Post by Ahryantah on Jun 22, 2004 15:41:25 GMT -5
To help get post count back up and because it was deleted from before, here is the prologue of the fantasy novel I'm working on. Any comments are welcome and appreciated.
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Smoke and dust filled the air; the field was on fire.
Screams resounded across the plain, not of triumph or defeat, but of the exhausted frustration that had encroached upon the scene, leaving the initial battle lust as dead as the thousands of bodies that littered the ground. The battle had stretched on for what seemed like days. It was only late afternoon, the first of the two suns sitting serenely on the broad horizon like a god who had noticed its creations doing something odd and had decided to stop and take a look. The sun had watched the battle from the very beginning, from when it had been for honor and principle, and then for survival, and now for nothing. Weapons still pierced fragile bodies and spells still incinerated them, but it was methodical now as horrified young warriors, most of whom had never seen blood, continued to fight because some vague corner of their minds told them it was what they were supposed to do.
He was on the ground, having fallen some time ago, and was too exhausted to get up. He had waited for the killing blow that he knew was soon to come; his enemies would not show pity on him, despite his weakened state and lack of weapon. He was the Araithus, after all, and the reason it had come to this, why so many were fighting and dying on this field while the sun calmly watched. He glimpsed the sun, fat and orange and slowly slipping from view, through a temporary clearing in the dust. The god metaphor came to his mind immediately, and he briefly wondered if his sun-worshiping enemies had seen the same symbolism, and if they thought it meant they were winning. Not that it mattered. So many had been killed, on both sides. His eyes closed as he remembered the long list of friends and family that had passed beyond the world. It was not supposed to be this way.
His eyes flew open as something large thudded to the ground next to him. For a moment he thought his time had finally come. Then his gaze strayed to the body of a man . . . no, it was only a boy . . . with a sword lodged through his chest. It was one of the enemy who had fallen next to him.
He noticed the make of the sword identified it as also belonging to the enemy.
“So this is how it goes,” he sighed. He tried to see the sun again, but the temporary clearing was gone, and all around him was dirt and chaos. The nearby fighters seemed to move in slow motion, and he saw every drop of blood that flew through the air and hit the red-stained ground, every mangled limb that found itself violently cut from its body. He was tired of this. Why hadn’t they killed him yet?
He heard a groan and realized the boy next to him was still alive. What of it? It was no concern of his if the boy’s own army was killing their own. It didn’t matter if the slaughter was intentional or not. The end was the same.
“Help . . ..”
The Araithus sighed again and looked at the boy, who was imploring him with tear-stained eyes, and wondered, scornfully, if the boy could not see properly. Did he not realize he was asking for help from an enemy, indeed, the enemy? Was the pain so great that the boy wished to die immediately, and so sought for one who would fulfill his wish?
Almost without realizing it, the Araithus put one hand on the boy’s arm. He could see that the sword had penetrated through the chest and out the other side, and he marveled that the boy was even still alive.
“I can do nothing to save you,” the Araithus said quietly, making sure he was speaking the same language as the boy, whose one feeble word had identified him as preferring Kandelian. He had been to enough deathbeds to know that all doomed souls spoke their mother tongue upon the threshold of death, as all life’s constructs fell away and left only instinct.
“The wound is too deep. All I can do is take some of the pain away.”
The boy’s pained features gave way to relief as numbness flowed through his body. The spell was effective but would not kill the boy. Blood loss would soon do that, but the boy would be sent pain-free to whatever afterlife he believed in. The boy’s face filled with gratitude as he realized what was happening, and as his features softened the Araithus noticed the warrior was actually female, and she died there next to him, her life’s promise flowing from her body and onto his hands.
The first sun disappeared. He still held the girl, and he still had not been killed. He barely flinched when a hand grabbed his arm.
“Araithus! You are alive! Come, we have decided to try it!”
“No.” It had not come to this. It could not be so hopeless. The Araithus tore his eyes from the dead girl. “I am in command here. Only I will decide when to try it.”
