these men in the shaping of their nation.

            Following the councillors up the street were ranks of Freedom Uprising soldiers, tramping in united solidarity, the heralds of a new order. The parade continued up the road to the palace where General Cholem waited to establish them in their power and thus complete the revolution.

א

            Jaish heard the rumble of humanity from beyond the palace walls and his heart became as stone in his chest. Had these people abandoned Adonai so readily? He turned to his wife, who returned his bleak gaze with a sad smile that somehow seemed all the more bleak than his own expression.

            “So this is what we’ve come to,” he sighed, crossing to their bed and sinking down next to her with a wince. He, along with his wife and child (who remained asleep in an adjoining room, exhausted from the previous day), had actually been given comfortable accommodation within his uncle’s palace. They could almost be considered guests of the Freedom Council but for the guards stationed outside the main door of their apartment.

            “Adonai’s will shall be done, always,” Dana said, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her loose black fall over his torso. She was vulnerability clothed in human flesh, but was he any different?

            “I just don’t understand,” he muttered.

            “Then don’t try. Just trust him.”

            Jaish pulled his wife even closer and kissed the top of her head, overwhelmed with love for the woman who was truly a blessing on his life sent straight from Adonai.

            He looked up at a knock on the room’s main door and watched as an armed guard entered without ceremony, grim-faced.

            “Nephew of Kaidezhe, General Cholem requires your presence on the palace steps,” the guard said, looking into his eyes without flinching.

            Jaish’s reply was measured, “I am not his servant to command.” He was aware of Dana’s cool hand on his arm and kept his visage controlled and neutral.

            “Don’t make this difficult for yourself,” the guard warned.

            Jaish exchanged glances with Dana, “I shall go.”

            “And your wife.”

            “What of my daughter?”

            “She may remain. A servant shall be sent in to sit with her.”

            Dana stood with Jaish and together they followed the guard out of the room.

            General Cholem stood with the other eleven councillors on the wide flight of stairs leading up to the palace. Assembled before them was an oceanic mass of civilians, almost the entire population of the city, interspersed with soldiers. They were the flock of the Freedom Council, the people of the new regime. He looked across the top of the steps at the row of councillors. They were a strong group, the perfect balance of youth and experience. They were the prophets of all the gods. They were the prophets of nothing.

            Silence gradually permeated the pores of the crowd. General Cholem stepped forward and began to speak.

            “People of Horizon Mount and all of Jeshrual, yesterday I addressed you to announce the fall of the old kingdom and the tyranny that it stood for,” he paused, allowing his voice to ring out around the trees and buildings that surrounded the crowd, allowing his words to settle into the minds of those gathered, “But today is not yesterday. It is a new day and it marks a new beginning for our nation. It marks the beginning of a time of peace and tolerance, a time of harmony and equality. And so, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you eleven of our nation’s finest men. They are visionaries and revolutionaries, men who joined with me in purging this nation of bigotry and authoritarianism, men who will now join with me in guiding Jeshrual along the smooth, hallowed path of peace. It is an honour for me to introduce to you Marlial, Chair of the first Freedom Council by a unanimous vote, and my great friend.” General Cholem stepped back into the line as a smattering of applause became a thundering. His heart swelled with pride as he surveyed the crowd before him, adoring and free.

            Marlial, a slim, tall, middle-aged man from the northernmost region of Jeshrual stepped forward now, dressed in a beautiful robe of blue. His black-silver hair reflected the sun’s light majestically; he was an impressive figure to behold.

