Joined: Feb 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 41 Location: The Starless Lands
Sable Tears [Serious Issuse, Battle Sequence] « Thread Started on Jun 27, 2008, 6:13pm »
Here is a book that I began writing some nine months ago.
I'm only going to post some of it, as I plan to publish it someday.
Tell me what you think!
Prologue Battlefield of Blood.
“Today, many men will die,” I muse quietly, leaning on the hilt of my sword, worn with age and use. A helm shaped like the head of a roaring panther rests on my wrinkled brow, lined on the inside with fur. Solid steel greaves, and breastplate and back piece are strapped to my body, gantlets protect my hands and a round shield is slung over my back. My war horse Silvertail paws the ground impatiently at my side, and neighs in anticipation of the fight. A horn gilt with silver on its rims is slung across my saddle horn, and an extra sword is strapped beside it. The sky is covered with black clouds, cutting off the dawn of daybreak, and a light mist rests on the fields I descry from where I stand on a high hill. A banner flutters in the wind at my right, and depicted on its deep blue field is a white eagle in mid flight, clutching a great thorn between its claws, and red flames in its background. I am Nel'star son of Vangrest, General of the Rathnieraros, and Lord of Chelstarion. The banner which flutters at my right is the royal standard of my sovereign, Nilveinia, Queen of Galrenest. I have seen many fields of battle, and celebrated victory when hope was almost gone. But I am no stranger to defeat. More than once, I have been forced to flee with the remnants of my men, despairing of ever having a chance to fight once more. I stand now on the eve of the day, when I once again draw my sword to fight those who have desecrated my country. Far off, I can see the outlines of thousands upon thousands of scarlet and sable tents, and the yellow light of torches and campfires. Sighing, I return my sword to its scabbard, and mount the white stallion. I descend the hill towards my camp, my horse snorting playfully as he trots on light feet towards the camp. The camp rests on another hill, covered mostly with rock and gravel. The hill top upon which my camp rests is flat, and therefore offers great advantages in the outlay of the tents and defenses. The camp is laid out in an almost perfect square, and is defended with multiple layers of wooden palisades, dirt walls, ditches filled with flammable liquid, and trenches filled with spears. A hasty bridge has been constructed across the rows of deadly fortifications, sentries patrolling its length. Rows of archers and spear men stand at attention near ballistas, trebuchets, and catapults, each war machine capable of launching sudden death. As I near the camp, a sentry challenges my advance. “Halt, or we fire!” I reined in my steed, and looked up at the soldier with a smile. “Good evening, Captain Bargrenost.” I saw momentary confusion cloud the officer's bearded face, and then a broad smile. “Let him pass, lads. It's the General.” The archers relaxed their bows sheepishly, and a barrier laid across the bridge was promptly removed. I urged my horse forward, and soon reached my friend. “Well, Beary. Seems as though you've still got a touch of nearsightedness,” I grinned as I dismounted. We exchanged a wrist grip, as I surveyed the tired eyes of my old friend. “If it doesn't get any better, I might have to post a different captain on sentry duty.” Bargrenost's head leaned back, as he let out a howl of laughter. “There your right, Nelly. We can't have our own officers shot at when they come in just because I can't see more than thirty yards clearly.” I smiled again, remounted my horse, and Silvertail resumed his trot down the wooden bridge towards the camp. When we reached the other end, another barrier laid across the last line of defense was removed. White and blue tents of a hundred different shades were pitched in ordered rows, extending in long lines for a half mile in each direction. The officers tents are pitched at the centers of their troops, and mine was at the very heart of the camp, enabling my men to find it at any time. Dismounting my horse, I handed the reins to an aide, and strode within the blue walls of my pavilion. The royal standard stands in a corner of my home, for home I have called this flabby flimsy tent for many years. Removing the polished helmet from my head, I set it down on a work bench, and began to go over the plans that I had used year after year. A smile spread across my face, as I looked at the many campaign blunders I had made during my service in this army. Unsheathing four daggers which lay on the table, I laid them in the exact positions which would be held by my army within a few hours. I stood, and struck a small silver bell at my right with a hammer of the same metal. A tall young man, fully dressed in battle array, strode briskly into the tent, and saluted. “Yes, General.” I surveyed his figure carefully, inspecting his uniform and manner. “Aide Strael, would you alert the commanders that I require their presence here immediately?” The young man saluted smartly, and withdrew. I quickly cleared the table of all unnecessary papers, and after removing several smooth polished stones from a pouch, I laid them on the edges of the map, holding it fully open. A few minutes later, a group of three men wearing richly ornamented armor walked in. A short man with a black beard flecked with white saluted first. “First General Daruor reporting, sir.” Daruor and I had been joint commanders in a raiding expedition into another country when we were only in our twenties. A fiery man, who always fought with vigor, I loved his jolly spirit and strong character. He commanded the bulk of my cavalry, as well as a body of specially trained scouts who acted as the feelers of my army. I could never want for a better man than Daruor. He was my support, helping me when I was too tired to even think, a problem which was now becoming a regular companion. “Third General Rimf reporting, sir.” A tall young man of thirty years old, with a clean shaven face and grey eyes saluted promptly. A cautious man for his age, he was steady as a rock. If you told him to hold a place, he'd stand there until either the enemy had given up, or he had to be dragged away by his officers