Kurisu
10-19-2005, 11:57 AM
Ok, here's a story (1300+ words) which will hopefully win me £100...I wish. It's a fantasy, and I know it has some faults, in grammer and such, but i'm more interested, do I have ability in writing?:
A Final Stand
The Verdantian King rose, his stiff joints creaking as he stretched, bathed in the morning sun. As his eyes adjusted to the light, revealed by his open curtains, he reminisced about yesterday; a messenger had brought news of an enigmatic and frightening occurrence. It had come from the south, a vivid omen of destruction…and death. It seemed that a border outpost had been…deserted, for want of a better word. Clothes, armour, weaponry; all had been discarded, scattered around the keep. It was not just bewildering, but terrifying. There was no possible explanation for this sudden disappearance.
King Aethlek did not like mysteries, and did certainly not like this one, with its prospect of death.
As he finished donning his robes, the chamber door surged open, a retinue of guards, escorting a flustered looking man, entered. Aethlek slowly turned around, a thunderous look up his aged face.
“What the hell is going on!?” He shouted, enraged at the interruption. His face softened as he saw who the surrounded man was. The messenger had returned.
“Si…sire, I apologise for the intrusion, but…it…it’s happened again,” murmured the man, bowing his head.
Aethlek looked onwards, through his arched window, an expression of forlorn emptiness on his time worn features. His mind shut off, and he collapsed to the floor, his limp body falling into the soft embrace of his bed sheets.
Aethlek swiped at his court surgeon, leaning up to support his shaking body.
“Leave, I have to get back…I need to sort this out…” He folded back his sheets, still quivering slightly, as the surgeon protested. The recovering Aethlek ignored him.
“I can get through this, just leave. Now.”
As the still-complaining surgeon was ushered back to the court, Aethlek stood up, leaning against the bedpost for support. Still fully clothed, he took a cane from his rack, and, supported on the elegantly carved tip, stumbled outwards, wandering down the halls, until he came to the conference chambers.
The room was full of his ministers, a clamour of discussion and arguments silencing as Aethlek entered. He stood in the doorway, a vision of epic majesty, covered in the dusk’s sweet radiance.
“What,” he enquired, “have I missed?”
His First Minister stood, a sombre aura cloaking his stout form.
“Grave news, sire…the citadel of Krenai has been…struck.”
“Damn! I thought their defences were impenetrable. What the hell is happening here?”
“Sire, we don’t know. I know it’s bizarre, but we have no ideas about what exactly is hitting us. However…we know one thing. Whatever it is, it’s heading this way. And we must prepare.”
“The whoresons…what the hell do they want anyway, and what the hell are they doing?”
“Well, We didn’t know if this was relevant, but it seems that all reports talk of either ‘a vast iron wall’ or ‘a dark shadow’.”
“Bugger that. Whatever they are, a sword across the neck should be enough to stop them. When do these ‘reports’ say they should arrive?”
“Within the next four days, sire. We’re unsure of what to do. Evacuation seems to be the most sensible opt-“
“I’ll decide man, I’m the bloody King! Whoever heard of a Verdantian coward? Ready the defences, evacuate the townsmen, and call in our military surplus. See if we can get any of our vassals to lend us men. Advertise for mercenaries. If we’ve got a fight on our hands, we’d best make it a bloody good one. Any objections?”
The room remained silent, until Aethlek motioned for his ministers to leave. The din and discussion resumed as Aethlek moved aside, his most important advisors crowding the door.
When he was finally alone, Aethlek sat down, settling his wearing frame into his ornate oak chair. As he relaxed, he sighted the jewelled scabbard on the wall. Inside was his prize blade, Feyrebrand, forged with the finest steel, and the blood of the founder of Verdantia, it was tinted red, letting off a fiery glow whenever the sun shone on it.
He stood, maintaining his regal posture, and approached the wall. He removed the scabbard, he arm straining to lift the heavy load, and rested it on the table. He set his cane next to it, then slid out the blade, his right hand settling on the leather hand grip, his left grasping the tip of the scabbard.
He hefted the heavy weapon two-handed, giving an experimental swing. The balance was as perfect as he remembered, the grip worn, but still rough and enduring. As he returned the blade to its home, he gave a slight smile, and spoke quietly.
“Men, when the time comes, you will not be fighting alone…”
Over the next two days, armourers and blacksmiths set to work, engineers began assembling ballistae, and foreign military forces arrived. Aethlek travelled through the castle-keep; talking to the soldiers he knew, wishing luck, and trying to bring up morale. Reports were more certain now, but they still seemed like nonsense. All they talked of was a wall of iron, steadily moving forward, never stopping. Time had not told of this, and so ‘it’ was expected to arrive tomorrow, at dusk. As the bleeding sun began to set, he returned to his chambers, retiring for the day.