            “People of Jeshrual, today you may consider me the harbinger of change for this nation. What I have to say may shock some of you and you may not believe me at first, so I ask you to open your minds and trust that what I say is the truth. Trust me, and your lives shall change for the better to an extent that you would never have believed possible. These three words shall be your salvation: Adonai is dead,” as Cholem had done before him, he paused. The quiet in the crowd was terrifying, “For centuries, the worship of Adonai has been the dominant religion of this land. It has always been the religion championed by one particular group of people: our kings. But in recent years, I, and others like me, have come to realise that not only is Adonai dead, but that he never lived. You may be wondering how I know this, so listening closely, people of Jeshrual. This great god, named Adonai, was never more than a creation of Jeshrual’s kings, am artifice that they employed to control you and bleed your money away from you, employed to make you think that there was hope for you as they taxed you again and again, more and more each time! Do you see now? Therefore, from this day forth, there shall be no more public worship of Adonai; we shall tear down his temple.” He paused briefly to gage the crowd’s reaction, “Furthermore, the Freedom Council has decided to rename this city ‘Liberteria’. No more shall this place be Adonai’s holy city, we proclaim it a city of freedom and choice, the flourishing heart of a free nation! You will no longer be punished for a failure to adhere to the laws that apparently come directly from Adonai, for we shall create new laws, fair laws. You are all different and your beliefs should be your own. Let us stop judging one another for what they believe, or don’t believe, and let’s stop feeling pressured into believing in something that doesn’t feel right to us. It’s time to discover our own truths in this world. I saw it again: Adonai is dead!” Marlial bowed his head and waited. It seemed that the silence in the crowd would never end. Then a lone person began to clap, the more people clapped, then still more, before eventually, applause sang out from the hands of well over half of the people in attendance.

            General Cholem moved forward to be in line with Marlial and raised a hand to renew the silence, “We appreciate that this is a monumental change and an uncertain time for some of you, so to demonstrate out good will in these circumstances, we have some of King Kaidezhe’s nobility here in the palace as our guests!”

            Jaish emerged into harsh sunlight at outside the entrance to the palace, his wife alongside him. They stood in a huddle with around ten more people, all relatives of the dead king and, by extension, himself. He recognised all the faces, but no one spoke as they waited to see what the Freedom Council had planned. All were known to be devoted followers of Adonai. They were led to the top of the steps by a handful of soldiers. The members of the Freedom Council parted to accommodate them. General Cholem and Marlial, still standing forward to address the crowd, turned in unison and smiled benevolently at the newcomers.

            “My friends,” Marlial began to speak, his smooth tones seeming to flow over both the nobles and the crowd simultaneously, “Let me first say that you are welcome here in shining Liberteria. Your presence at the palace brings joy to hearts of me and my fellow councillors. We know that you were a part of King Kaidezhe’s regime, ruling towns and cities throughout the region in his name, but that regime is gone. However, this does not mean that your lives are in danger. We will not make ourselves hypocrites by advocating freedom for the masses whilst condemning you all to death. After all, your service to the monarchy was a mere accident of birth and should not be used as a reason for your deaths. For sure, you shall be stripped of your titles and your authority, but you may return home in peace as friends of the Freedom Council.”

            Marlial beamed endearingly at the nobles, before turning to the crowd to show them his pleasure. This time, the people’s response was instant, unanimous applause.

            Jaish looked out over the city, sick. He knew with utmost certainty that being pardoned was far worse than being killed or imprisoned. There would be no heroic martyr’s death for him. Marlial had ensured that if he or his relatives opposed the Freedom Council in any way then they would be seen as the villains, repaying mercy with murder. It seemed as if a heavy fog was wrapping itself around his brain, suffocating his thoughts. He stared at the ground, lost, as the ceremony came to a close. When he looked up, he caught the gaze of General Cholem. He would never forget what he saw in that man’s eyes.

Prologue of 'When Kingdoms Crumble', by Ben Garry

This novel is still very much a work in progress. I'm about a third of the way through, and if I'm honest, my writing of it only occurs in erratic bursts of inspired enthusiasm. I don't want to say too much, but the premise is that this world is not so far removed from the events of our own history, and it is my desire that people will be able to read this and think about how it might apply to them. First and foremost, I write to entertain, but with this novel I'm trying to strike a deeper chord. You can judge for yourselves how successful I've been.

The last king died with bloodshot eyes and a rasping breath. His killer took a step back and left the sword quivering in an unprotected chest stained scarlet with royal blood. One man died with fear in his eyes; the other lived on with the fire of victory in his own. Light a candle and mourn the passing of an age.

            “The king is dead!” The call rang out over a clash of bodies and steel, reaching every man, woman and child as it was taken up in a wave that swept throughout the city. The morning sun that had brought hope to the king and his army when it ascended in rosy dawn now seemed a cold and distant witness, passively observing their downfall.