from the battle during a retreat. Finally, the last officer introduced himself, saluting languidly. “Second General Faineant reporting, sir.” His name describes him completely. He was a middle aged man, with blue eyes that darted to and fro, calculating everything the saw. Golden hair and beard were both edged with white specks. I did not like the man. For one, he was too fond of his cup and plate. For another, he was usually sluggish in his obeying or commanding of orders, and often refused to accompany a raiding party simply because it was his dinner time, and he feared his supper would get cold, and be wasted. I looked each of them in the eye as I spoke. “Gentlemen, today is a day we've been waiting for for many months,” I declared with satisfaction. “We now have the enemy where we want him. He's at least twice our strength, but we have the advantage of the high ground, and more maneuverability for our armies.” “Now, General Daruor, you will take your cavalry and position them on the left of the battlefield here.” I pointed to the map, where a clump of trees blocked a section of the field. “You will hide in that clump of trees until the enemy's flank is within striking distance. Then, and only then will you attack. If all goes well, you will drive in his flank, and allow my men in the center to split the enemy in half. I will then split my men into two groups, and they will each perform a series of obliques in opposite directions, thereby crumpling their men, and giving us the ability to eliminate them at our leisure. General Rimf, your men are the right flank of our army. If you are forced back, nothing will stop the enemy from pushing us off the map, or into the Aar river. General Faineant, you will hold your troops in support, and wait to see which area of the army needs help. Understood, Gentlemen?” The three nodded, again saluted, and exited my tent. I sat down wearily, sighing with relief as I leaned back into the fur pelts which were draped over my high backed chair. Grasping again the silver hammer, I struck the bell and sat straight in my chair. Strael, my favorite aide, once again responded promptly to my summons. “Strael, will you please tell the cooks to not strike the dinner bell, but rather to have runners wake the men quietly. We have two hours before we assemble on the field of battle.” “Yes, sir.” The young man exited silently from the tent, and I soon had the satisfaction of hearing the soft footfalls of the men passing my tent, as they quietly went to breakfast. Standing, I placed my helmet on my head, and walked out of the blue walls which I called home. Mounting my impatient warhorse, I turned Silvertail's head towards the bridge, and soon was riding up the hill where I had stood only a half hour before. Upon reaching the summit, I caught some movement on the plain below. Examining the field below carefully, I saw a man on horseback riding away from the enemy camp. I wouldn't have given it a second thought, except that the man wore the blue and silver of Chelstarion. “What in the world was he doing at the enemy camp?” I whispered to Silvertail, puzzled in the extreme. Clicking softly twice my horse, I rode down to meet the man, keeping one hand on the pommel of my sword. The man slowed his approach as he became aware of my presence. I stopped the horse only when we were stirrup to stirrup. “Name and number, soldier.” The soldier hastily saluted. “Vergard of the fifth column, sir. Number 21745.” The soldier wore the standard armor of Chelstarion, and his face was handsome. “Well, Vergard. What were you doing at the enemy camp, and who ordered you to do so?” “General Faineant sent me, sir.” “And for what purpose did he order you to do so?” “He said that you had ordered a challenge to be sent to the enemy, sir. I was to carry a scroll and give it to the commanding general of the enemy, stating where we should fight.” “Do you know what was contained in the scroll General Faineant gave to you?” The soldier shook his head. “No, General, sir. I can't read or write. And besides, its none of my business to look into the general's orders.” I shifted in my saddle, as thoughts poured through my mind. “Very well. Will you inform General Faineant to meet me on the observation hill as soon as is practical?” The soldier saluted. “Yes, sir.” I nodded my head in recognition. “Dismissed.” The horseman galloped off in the direction of the camp, and I smiled grimly as I returned to my place of observation. My bodyguard joined me a few moments later. Tall, muscular, skilled in the use of sword, bow, and spear, each man a veteran of numerous battles, they were my closest friends. I loved them all as brothers, for we had shared many a soggy loaf of bread, and hunk of dry cheese. I have been through many a skirmish and ambush with these men, and each of them had proven their willingness to give his life for me, just as I would do for them. Tears came to my eyes, as I ran my hand along a scar which crossed my throat, the result of a spear hurled by an assassin. Brostfrin, my firstborn son, had attempted to take the hurled dart, but had instead received another through his heart, a parting shaft from the assassin's companion. He was very young at the time, being the first soldier in the army to become aide to the general at nineteen years old. Brushing away the tears, I looked down on the field again, and nodded in satisfaction at seeing columns of men in the blue and silver of Chelstarion, marching onto the field under their separate commanders. The dull crunch of horseshoes on gravel announced the arrival of General Faineant. I turned in my horse and looked at the fat man dressed in elegant robes and armor, sitting atop a grey dappled mare which was ascending the hill at a leisurely pace. I motioned with my right hand, and Faineant stopped the mare when he was at my stirrup. I scanned his face out of the corner of my eye, while I pretended to watch the battlefield. A look of fearful anticipation showed on his face, even though he tried to hide it behind a passive smile. I turned fully towards him and looked him in the eye. “General, your actions have been lazy and quite frankly disrespectful to the higher command. I had thought that your troops would be out on the field by now, taking their position on the battle grounds as we had discussed, but it appears that they still