“We are outnumbered!” the warrior argued. One arm was held to his side by a hastily-applied bandage. “We have no choice! Would you see us be annihilated?” He got no further before a wisely-aimed arrow suddenly appeared, lodging itself deep into his neck. He fell as his leader stared and wondered why he had not yet come to a similar fate. A year ago he would have been horrified at the death, but now none of it seemed to matter. He was tempted to stand and spread his arms wide, but yet he had a feeling the battle would rage still all around him, bodies falling, blood spilling, weapons sliding through flesh, and he would not receive a mark. Birth was his sin and living was his curse, and he had not paid penance enough to whatever higher power controlled such things. He stared at the horror around him, and a grim smile tinged with mania appeared on his face. The fighting would not end until he was gone. Death refused to claim him, but there was another way.
He stood up and struggled through the fighting, trying to find some semblance of organization among his own troops. Seeing a battered pennant bearing his symbol on the ground, he picked it up and thrust it high. Almost immediately he heard shouts.
“Araithus!”
“The banner!”
“He is alive!”
They came to him, as he knew they would. So few, but they came. They gathered around him, some covered in wounds and barely able to stand, all risking painful death, and still they came. He thought for a moment he would be sick.
“I am going to try it!” he said to them. “There is no other way to win this battle!” He did not say what he had already planned to do after the fighting had stopped. Their knowing would not change anything.
They agreed, as he knew they would. They surrounded him, offering their own bodies as protection while he cast. The Araithus closed his eyes, momentarily sure that he had forgotten the spell, but that was just his old insecurity come back to haunt him. He could not forget the spell, for it was part of him, part of what he was.
He began to cast, and felt the earth tremble. Sapping his own energy, he drew from everyone around him. He took the last bits of strength from those who were dying and added it to the spell. He took every last drop from his surrounding warriors, not noticing when two of them dropped to the ground in a faint. He might have even taken some from the enemy. The trembling increased and lightning broke the sky. Clouds appeared from nowhere as flames spontaneously erupted throughout the field. Rain began to lash down, fueling the fire instead of extinguishing it, and the warriors began to burn. Some others tried to run, but were bogged down in the thick mud the rain created as it saturated the dust. The Araithus staggered under the effort, under the destructive power that he controlled, under the lives that he took. He raised his wet face to the sky, tears and rain mingling and running into his eyes, and suddenly laughed. His supporters, the ones that were still conscious, tore their gazes from the horrific scene below and stared at him, watching dumbly as their leader and their hope collapsed and moved no more.
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Smoke and dust filled the air; the field was on fire.
Screams resounded across the plain, not of triumph or defeat, but of the exhausted frustration that had encroached upon the scene, leaving the initial battle lust as dead as the thousands of bodies that littered the ground. The battle had stretched on for what seemed like days. It was only late afternoon, the first of the two suns sitting serenely on the broad horizon like a god who had noticed its creations doing something odd and had decided to stop and take a look. The sun had watched the battle from the very beginning, from when it had been for honor and principle, and then for survival, and now for nothing. Weapons still pierced fragile bodies and spells still incinerated them, but it was methodical now as horrified young warriors, most of whom had never seen blood, continued to fight because some vague corner of their minds told them it was what they were supposed to do.
He was on the ground, having fallen some time ago, and was too exhausted to get up. He had waited for the killing blow that he knew was soon to come; his enemies would not show pity on him, despite his weakened state and lack of weapon. He was the Araithus, after all, and the reason it had come to this, why so many were fighting and dying on this field while the sun calmly watched. He glimpsed the sun, fat and orange and slowly slipping from view, through a temporary clearing in the dust. The god metaphor came to his mind immediately, and he briefly wondered if his sun-worshiping enemies had seen the same symbolism, and if they thought it meant they were winning. Not that it mattered. So many had been killed, on both sides. His eyes closed as he remembered the long list of friends and family that had passed beyond the world. It was not supposed to be this way.
His eyes flew open as something large thudded to the ground next to him. For a moment he thought his time had finally come. Then his gaze strayed to the body of a man . . . no, it was only a boy . . . with a sword lodged through his chest. It was one of the enemy who had fallen next to him.
He noticed the make of the sword identified it as also belonging to the enemy.
“So this is how it goes,” he sighed. He tried to see the sun again, but the temporary clearing was gone, and all around him was dirt and chaos. The nearby fighters seemed to move in slow motion, and he saw every drop of blood that flew through the air and hit the red-stained ground, every mangled limb that found itself violently cut from its body. He was tired of this. Why hadn’t they killed him yet?