He awoke on the final morning, the sun shining on his face. He mind was filled with anticipation of the coming battle, as he walked to his private armoury. The door creaked as he opened it, and the rays of light glanced off his plate mail.
He gingerly placed his chain undercoat over his head, threading his arms through. Gathering the plate mail from the stand, he strapped it around himself. Although it was heavy, pride and adrenaline kept it from weighing him down. He strode back to his chambers, carefully placing his flowing robes as to cover up his steel boots and leg-guards.
The noon passed without event, the contemplative silence filled with muffled prayers coming from the soldiers’ quarters.
As the main forces readied on the battlements, the sun began its descent, fading towards the crystal seas.
Ballistae were readied, as the dying light shone off of the marching iron wall.
Reports could not have done it justice. It glinted a brilliant silver, and all could not help but stare.
All but Aethlek. To him, it was just another adversary. He shifted his cloak slightly, revealing the leather grip of Feyerbrand.
“Soon,” he whispered.
For a minute all was silence, and the wall halted. On closer inspection, Aethlek could see it was a mass of shields, composed in a turtle formation, sliding over the top of each other.
‘Perhaps enough to stop incompetent arrows,’ he thought, ‘but not for my mighty ballistae!’
As the wall began to resume its steady advance, the silence was shattered.
“FIRE!!!”
The strings on the ballistae were cut, the enormous bolts hammering down onto the opposition.
Aethlek closed his eyes, smiling in anticipation, awaiting the screams of the wounded and dying. A look of bewilderment crossed his face, yet again, about the silence. He looked over the battlements. Where the shields had been shattered, there was just black mist. But it had form. And it continued its advance.
He swore, throwing off his cloak, and pulling out Feyrebrand, holding it in the air, a shining beacon of hope and glory.
“SEE WHAT BLADES CAN DO, YOU BASTARDS!”
With an enormous roar, his comrades joined his charge. Surging out of the gate, a tide of anger and death smashed into the mist, Aethlek and his forces chanting ‘VERDANTIA!!!’ and they ran, cutting a swathe through the mist.
But the mist reformed, flowing gently over the mystified warriors, devouring them.
As Aethlek led another attack, he knew that all hope was lost, and he was done for. So he ran. He dived, with his sword extended. He buried it in the earth; it’s blade shining bloody red, and, he too, fell.
Writhing in agony, his last thought was of his empire, and what would become of it, with his demise…
A Final Stand
The Verdantian King rose, his stiff joints creaking as he stretched, bathed in the morning sun. As his eyes adjusted to the light, revealed by his open curtains, he reminisced about yesterday; a messenger had brought news of an enigmatic and frightening occurrence. It had come from the south, a vivid omen of destruction…and death. It seemed that a border outpost had been…deserted, for want of a better word. Clothes, armour, weaponry; all had been discarded, scattered around the keep. It was not just bewildering, but terrifying. There was no possible explanation for this sudden disappearance.
King Aethlek did not like mysteries, and did certainly not like this one, with its prospect of death.
As he finished donning his robes, the chamber door surged open, a retinue of guards, escorting a flustered looking man, entered. Aethlek slowly turned around, a thunderous look up his aged face.
“What the hell is going on!?” He shouted, enraged at the interruption. His face softened as he saw who the surrounded man was. The messenger had returned.
“Si…sire, I apologise for the intrusion, but…it…it’s happened again,” murmured the man, bowing his head.
Aethlek looked onwards, through his arched window, an expression of forlorn emptiness on his time worn features. His mind shut off, and he collapsed to the floor, his limp body falling into the soft embrace of his bed sheets.
Aethlek swiped at his court surgeon, leaning up to support his shaking body.
“Leave, I have to get back…I need to sort this out…” He folded back his sheets, still quivering slightly, as the surgeon protested. The recovering Aethlek ignored him.
“I can get through this, just leave. Now.”
As the still-complaining surgeon was ushered back to the court, Aethlek stood up, leaning against the bedpost for support. Still fully clothed, he took a cane from his rack, and, supported on the elegantly carved tip, stumbled outwards, wandering down the halls, until he came to the conference chambers.
The room was full of his ministers, a clamour of discussion and arguments silencing as Aethlek entered. He stood in the doorway, a vision of epic majesty, covered in the dusk’s sweet radiance.
“What,” he enquired, “have I missed?”
His First Minister stood, a sombre aura cloaking his stout form.
“Grave news, sire…the citadel of Krenai has been…struck.”
“Damn! I thought their defences were impenetrable. What the hell is happening here?”
“Sire, we don’t know. I know it’s bizarre, but we have no ideas about what exactly is hitting us. However…we know one thing. Whatever it is, it’s heading this way. And we must prepare.”