haven't left camp. Why is that?” The officer squired almost imperceptibly in his saddle. “General, sir, my men were the last to come to the breakfast pots, because the other two commanders were feeding their men already.” I smiled knowingly. “General, if you had alerted your men sooner, as I had requested you to do, this might not have come to this. After we finish this battle, I feel it my duty to relieve you of your general's command, and will have to demote you to the rank of captain. If your conduct proves you still further lax in your office as captain, I will demote you to the rank of sentry guard.” Faineant's face grew red with rage, and he sat straighter in his saddle, and attempted to speak, but I silenced him with a motion of my hand. “Lazy and slow officers will not be tolerated in this camp. Officers must see to it that my orders are carried out promptly and quickly. Those who do not do this will be demoted. On numerous occasions I have spoken to you about your conduct, and have asked you to change it in the future, but you still seem bent on having things your own way, so military law must take precedence over all that I have tried to do. Do you understand, General?” The fat man's face turned white with shock, as he digested the information I had just posed to him. “Yes, sir,” he answered slowly, and saluted more promptly than I had seen him do in many a year. I turned my eyes back to the battlefield, and nodded in satisfaction as General Faineant's men took their places on the battle lines. “Now then. General, I must ask you one more question, before I release you to your men. You sent a rider out to the enemy camp without informing me of what your intentions were. What would have happened to that man if he had come back and been found communicating with the enemy without the higher command's approval? He would be shot as a traitor, and so would the officer who had sent him. Why did you send a rider?” Faineant's face turned first cherry red, and then white. “General, the rider which I sent delivered the terms of surrender which we had discussed together a few months ago.” I searched the fat man's face for any sign of indecision. “Very well. You may return to your troops.” The general saluted quickly, and trotted down the hill towards his troops. I turned to one of the men at my right. “Captain Tero, what do you think of General Faineant?” The massive man shifted in his saddle, and a look of merriment shone within his eyes. “Sir, I think that he will simply love being a captain,” he laughed heartily, and the rest of his comrades joined him. “No more comfortable tent, no more food four times or more a day. No more sitting indoors while its raining. Aye, sir, he'll find it a whole new experience.” I laughed with them, simply taking in the deep notes emitted by my guard. I slapped the back of Tero, and wiped the tears of merriment from my face. “Well, my friends. Today is the day we've been waiting for. For many months, we have maneuvered our enemy across the land, attempting to find an area where we would have a chance at victory. Today, we will know whether we have wasted those months, or if the fruit of victory will be our prize today.” The men nodded and expressed their absolute agreement. The blaring of iron trumpets caught my attention, as the enemy exited from their camp three miles away, and began to mass in lines of battle. Nodding towards an aide, a silver horn was blown three times, alerting our troops to prepare. The black and scarlet soldiers came on, yelling a fierce war cry, and drums began to beat. Thick clouds formed a black dome above us, cutting off the light of the sun, and creating a darkness which made the day appear to be night. Black and scarlet banners fluttered in the midst of the enemy's lines, as a faint wind blew softly through the fields below. The harsh blast of a horn shattered the quiet, and the enemy cavalry charged down upon our lines. The soldiers of Chelstarion raised the war cry, “Galdon el ter valdoth, Rathnieraros! Galdon et!” (Fight to the death, Rathnieraros! Fight on!) The front ranks planted in their spears, while the lines behind poured into the enemy cavalry a hail of arrows. Horses struck by the shafts screamed in pain and plunged and reared, throwing the enemy into momentary confusion. Riderless horses ran hither and thither over the field, trampling unhorsed men and adding to the confusion. The bulk of the enemy cavalry charged on, unstopped, and crashed into the line of spears. Horses maddened by spear wounds lunged and reared, and the spear men in the front jabbed their weapons into both horse and man, while some who had lost their spears crept beneath the horses' bellies and hamstrung them. The clash of sword on helmet, the dull crunch of blade into flesh, and the screams of the living in pain filled the air. Captain Tero looked down at the battlefield below, and grabbed my arm. “General, look.” I scanned the area he indicated, and the blood in my veins ran cold. Four figures robed in sable garments had ascended a small hillock in the center of the battlefield, and were now standing as still as statues in a courtyard. Suddenly, one of them raised a piercing cry which chilled the very marrow. Raising his right hand, and uttering hideous words which were too terrible to understand, a black fireball shot from his palm, and hurtled crackling through the air. It struck the front rank of my men, and as it passed through man and beast, screams of unutterable pain rent the very heavens. The line of men which had been struck by the fireball had immediately turned to dust, leaving behind pools of molten metal and ashes. As the horror of this fully made itself clear in my mind, the three other figures followed the example of their leader, sending ball after ball of black flame into our lines. Horror, fear, and rage filled my entire being. I turned to the aide at my side, seized a black horn from his saddle bow, and sounded three musical notes on it, one high, one low, and another high. The sharp crunch of gravel crushed by iron shod hooves heralded the ambush I had placed for the enemy, the cavalry of General Daruor on our left flank crashing at full gallop into the right flank of the enemy infantry. I narrowed my eyes, as I surveyed the battlefield carefully. The soldiers of Chelstarion were advancing in the center, despite