He heard a groan and realized the boy next to him was still alive. What of it? It was no concern of his if the boy’s own army was killing their own. It didn’t matter if the slaughter was intentional or not. The end was the same.
“Help . . ..”
The Araithus sighed again and looked at the boy, who was imploring him with tear-stained eyes, and wondered, scornfully, if the boy could not see properly. Did he not realize he was asking for help from an enemy, indeed, the enemy? Was the pain so great that the boy wished to die immediately, and so sought for one who would fulfill his wish?
Almost without realizing it, the Araithus put one hand on the boy’s arm. He could see that the sword had penetrated through the chest and out the other side, and he marveled that the boy was even still alive.
“I can do nothing to save you,” the Araithus said quietly, making sure he was speaking the same language as the boy, whose one feeble word had identified him as preferring Kandelian. He had been to enough deathbeds to know that all doomed souls spoke their mother tongue upon the threshold of death, as all life’s constructs fell away and left only instinct.
“The wound is too deep. All I can do is take some of the pain away.”
The boy’s pained features gave way to relief as numbness flowed through his body. The spell was effective but would not kill the boy. Blood loss would soon do that, but the boy would be sent pain-free to whatever afterlife he believed in. The boy’s face filled with gratitude as he realized what was happening, and as his features softened the Araithus noticed the warrior was actually female, and she died there next to him, her life’s promise flowing from her body and onto his hands.
The first sun disappeared. He still held the girl, and he still had not been killed. He barely flinched when a hand grabbed his arm.
“Araithus! You are alive! Come, we have decided to try it!”
“No.” It had not come to this. It could not be so hopeless. The Araithus tore his eyes from the dead girl. “I am in command here. Only I will decide when to try it.”
“We are outnumbered!” the warrior argued. One arm was held to his side by a hastily-applied bandage. “We have no choice! Would you see us be annihilated?” He got no further before a wisely-aimed arrow suddenly appeared, lodging itself deep into his neck. He fell as his leader stared and wondered why he had not yet come to a similar fate. A year ago he would have been horrified at the death, but now none of it seemed to matter. He was tempted to stand and spread his arms wide, but yet he had a feeling the battle would rage still all around him, bodies falling, blood spilling, weapons sliding through flesh, and he would not receive a mark. Birth was his sin and living was his curse, and he had not paid penance enough to whatever higher power controlled such things. He stared at the horror around him, and a grim smile tinged with mania appeared on his face. The fighting would not end until he was gone. Death refused to claim him, but there was another way.
He stood up and struggled through the fighting, trying to find some semblance of organization among his own troops. Seeing a battered pennant bearing his symbol on the ground, he picked it up and thrust it high. Almost immediately he heard shouts.
“Araithus!”
“The banner!”
“He is alive!”
They came to him, as he knew they would. So few, but they came. They gathered around him, some covered in wounds and barely able to stand, all risking painful death, and still they came. He thought for a moment he would be sick.
“I am going to try it!” he said to them. “There is no other way to win this battle!” He did not say what he had already planned to do after the fighting had stopped. Their knowing would not change anything.
They agreed, as he knew they would. They surrounded him, offering their own bodies as protection while he cast. The Araithus closed his eyes, momentarily sure that he had forgotten the spell, but that was just his old insecurity come back to haunt him. He could not forget the spell, for it was part of him, part of what he was.
He began to cast, and felt the earth tremble. Sapping his own energy, he drew from everyone around him. He took the last bits of strength from those who were dying and added it to the spell. He took every last drop from his surrounding warriors, not noticing when two of them dropped to the ground in a faint. He might have even taken some from the enemy. The trembling increased and lightning broke the sky. Clouds appeared from nowhere as flames spontaneously erupted throughout the field. Rain began to lash down, fueling the fire instead of extinguishing it, and the warriors began to burn. Some others tried to run, but were bogged down in the thick mud the rain created as it saturated the dust. The Araithus staggered under the effort, under the destructive power that he controlled, under the lives that he took. He raised his wet face to the sky, tears and rain mingling and running into his eyes, and suddenly laughed. His supporters, the ones that were still conscious, tore their gazes from the horrific scene below and stared at him, watching dumbly as their leader and their hope collapsed and moved no more.