            This same army was swept aside like cinders and ash in the winds of a hurricane, crushed as much by the death of their leader as by those that pressed against them with steel in their hands and murder in their hearts. What is there to live for when that which is most important to you is stripped away? The soldiers swayed limply and were cut down. The rebels showed no mercy; mercy was not something they were required to show. The blood of good men dyed the streets much as it had dyed the chest of their king, a cruel parody of the hopeful dawn. It was impossible to distinguish the cries of the dying from those of the triumphant as they merged together to become a single crashing of humanity. All over the city, a fatal dance was twisting along the streets and within the squares that transformed the place from a sleeping giant to something akin to a writhing ant hill. Weep, for it was not only the soldiers of the city caught in the slaughter.

א

            One man ascended the wide flight of steps that led up to palace of Horizon Mount, the home of kings, before turning to survey the sweeping boulevard before him. Sword in hand and dressed in battered and bloodied armour, this man was the war hero that his people wanted to see. General Cholem, leader of the army of the Freedom Uprising. The body of King Kaidezhe lay at the foot of the marble stairs, half in the shadow. The freedom of the new rising over the tyranny of the old.

            The rest of the tree-lined boulevard that stretched away in front of the palace had been cleared of bodies and washed clean with copious amounts of river water. It had taken several hours, but the task was now complete, and similar clean-up operations were underway elsewhere in the city, flushing every street, alley and square free of human detritus. As Cholem drank in the scene before him, he knew that clearing this area had been worth every drop of sweat. Now the sun shone down on an open path leading up to a liberated palace: the best of omens for the day to come. Tomorrow, the Freedom Council would join him here in the palace, eleven men who would rule alongside him in brotherhood and equality, in tolerance and fairness. No, they wouldn’t rule, he corrected himself, they would guide. They would guide this nation of abused and oppressed people into a new age of peace and prosperity, living in harmony with one another regardless of personal situation or circumstance.

            But today belonged to the army, to the men who took up arms and fought for this utopian vision. Furthermore, he could not afford to wait until tomorrow to assert the authority of the Freedom Council in this city - the people had to be made aware of the change immediately. So he would be the figurehead on the steps of the palace, the herald of new horizons, the voice of freedom. The dirty work was not yet done, but today, the rebuilding of a nation could begin.

            “Permission to speak, General?”

            Cholem looked down to a man kneeling at the foot of the stone stairway, slightly away from King Kaidezhe’s ruined body, “Stand up, soldier. I am not a king or a god for you to bow to.”

            The soldier stood, obeying his general’s every word, “Shall we bring the people here for your announcement now?”

            “Yes. Tell them that a representative of the new Freedom Council is ready to address them officially. It is mandatory that they attend. Anyone not here within the hour shall be assumed to be an enemy of the council. You know what that means.” General Cholem spoke hard words with a set face, the spark of victory still dancing in his dark eyes.

            “It shall be done, General.”

            “Good. It’s time to tell these people that they’re free.”

            An hour later, most of the city was assembled on the boulevard before the palace, a vibrant mass of people thronging to hear the voice of the new regime. General Cholem faced them triumphantly, a line of armoured soldiers standing to attention at his back. The afternoon sun remained strong, and cast his athletic frame in an angelic light, playing off his dark hair as if caressing a loved child. Nothing was out of place. He was strong and in control. The herald of triumph.

            “People of Horizon Mount and all of Jeshrual, I am General Cholem of the army of the Freedom Uprising,” he projected his voice effortlessly over the silent crowd, “Today is an historic day for our nation. King Kaidezhe has fallen, and the monarchy has died with him. No more shall you be oppressed by one family, subject only to them. Today, in victory, we shall begin the restoration of our nation to its former glory, free and strong in equality. Tomorrow, my allies from across Jeshrual shall ride into this city. Together, we shall stand united and address you once more. But today, rejoice! Revel in your newfound freedom! Until tomorrow, fellow humans, go in peace.”

            A great cheer erupted from several areas in the crowd, building into an ovation that spread across the mass. General Cholem knew that there were many royalists among these people, supporters of the dead monarch, but he would leave them for now. Tomorrow, more hearts and minds would be won to freedom’s cause as he and his co-councillors emerged before the city once more. Together, they would seal their victory over this choked land.

            Throw off the cloak of your inhibitions and run riot in the anarchy of your freedom.