the panicked resistance of the enemy in their path. Suddenly, cries of panic rang out from the troops on the right flank of Chelstarion, and a lone figure caught my attention, riding like a madman up the hill towards my vantage point. Leaping from his horse before it had stopped, he rolled on the ground, leapt to his feet and saluted. “General, sir, we need General Faineant's troops immediately.” Panic was evident in his face, and urgency filled his words, as the dam which breaks pours forth water from the breach in torrential streams. “The enemy set an ambush for General Rimf, and are driving in his flank. If we do not send the reserves to their assistance, all will be lost, and our entire line will crumble, giving the enemy possession of the high ground, and allowing them to kill our men at will.” I turned towards the aide at my right side. “Sound General Faineant's advance.” Lifting the horn to his lips, my aide blew a sharp blast twice. I kept my eyes on where Faineant sat on his mare in the rear of his troops. He cocked his head in our direction as the signal rang off the hills, and then settled back in his saddle without giving any orders. I ground my teeth in frustration, as the full weight of this defiance to my orders became evident. I turned to my faithful captain on my left. “Tero, how many men did we leave to guard the camp?” His brow creased in hurried calculations. “Five hundred men were left at camp to guard our stores and tents, Captain Bargrenost commanding them. What are your orders, sir?” “I want one of your men to ride to camp as fast as the hunting eagle, and tell the captain and his men to join General Rimf on the right, and help stabilize the ranks there. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” Tero smiled grimly. “Those red wolves will pay for this. Beary'll see to that.” Standing stiffly in his stirrups for the salute, he motioned to an officer in the direction of the camp with a jerk of his head. With a wild yell, the young man plunged his heels into the flanks of his charger, and rode down the hill at a gallop. A high, clear note resounded suddenly through the air, echoing off the hills around us, followed by a series of tremendous roars which shook the very ground upon which we stood. Turning towards a hill on our right, I beheld a sight which blew the feeble flame of hope into a roaring beacon. Upon a hill of black rock stood a white figure flanked on both sides by a line of grey-white panthers. A black horn gilded with silver shapes hung from a grey baldric which crossed his chest, and two drawn blades were in either of his hands. A silver band encircled his head, covering his eyes from my sight, while white hair reached down to his shoulders. Raising his right hand, he yelled a war cry in an unknown tongue, before charging down the hill towards where the shattered flank of my army was being forced back by the enemy. With a chorus of deafening roars, the panthers to either side of him raced down the hill after their leader. The enemy halted in their advance, and turned to face their new foe. The panthers soon caught up with their leader, but slowed slightly in their pace, keep abreast with him in their charge towards the enemy. When a hundred feet from the enemy lines, a strange change occurred with the grew-white panthers. Pushing upward with their powerful back legs, they leapt forward into the air. A blur occurred, and the panthers transformed into men clothed in grey, wielding pale, deadly swords. Crashing into the enemy lines, they drove into it as an ax driven into a block of wood. The white warrior cut down all who opposed him, driving his enemies before like chaff before the storm wind. He swiftly made his way directly towards the small hill where the black sorcerers stood. One of them lifted his right hand, and a black fireball leapt through the air towards the wielder of the two blades. With a flick of his wrist upwards, the fireball dissipated into a puff of smoke, harming none. The black warriors recoiled from his presence, as shadows fleeing from the light, but when he made his stand upon the summit they surrounded him. The white figure seemed to possess a speed and agility surpassing any I had ever seen, for he defended himself with ease, pivoting from one foot to the other, whirling round and round, now attacking one of the black shapes, now attacking another. With the speed of lighting, he cut down his opponents, and then charged down from the hill into the battlefield again, leaving behind four prone figures drenched in blood. I saw General Rimf below, wounded, but still grasping the flag of Chelstarion. Standing erect, he yelled the Rathnieraros war cry, “Galdon el ter valdoth, Rathnieraros! Galdon et!” (Fight to the death, Rathnieraros! Fight on!) Charging headlong into the fray, the soldiers of Chelstarion drove hard into their enemies, and the red wolves were caught between hammer and anvil. The scarlet and black soldiers soon lost heart, and attempted to flee, each man striking down those in front of him, seeking to escape from the crowded plain to the hills. I turned my attention to General Faineant. An officer stood arguing with him, gesturing and stamping his feet in frustration. Finally, the officer leapt upon his horse, seized a horn and blew the advance upon it. The impatient soldiers of Faineant surged forwards and drove hard into their enemies. Turning my attention towards the white warrior and his forces, I saw that he had moved away from the battle quietly, the grey warriors forced their way from the battle, following their leader. Upon reaching the summit of the hill where I had first seen him, he turned for a moment, waved his hand in farewell to me, and I doing the same, and then disappearing over the brow of the hillock with his men. I beckoned to Captain Tero, and rode swiftly to the plain below. General Darour greeted us in the plain below. “Well, General. Looks as if we wupped 'em again,” said he, grinning and patting his brown stallion lovingly. “But not without help unlooked for,” I corrected, grinning in turn. “We have been spared from a dreadful disaster. Let us remember that it is the battle cannot be won by our strength alone, for the battle which is most difficult results in our hearts. Which reminds me, General Darour. Where is Faineant?” Darour nodded gravely, and shifted