“The whoresons…what the hell do they want anyway, and what the hell are they doing?”
“Well, We didn’t know if this was relevant, but it seems that all reports talk of either ‘a vast iron wall’ or ‘a dark shadow’.”
“Bugger that. Whatever they are, a sword across the neck should be enough to stop them. When do these ‘reports’ say they should arrive?”
“Within the next four days, sire. We’re unsure of what to do. Evacuation seems to be the most sensible opt-“
“I’ll decide man, I’m the bloody King! Whoever heard of a Verdantian coward? Ready the defences, evacuate the townsmen, and call in our military surplus. See if we can get any of our vassals to lend us men. Advertise for mercenaries. If we’ve got a fight on our hands, we’d best make it a bloody good one. Any objections?”
The room remained silent, until Aethlek motioned for his ministers to leave. The din and discussion resumed as Aethlek moved aside, his most important advisors crowding the door.
When he was finally alone, Aethlek sat down, settling his wearing frame into his ornate oak chair. As he relaxed, he sighted the jewelled scabbard on the wall. Inside was his prize blade, Feyrebrand, forged with the finest steel, and the blood of the founder of Verdantia, it was tinted red, letting off a fiery glow whenever the sun shone on it.
He stood, maintaining his regal posture, and approached the wall. He removed the scabbard, he arm straining to lift the heavy load, and rested it on the table. He set his cane next to it, then slid out the blade, his right hand settling on the leather hand grip, his left grasping the tip of the scabbard.
He hefted the heavy weapon two-handed, giving an experimental swing. The balance was as perfect as he remembered, the grip worn, but still rough and enduring. As he returned the blade to its home, he gave a slight smile, and spoke quietly.
“Men, when the time comes, you will not be fighting alone…”
Over the next two days, armourers and blacksmiths set to work, engineers began assembling ballistae, and foreign military forces arrived. Aethlek travelled through the castle-keep; talking to the soldiers he knew, wishing luck, and trying to bring up morale. Reports were more certain now, but they still seemed like nonsense. All they talked of was a wall of iron, steadily moving forward, never stopping. Time had not told of this, and so ‘it’ was expected to arrive tomorrow, at dusk. As the bleeding sun began to set, he returned to his chambers, retiring for the day.
He awoke on the final morning, the sun shining on his face. He mind was filled with anticipation of the coming battle, as he walked to his private armoury. The door creaked as he opened it, and the rays of light glanced off his plate mail.
He gingerly placed his chain undercoat over his head, threading his arms through. Gathering the plate mail from the stand, he strapped it around himself. Although it was heavy, pride and adrenaline kept it from weighing him down. He strode back to his chambers, carefully placing his flowing robes as to cover up his steel boots and leg-guards.
The noon passed without event, the contemplative silence filled with muffled prayers coming from the soldiers’ quarters.
As the main forces readied on the battlements, the sun began its descent, fading towards the crystal seas.
Ballistae were readied, as the dying light shone off of the marching iron wall.
Reports could not have done it justice. It glinted a brilliant silver, and all could not help but stare.
All but Aethlek. To him, it was just another adversary. He shifted his cloak slightly, revealing the leather grip of Feyerbrand.
“Soon,” he whispered.
For a minute all was silence, and the wall halted. On closer inspection, Aethlek could see it was a mass of shields, composed in a turtle formation, sliding over the top of each other.
‘Perhaps enough to stop incompetent arrows,’ he thought, ‘but not for my mighty ballistae!’
As the wall began to resume its steady advance, the silence was shattered.
“FIRE!!!”
The strings on the ballistae were cut, the enormous bolts hammering down onto the opposition.
Aethlek closed his eyes, smiling in anticipation, awaiting the screams of the wounded and dying. A look of bewilderment crossed his face, yet again, about the silence. He looked over the battlements. Where the shields had been shattered, there was just black mist. But it had form. And it continued its advance.
He swore, throwing off his cloak, and pulling out Feyrebrand, holding it in the air, a shining beacon of hope and glory.
“SEE WHAT BLADES CAN DO, YOU BASTARDS!”
With an enormous roar, his comrades joined his charge. Surging out of the gate, a tide of anger and death smashed into the mist, Aethlek and his forces chanting ‘VERDANTIA!!!’ and they ran, cutting a swathe through the mist.
But the mist reformed, flowing gently over the mystified warriors, devouring them.
As Aethlek led another attack, he knew that all hope was lost, and he was done for. So he ran. He dived, with his sword extended. He buried it in the earth; it’s blade shining bloody red, and, he too, fell.
Writhing in agony, his last thought was of his empire, and what would become of it, with his demise…