א

            Lank hair shrouded a dark face in darker shadow and eyes smouldered in its veil. The afternoon sun was oppressive and relentless as it beat down on his exposed back. Every cut a line of red that burned. His breathing was heavy and it rattled out of his chest in throaty, strangled heaves.

            His voice wheezed out in a cracked whisper, “Where are you, Adonai? Why are you silent now?”

            The harsh grate of a laugh barked over him and a hot drop of saliva drummed onto his shoulder blade, searing like a brand on cold flesh. A boot kicked savagely into his ribs, bruising the bruises, forcing him onto his side with a groan. The hot dust on the ground around him was no comfort. Shadows fell over him and a hand yanked his head up by the matted clumps of his hair, grabbing a fistful of the grimy locks in meaty fingers. A snarling face thrust itself into his vision.

            “Adonai is dead. In fact, he was never alive.”

            The hand released his hair and his head fell back onto a welcoming carpet of sand and stone. What was one more bruise when his whole body already wept blood?

            “Up,” a new voice this time, commanding and completely devoid of emotion. He rolled to face the sun and saw the newcomer: another man, dressed in armour like any other, but marked as a higher ranking officer by the muddied swathe of the cape that was clipped onto his shoulder-guards, “I said, up!”

            The man on the floor closed his eyes against the pain and the glare. He didn’t move. Seconds passed, then a hot breath tickled its way into his ear, “If you don’t get up, I’ll break every bone in your right arm, starting with your fingers. You’re wanted alive, but I was never instructed to leave you intact...” a pause, a mocking laugh, “my lord.”

            Lord Jaish worked himself into a kneeling position, looking away from the soldiers and fixing his gaze on the ruins of his home. He was a defeated man. With great difficulty, he pushed himself to his feet.

            “I see that you know what’s good for you. Get into the cart. You’re coming with us to Horizon Mount on the orders of General Cholem.”

            The name of the capital brought a shot of panic straight through to Lord Jaish’s heart. It could only mean that Horizon Mount had already fallen to the Freedom Uprising and their loathsome general. He sealed his eyes once more against an upwelling of grief within himself as he realised that his uncle, King Kaidezhe, must surely be dead. His resistance gone, Jaish was limp in the guiding hands of his conquerors. Around him, his village smouldered in tandem with his house. Smoke formed a choking burial shroud for the fallen.

            “Jaish!” His wife’s voice came trembling to his ears as he was bundled onto the cart.

            “Daddy!” His young daughter, too!

            Jaish raised a tearful prayer of thanks to Adonai when he saw that his small family was essentially unharmed, huddled on the unforgiving wooden planks of the cart.

            “I thought you were killed in the fighting!” He exclaimed, clasping them close to him despite the fire of his wounds.

             His wife, Dana, glanced furtively over her shoulder, back towards their once-grand home, “Some of the soldiers shut us in the inner rooms, but they didn’t harm us in any way. They’re taking us to Horizon Mount.”

            Jaish nodded, “They want me there alive. I don’t know what they want to do with us or what we’ll find when we get there.” He winced as the wheel of the cart hit a stone and jolted the passengers harshly. Slowly, they began to move away from what remained of their village.

            “May Adonai’s will be done,” he murmured after a while.

            Dana looked him in the eye, a single tear shining in her own, though her voice was strong, “It always is.”

            The cart continued along the uneven road, the passengers feeling every bounce ad jounce of the wheels over the stones. In just a few hours, they would arrive in Horizon Mount. Beyond that, nothing was certain.

Crooked Pass from Stormsrock by Mark Harris

This is the first chapter of Stormsrock, the fantasy novel I'm working on. It focuses on Aerith, a member of a mountain clan called the Red Ravens. This is the character that I've written the most for and who's storyline has advanced the furthest (along with Sakun, a character you'll meet soon), so I thought it would be a good place to start. Aerith's story is one of the darker, more bloody stories compared to the other four main characters, with key themes of love, revenge, and power.

Crooked Pass

Black crows glided around the rocky peaks of Crooked Pass, high in the Aphralon Mountains. The falling rays of the sun struggled to pass through the thick blanket of dark clouds. A group of clansmen were gathered around a crackling fire, drinking and laughing, as a large bird was being twisted around a spit, fat dripping from its wings and into the flames. From out of their midst a flag rose, a crimson raven painted in blood on off-white cloth.