in his saddle. “He's dead, sir. An arrow from one the those red soldiers struck 'im in the forehead. Killed him instantly.” I smiled grimly. “Then he has received his just reward. If I'm not mistaken, General Darour, he was in communication with the enemy. I intercepted one of our soldiers returning from camp. According to military law, all officers are to receive permission from the higher command before sending out heralds, messengers, or the like. Faineant's further insubordination and sluggish use of his men has confirmed my thoughts.” I turned to Strael, my favorite aide. “Aide Strael, will you send for General Rimf please, and tell him I wish to speak with him here?” Strael stood tall in his saddle. “Yes, sir.” Lashing the horses flanks with the reins, he set off to the right of the battlefield at a gallop. Feeling extremely pleased, I turned towards Tero, captain of my bodyguard. “Tero, will you have one of your men send for Captain Bargrenost? I must speak with him here also.” A wide smile broke on the scarred face of Tero. “Yes, sir,” he roared in laughter, before setting off full speed in the direction of the camp. The sharp crunch of horse hooves on gravel soon reached my ears, as General Rimf arrived, followed closely by Aide Strael. Bandages around his head and left arm were stained with blood, and the sword which he still carried in his hand was broken off at the hilt. “You sent for me, sir,” he smiled joyfully, saluting with his uninjured right arm. “General Rimf. I trust your not too seriously wounded?” I said, as I looked over the bandages. “No sir. Two of the red soldiers set on me at one time. One gave me a slight scratch on the head,” he motioned to the bandage, “and the other gave me a deep slit in my arm. I always try to pay my debts back, and so I gave them the same.” “I'm glad to hear that, General. I always want my men to pay their debts.” The men round us joined in a general laugh. “Now, General. I was given authority by Queen Nilveinia to appoint officers in my army. General Rimf, I now promote you to the rank of Second General of the Army of Chelstarion. General Faineant is dead, and I need a new Second. Do you except?” General Rimf saluted vigorously. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” At that moment, Captain Tero returned with Bargrenost. “Captain Bargrenost. I appoint you to the rank of Third General of the Army of Chelstarion. May your days be long in that post, and I pray that I will find an officer who will not be nearsighted to replace you in sentry duty, else the scouts we send will not wish to return to a camp where its sentry officers shoot at them.” Beary threw back his head and gave vent to a roar of laughter, and he was soon joined in by all the men around us. “And now men,” I continued, removing a flask from my saddle bow, “let us remove the spoils that we have gained. Every man will be given his share of the spoils from the enemy camp, and a portion of ale will be set aside for this evening. Tonight we drink to victory! Tonight we celebrate!” The trumpeters sounded a chorus of silver tones, and my men set off at a steady march towards the enemy camp, my officers and I following more slowly in the rear. Scouts were sent ahead as a precaution, for we were unsure as to whether the enemy had left a garrison in their camp. A long line of fortifications soon greeted our eyes, as we came into view of the camp. Helmets, swords, and shields were lying on the ground in heaps, as if the enemy had thrown off their gear in order to flee swifter. Sending a strong body of well armed men into the camp, I set the rest to collect the weapons and prepare to remove them to our camp. One of the scouts soon returned, and declared that the enemy was no where in sight, and that the camp was unoccupied. I nodded in satisfaction. “We do have a body of men at camp still, Captain Tero?” Tero replied in the affirmative. “Very well. Men, remove all stores, war machines, tents, and everything of value from the camp. Third General Bargrenost, would you please see to it that the fortifications are burned after we leave?” “Yes sir.” The men quietly made their way into camp, weapons drawn and at the ready. More than once the enemy had ambushed us, making their camp appear harmless while waiting to cut us down as we raided it. The men searched each tent individually in groups of ten or twenty men, so that they wouldn't be cut off by a small body of the enemy. My officers and I rode to the enemy officer's tents, and inspected them ourselves. Inlaid tables piled high with detailed maps, highly ornamented armor and weapons were laid out on white furs. Books lay stacked neatly on oak bookshelves, and massive iron bound chests stood along one wall of the tent. Satisfied that no officers remained in their tents, we directed the men to remove all valuables from them. The men quickly gathered all the enemy equipment into bundles, collapsed the tents, and began the four mile walk back to camp. The sun had long been hidden beneath the horizon, and torches were lit and carried by horsemen scattered along the lengthy line of men. Arriving at camp sometime before midnight, we set a watch and retired to our various tents. I entered my tent, and slowly removed my armor. As I sat wearily in my fur covered chair, Aide Strael stepped in. “Sir, if I may, I would like to ask a question.” “Enough of the formalness, Strael. Duties have ended. We are father and son again,” I chuckled slightly. “You did well in your duties today. I'm proud of you, son, and shall always be proud of you. Come, sit.” I pointed to a curiously carved stool which stood near my bedside. The majestic figures of panthers, eagles, and many other animals were carved into each of the three legs, as well as on its surface. My son placed the stool a few feet in front of me, and sat down on it. “Father, who was that white warrior? You've never told me about him, but you seemed so, well, overjoyed when he appeared.” I leaned back into the soft back of my chair, and folded my hands carefully in my lap. “That, my son, is a story which few have heard. I met him when I was a young officer in the Queen's army. He was no soldier, just a traveling wanderer, it seemed. The story if his life is one which was once filled with hatred and despair, until pure joy and hope found him, and he understood his task.”
Joined: Feb 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 41 Location: The Starless Lands
Re: Sable Tears [Serious Issuse, Battle Sequence] « Reply #1 on Jun 27, 2008, 6:16pm »
Chapter 1 Flames of Hate, Pools of Despair.
“Despair and hate. Powerful emotions,” mused Rathnier, as he sat against the rough stone wall of his cell, its cracks lined with hoarfrost. “Emotions the meaning of which I know well. Perhaps too well.” Rathnier sat in a small, square cell. A slab of roughly hewn rock against one wall served as a bed and seat. Stained shirt and trousers clothed his body, and a black iron manacle encircled his right leg, its chain embedded into the rough stone upon which he sat. Closely cropped white hair covered his head. Sable colored eyes filled with unshed tears looked fixedly ahead; deep eyes, like fathomless pools of dark water. A look of quiet despair filled his features, but fiery hatred burned within his sightless eyes. His firm jaw was clenched, and the tendons in his neck were stretched taught, as if a deadly conflict raged within his soul. He appeared to be a boy of seventeen, yet seemed to possess both strength and power of will beyond his years. His skin was tanned, and a black scar ran from his right ear to his chin. He was blind. “Blind. Blind since birth. Why?” Oh, the countless times he had asked himself that question, and the hundreds of answers he had attempted to fabricate. “Why? Why me? Why must I live?” A thought suddenly struck him, and filled him with burning hatred. “Murderers! They killed my father and mother! They brought me here to this living hell! They are the ones who I will hold responsible!” A more calm voice spoke then. “What do you want, then? To live in hatred and despair? To murder all of those who have hurt you until nothing is left of them but a pool of blood?” The first voice replied with burning hatred.“Nay! I am no murderer. I live in this hell year after year, and why? Because cruel Fate and foul murderers destroyed the home I loved, and the only people who cared about me. Revenge! I live to revenge those I love, and to reek that revenge on those murderers. Those whose faces I will never see or touch again.” Though the world was black as night to his eyes, Rathnier could see it in other ways. He would never see the colors of the world in all their splendor, yet his sense of taste, touch, smell, and hearing were more acute than a tiger's. The world which he understood was a colorless one, yet filled with smells, tastes, feelings, and sounds that made up the world he knew. Using these abilities, he had survived. His hatred spoke more calmly now. “I will use these skills in search of revenge. Someday, somehow I will escape. And then I will revenge those whom I love.” The unshed tears began to flow quickly, as the young man buried his face in his two hands. Unable to hide his despair any longer, he began to scream with agonizing grief. “Elarial! Fethlon! Bannor! Lidriel!” His voice rang through the cell, and echoed off the damp walls. “Why did cruel fate and blind hatred tear you from my arms? Why have I lived in hell these years, and not slipped into the sweet forgetfulness of death? Oh! How I have tried to forget the past, but I cannot!” The cell door opened suddenly, and two fully armed guards rushed into the cell, followed by an officer. The two guards surveyed the boy with disgust and hatred. The officer motioned to one of the guards, who began to lash Rathnier with a leather crop. “Shut up, dog! Unless you want to spend your days out in the courtyard!” Flames of hatred sprang into Rathnier's eyes. Moving with the speed of viper, he struck one guard below the chin with his fist, knocking him unconscious. Grasping the other guard by the shoulder and belt, he heaved him into the air and hurled the man through the air and into the officer, both tumbling to the ground and striking their heads against the stone floor. The commotion alerted the guards which stood in the hall, and they rushed in. Two of them stretched Rathnier's arms out, forcing his face to touch the stone bed, while another guard began to beat him with a whip. “Rat! Scum! Trash! Assultin' an 'fficer of the king, eh? You ought to 'ave yer head removed!” Rathnier allowed himself to be lashed unresisting, never even whimpering as the guards continued to beat him mercilessly, though his body trembled with emotion. Finally becoming exhausted, the guard holding the whip stopped, and motioned to his companions to remove the unconscious officer and guards. Standing over the boy, the sneering guard gave a malicious kick in Rathnier's ribs before exiting and locking the cell. Rathnier sat up slowly once the guards were gone. The whip had cut his back in many places, and black blood was oozing out of the wounds, dyeing his torn shirt a deep black color. Laying flat on the floor, he stretched his body and chain to the limit. In this manner he was able to reach a bucket which stood in one corner. Grabbing the handle, he dragged it over to his bed. Removing his shirt, he dipped it into the water, wrung it out, and began to wipe his wounds carefully. Wincing in pain as the ice cold water touched the bloody gashes on his back, he then washed his shirt as best he could. Dumping the water out of the bucket, he slid it across the floor till it stopped beneath the high barred window set in the massive stone walls of his cell. He could hear the merchants in the street calling their wares to their potential customers, and smell fresh baked bread from a baker's shop. He curled up on his stone bed as best he could, and after closing his eyes he soon fell asleep.