            A fair distance away from the camp, a young man sat on the side of the cliff. The rock he was sitting on was overlooking a thin, twisting road with rocky cliffs on either side.  His name was Aerith. He was sipping from a silver flask, but it was not alcoholic. He was on watch duty, and he needed full control over his senses. Aerith breathed in deeply, absorbing the cool night air. His eyes gazed down upon the road, trying to see if anyone or anything was nearby. A lone figure, a creature, anything. He brushed his long, ebony, hair away from his eyes. I need to get that cut; it’s getting in the way, he thought. His ears were carefully poised, ready to pick up any unwelcome noises. There were the regular distant calls of animals and beasts, and the din back at camp, but he needed to hear beyond that, if he was to hear anyone approaching before they were close enough to stick a knife in his gut. He ran a finger gently across the blade of his axe. The edge was sharp, sharp enough, at least. It was a short, one handed weapon made of steel, with strips of leather wrapped around the handle for grip. It was a crude, simple weapon, but that was all that was needed for a fight. Weapons strewn with decorations and encrusted with gemstones were nice to behold, but served no purpose. A weapons only purpose is to kill, he reflected.

Aerith would have liked to be with the others around the fire, but in a way he preferred to be here, in solitude, with what seemed to be the whole world beneath him. But he could not pretend to enjoy the gripping cold. It always seems to be getting colder nowadays. He was garbed in thick cloth and animal skins, but the hairs on his arms and legs still stood on end whenever the icy wind blew across the peaks. Although he generally disregarded all sound from the camp, there was one voice that he paid rapt attention to. She was a girl a couple of years younger than himself, with flowing auburn hair, and a voice that made his heart sing. Her name was Ysabelle. She smiled at him whenever he passed, or whenever she caught him looking in her direction, but she was not his. She belonged to another man, called Turek. Turek was muscular and fierce, with black braids of hair hanging heavily from the crown of his head. He was the leader of their camp, and his authority was indisputable. He was renowned for his ferocity and prowess in battle. In their last skirmish, against another of the mountain tribes, the Earth Men, he had killed five of them, decapitating two. After the Earth Men had retreated, he had brought the two severed heads to Ysabelle, who was clearly repulsed, but could not object to him. If she did, she would be left behind to fend for herself, or worse, killed. He had a feeling that Ysabelle did not even like Turek at all. At least, he hoped not. Suddenly, Aerith heard footsteps behind him, and he turned quickly to see who was there, axe in hand. When he saw it was a friendly face, he relaxed, and rested his weapon back on the ground, alongside his shield.

  “Here,” the incomer said, handing him a leg of the cooked bird. The man’s name was Pathre. Pathre had joined the tribe less than a month after he did, and he was closer to him than anyone else. They often hunted and took watch together. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  He took the leg gratefully, murmuring a word of thanks. Pathre slumped down beside him. “I can see why you like it here. You can see all the way to the sea.”

  “You can,” he paused, before shifting slightly in his seat and asking a question he had been contemplating all evening. “Do you ever wonder what would have become of us if we didn’t join the Ravens?”

  Pathre laughed, “And what, become a beggar in the cold streets of Kilnsguard? Or a common thief? No, I much prefer to be up here, with the rest of you lot. Freedom, companionship, and excitement. What more could you possibly want?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Exactly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than where I am right now. Fancy a game of tactus? I need to beat you for once.”

  “I shouldn’t, I’m on watch.”

  Ignoring his friend’s refusal, Pathre dealt the cards out. “Who’s going to know? And you can keep watch at the same time.”

  Aerith smirked, picking up his hand. “Go on then, it doesn’t exactly take long to beat you.”

            Pathre played more proficiently than he usually did, but nonetheless he was no match for Aerith, and the match was over in less than fifteen minutes. “You cheated. There’s no way you could have known that I had a galamak on the table.”

  “Why else would you have played your avalanche the turn before?” Aerith grinned at Pathre’s disdain.

  “You’re too good,” Pathre concluded, shaking his head. They sat and talked for a short while, but soon a voice called Pathre’s name from the camp. Pathre stood up, and said a brief farewell. And with that, he was gone, and Aerith was once again alone. As the night went on, the voices grew quieter and quieter, until they were completely silent. The noise was replaced by faint groans and snores, and Aerith was the only one awake. You just need to stay awake until they wake up, then you can rest. But even as the thought ran through his head, his eyelids were getting heavier, and it was getting harder and harder to fight off sleep.