O o O o O
The cell echoed with a deep boom as the cell door was thrust open and allowed to ban against the wall. Startled awake, Rathnier sat up in his bed, and sensed that a band of guards stood outside his cell. Four of them marched in. Two held his arms in an iron grip, while another removed the iron band from his leg. Standing him up on his feet, they forced him to move at a quick pace down the corridor, the other guards following in the rear. Emerging into another hall, they strode to an iron door and opened it, revealing a flight of stairs. Ascending this, they finally stepped into an elegantly decorated room. The floor of this room was smooth as glass and carved from white marble. The walls were paneled with cedar boards, and richly ornamented with pictures of birds and flowering vines. Lighted torches stood in silver brackets attached to the walls, and armor and weapons also hung in various places. At an oak table stood a tall man dressed in battle attire, and wearing a sword at his waist. The guards holding Rathnier's arms let go of him, and bowing to the two figures exited the room. From another door at the far end, a group of soldiers wearing black armor positioned themselves near the doors. Rathnier stood where he had been left, his hands at his sides, and his head bowed. The man wore a blue tunic and black trousers, and a belt threaded with gold supported the sword he carried at his waist. The man's hair was a dark brown, and his eyes were slightly green, predominated by grey. The man was handsome, but his features were hard. “Do you know who I am, boy?” “Who doesn't, Lord Saerogan?” The man attempted to look into the boy's downcast eyes. “My task masters say that you can lift loads far heavier than any that the other slaves. You have been fed and clothed here, and had a roof placed over your head. How do you repay us? Where's your gratitude, boy?” Rathnier lifted his face, and allowed the other man to gaze into his tear filled eyes. “Who are you to speak of gratitude?” he spat through clenched teeth. “Have you had your loved ones torn from your arms and murdered? Has a raiding party ever burned down your home, clapped you in chains and sold you to slavery? My family, the only thing on earth dear to me, were torn from my embrace and murdered! And you speak of gratitude?!” Rathnier began to tremble, not with fear, but pure unadulterated hatred. “Have you watched your mother being raped by bandits, and then be butchered by them afterwards?” The flames of hatred flashed in his sightless eyes. “You know nothing of pain and suffering. You and your kind are all alike. You strut in the streets on your fine war horses, and yet won't even stoop to give a hungry man a crust of bread. Grateful? Those who do not practice love and kindness, know not what gratitude means.” Lord Saerogan stood, his face scarlet with rage. “Guards!” he roared. The doors burst open, and the guards charged in, weapons ready. “This boy is to be sent to the slave markets. He is to be sold for whatever my steward will see fit. You may divide half of the money among yourselves. The other half will be distributed among the slave merchants, as a token of my good will towards them.” The guards saluted, and quickly exited the chamber. Rathnier was grabbed by two guards, who quickly fitted a pair of manacles attached to a chain around his wrists. After going through several doors, they came out into the open air. The white citadel rose high above them, and a wall encircled it. Crossing the paved courtyard, they came to an open gate. Here they halted, and one of the men rushed off to see the steward. The man soon returned with a scroll, and they continued down the main street. The city was beautiful. “Beacon of the Morn” it was called in the common tongue, for in the mornings when the sun arose, the white marble houses reflected the suns rays into dazzling beams of refracted light, causing those at a distance to think that the city was on fire.. The main street ran through the city east by west, and ended at either end at a massive double gate. Pushing their way through the crowds traversing the streets, the soldiers soon arrived at a large square. Stalls lined three sides, but a large stone platform stood on the other. Merchants and noble men stood or sat idly talking to one another. The sun now stood at noon. It was springtime, and this was the first sunshine that had shown itself from behind the covering of clouds for weeks. Little children played in and around the stalls, while their mothers sat and gossiped about the latest news in the city. The guards led Rathnier to the stone platform, and the captain spoke in hushed tones to a thin man dressed in rich furs. The man chuckled slightly, and nodded his head vigorously after reading the scroll the captain handed to him. Patting the officer on the back, the thin man walked over to a bronze gong, and sounded it with a small hammer. He then stood on a square piece of stone which elevated him slightly higher on the platform. Opening the scroll again, he quickly reread the contents, and then turned to the gathered buyers. “Come, lords and ladies! Market isn't over! Here we have a handsome male. Look at his arms! He could lift a wagon with it! For 200 Silver Wolves, you can be the owner of this fine specimen. Use him to clean your stables, or have him be a servant in your house. He may look old, but looks are very deceiving. According to this document, this fine specimen is less than 20 years old! What are my bids!” “Two hundred and ten!”cried a ebony skinned merchant. “Two hundred and thirty!” countered a heavy set man wearing a leather tunic and apron covered with burn marks. “Three hundred!” said a tall, young nobleman with a confident smile, removing