Aerith awoke to the creeping light of the morning sun, and the distinct sound of a carriage trundling along the pass below. He cursed himself for falling asleep, but with a glance at camp, he realized that nobody would have noticed, as they were as soundly asleep as he had been a few minutes ago. He rushed over to the camp to rouse them, and alert them of the carriage’s presence. He knelt beside Turek, whose arms were tightly wrapped around Ysabelle, who had a faint look of discomfort etched across her face. Aerith felt a pang of jealousy for a second, but placed it aside, and gently shook Turek into consciousness.

  “What is it?” he growled angrily, his eyes still closed.

  “There’s a carriage on the pass, we don’t have long if we’re going to intercept it.”

  With this news, Turek leapt to his feet, and roared, “Up with you all! Get your gear ready, we’re dropping in on a carriage on the pass!” The rest of them struggled to climb upright as quickly as possible, before grabbing their weapons, a haphazard collection of swords, axes, hammers, spears and bows of all shapes and sizes. A few of them strapped crumpled helmets and beaten chest plates to themselves before nodding at Turek, showing they were ready to follow his orders.

  “As soon as I give the signal, I want bowmen to take down those horses. Everyone else get down to the road as quickly as you can, before they realise what’s going on. Capture everyone you can, and kill anyone you can’t.” He paused a few seconds, waiting for the right moment. “Now!” he yelled. A handful of arrows rained down upon the two horses pulling the carriage, and they let out a cry of pain as the barbed arrowheads buried themselves inside their flesh. Crimson blood trickled down their hides, and they collapsed to the floor. There was the scrambling as the Ravens, twenty or so of them, clambered down the rocks, finding the perfect balance between haste and care. The cliffs were steep, and a small mistake would send them plummeting towards their deaths, but many of the clansmen had lived in the mountains their entire lives, and were proficient at keeping their balance and finding footholds where there seemed to be none. It took less than a minute for the last man to reach the ground, by which time three frightened looking young men had pulled out weapons, and stood outside the carriage, glancing from left to right, trying to keep all of their enemies in their field of vision. There was no point in running away. They would be cut or shot down as they ran. The Ravens were soon upon them. Pathre was at the front of the charge, and was soon battling with one of the men. Their swords clashed three or four times before Pathre found an opening and slashed a deep cut in the man’s hip. The man knelt to the ground, dropping his sword, as blood ran down his legs, and onto the dusty ground. Another Raven thrust his spear into another man’s throat, and blood gushed from the man’s neck, as he fell to the floor, never to rise again. The third man lasted a little longer than the first two, swinging his blade from side to side, parrying and dodging blows from left and right. But he was massively outnumbered, and it was not long before he was slain. Aerith was surprised he did not just surrender, seeing the fate of his comrades. When the defenders were either dead or incapacitated, Turek wrenched open the door of the carriage, to see a finely-dressed woman sat bolt upright inside, sweat pouring down her face.

  “Didn’t anybody tell you not to travel these roads? Tie her up. And him, too,” he commanded, indicating the man Pathre had cut. They did so, and soon Turek was interrogating the two of them. “So who might you be?” he said, with mock politeness, but with an unmistakable undertone of menace.

  The woman held her head high, and answered with as much dignity as possible, “I am Estelia Manescroft, daughter of Lord Manescroft, steward of Kilnsguard.” The man beside her gave her a horrified glance, shocked that she had given away her identity so freely.

  “Aha! It looks like we’ve found ourselves a keeper!” Turek laughed. He turned to the man beside her. “And what’s your name?”

  The man mumbled something incomprehensible. Turek glared at him, and the man repeated, more clearly, “Destrum.”

  “Well, Destrum, I would like you to go back to Kilnsguard, and inform the steward that we have taken his lovely daughter hostage. Tell him we want a thousand golden coins in exchange for her life, and we can do the exchange at this exact spot, in three days’ time, as the sun sets. If he brings anyone with him, we’ll kill his daughter without a moment’s hesitation. You got that?” Destrum nodded weakly. His wound had almost stopped bleeding, but his linen shirt was soaked through with blood.

 “They’ll never believe him,” Estelia said. Aerith was astonished at the woman’s stupidity.

 “Might be you’re right,” said Turek. “Chop off some off her hair, and give it to me.”

  One of the newer Ravens leapt forward, eager to earn Turek’s respect. He took a dagger from his belt, and taking a handful of Estelia’s hair, sawed through it. Estelia looked outraged, but remained silent. She had been lucky, however. Aerith had seen hostages have fingers or worse cut off for proof of their capture.

 “Untie him, and send him on his way.”

  Destrum was passed Estelia’s locks of hair, and untied. Dazed, he stood upright, and started walking hurriedly in the direction that they had come from, obviously pleased to have escaped with his life.

'Hrothgar and the Trolls (lines 5-84)' by Ben Garry

This is the recently redrafted version of my poem, 'Hrothgar and the Trolls'. It is written in Old English alliterative verse, which I learned after reading the unfinished work by J. R. R. Tolkien, 'The Fall of Arthur', and the accompanying essay on Old English alliterative verse. I do not pretend that my attempt at this old alliterative style is perfect, given that I've learnt it from a short essay, but there is something attractive about it that makes it my favourite poetic style. It is a very Anglo/Germanic style of poetry, with rhyme being introduced later by the Normans, and it is fantastic for telling stories of epic heroes and legends. In this poem, I haven't focused a whole lot on the narrative itself, choosing instead to try and get the poetic style right, but I hope you still enjoy this first section of my poem about a young hero pitting himself against the terrible trolls!

The dawn arrived with deepening mists,

River running cold, rill trickling slow,

Grey mantle blanketing the moors around;

Sun’s countenance skulking behind clouds.

Between the boughs of bowing trees,

A groaning gale gusty blew.

Down below the bowels of earth,

Three monstrous maws did man-flesh crave!

The rushing wind winging brought

The flying scent of the flesh they desired.

Tusked mouths gaped and tongues lolled

With thoughts of human heads rolling

Off a gory trunk. Grizzled all over,

Tawny, towering torsos shaggy

Had they, with muddy, muffled feet.

Slimy nostrils out of stubbed noses flared,

As eyeballs dull stared angry out

From rutted wrinkles ‘neath rancid brows.

The humans lived then in humble dwellings;

Yet nonetheless they yearned for little;

Merry they went in mirth and cheer,

Innocent of the troubles that plague our age.

Hrothgar alone heeded the signs:

Daring to see the danger about.

That same morning, murky dawning

He wandered through woodlands chill,

A sapling still, but strongly growing,

Stealthy sliding o’er scrub and brush

While still the village slumbered on.

Not knowing of all to know there was,

Monsters did ne’er to his mind occur –

The wild may bring a wolf or bear,

Or a stumbling stag straying haply.

He considered not that coming his way

Were trolls through trees trampling hard.

Under cover of the cloudy dawn,

The trolls travelled together on.

Their tree trunk legs the forest trashing,

Village climes closer drawing.

Haply Hrothgar, the hurricane noise,

Timely heard and turned around,

With bow bravely brought about.

On the delicate curved bringer of death,

He fitted a dart, feathered and sharp.

Lying down in lofty grass,

He watched the trolls go wallowing past,

Tearing about them ancient trees,

Quashing earth with quaking steps.

Hesitating not Hrothgar went,

Tracking the trail the trolls had left,

Running with a ready bow,

Valiantly surging for village dear.

Ahead through leaves appeared a hide!

He aimed an arrow to arc towards

The fur and thickly folded skin,

Lodging fast. Loudly roaring,

The troll stumbled. Turning, Hrothgar

Sideways rolled, as with strides checked

The trolls stopped. Stillness descended.

His breathing Hrothgar bound with chains,

Sniffing, the trolls snorting waited.

Meaty mountains, mighty swaying:

Five great foes, furious all,

And burning with hunger for human flesh.

Blood slipped down the big one’s hide,

The arrow lodging ever deep;

An irritant, an irksome pain –

This foul brute was not yelled felled.

Then shooting again from shadowed leaves

Hrothgar aimed higher this time.

A flashing sting flew truly

Into a loutish, lumpy skull.

A deadly wound dealt at least;

Brought low the beast to bracken fell.

Slyly skipping, slipping clear,

Hrothgar evaded the hands of his foes,

As they turned again for the town.