a gold chain from his neck. The man wearing the leather apron swore roundly, and stalked off. A hooded man wearing a red cloak embroidered with a black symbol removed a large bag from his cloak. “A thousand Silver Wolves,” he said in a smooth voice. Those near him shivered slightly as the words were heard by them. The nobleman's face turned pale with fear, as he hastily donned his necklace and hurried away from the market. The fur-coated man mopped the cold sweat which was streaming down his face. “Sold!” he gasped, before sitting in a chair which an attendant had hurriedly brought from a merchant stall. The hooded man clothed in scarlet placed the bag on the stone platform. Four other men dressed exactly like him stepped out of the crowd, and led Rathnier to a dappled stallion. Removing the shackles from his wrists, one of the men boosted him into the saddle, and then they all mounted horses which stood near by. The first red hood jabbed his spurs into the horses flanks, and with a chorus of fierce neighing, the horses galloped down the main thoroughfare of the city and out the east gate. The reins of Rathnier's horse were held by one of the men on his left, the other men following close behind. The shod hooves of the galloping horses clattered loudly on the marble paved roads which led to and from the city. The flowers which had begun to bloom were closing their flowers as the dusk came on. Black thunderheads were gathering on the western horizon, blocking out the setting sun and casting all the countryside into the half light of evening. They continued riding till the sun had completely disappeared below the horizon, and then set up a small camp a few hundred feet from the rode. While the other men removed blankets from their saddle bags, Rathnier gathered large bundles of sticks and dry branches for the fire, unsure as to what he should do. The men spoke very few words, and those which were spoken were whispered in a strange tongue. One of the hooded figures took a pile of sticks and twigs, and lit them with flint and steel. “Come and eat,” said one of the men who seemed to be the leader. Rathnier sat down next to the fire, and hungrily devoured the bread, sausage, and cheese that the men placed before him on a wooden plate. The men ate silently, and only spoke to each other in whispers so soft that even Rathnier's acute hearing could hardly detect in the still night air. Two of the riders removed the wooden plates, and cleaned them carefully with water from a brook which ran nearby, while the leader removed an object from the folds of his cloak. “What is your name?” he spoke softly, though there seemed to be an edge of grimness in his words. “Rathnier, son of Fethlon,” Rathnier answered, feeling uneasy. The rider murmured some words to another rider in a strange tongue before continuing. “I am Kothar, son of Nandor. I and my companions are on an errand from Zionar, a city to the south. We are the Angetenar, the 'Wanderers of the straight path.' We were sent by Lord Quarsamel, high mage of the Angetenar, and Steward of King Thoskal, on a journey to Arnestil to gather Mirin for the Council of Seven.” “What are Mirin?” Rathnier asked quietly, unsure whether to trust these riders. “Mirin means 'pupil' or 'student.' We gather others to Zionar, and teach them to walk in its ways. After a pupil, or Mirin, is taught fully in every aspect of the path, he becomes a Zetha, or 'master.' We are the enforcers of the King's justice, and we teach those who are ignorant the true way.” “So why am I here?” Every moment that he spent with these men made him less uneasy, and more curious as to their mission. “You are to be a Mirin. Lord Quarsamel wishes to recruit all able bodied men to Angetenar.” Kothar removed his hood, revealing a young man in his thirties. His brown hair hung down to his shoulders, and his face was clean shaven. “In order to become part of the Angetenar, you must go through a series of physical and mental tests to gage your skills in certain areas. The tests will determine whether you will enter the Daga, or 'warrior' status, or whether you will become a Ebur, or 'healer.' Those who pass some of the mental tests, but are unable to complete the physical ones become healers, and they tend to the needs of the people. Those who succeed every test become warriors, and are then trained to fight, and defend the kingdom. If you pass these tests, you will be accepted into the Angetenar, and will be trained and taught many of the hidden secrets of power which only those of our fellowship have knowledge.” Rathnier shifted in his seat. “And what if I refuse to join your fellowship?” The rider smiled coldly. “You will not refuse. Only a fool would refuse such a choice. You will become an Angetenar. If you try to escape, our warriors will hunt you down, and you will be given a punishment few men could endure. You will then be taught our ways, and forced to join us. We are the warriors of Galrenest. None resist us, and the few who have are dead. You will not refuse.” Kothar reached over the fire, and placed the object he had removed from his cloak into Rathnier's hand. A silver chain lay in the hollow of his hand, and it shined brightly in the light of the fire. A blood red ruby was suspended from the thin metal filament, and when it caught the light scarlet rays in wondrous patterns shot out from its heart. Rathnier's quick fingers traced every line on the stone, and every mark upon the silver chain. “What is this for?” His mind's eye could see the chain, though only in grey and black shades of light. “This is a thing you must carry till we reach Arnestil. When we reach the temple, you will present this to the Council of Seven. It is a ritual you must follow. If you lose this necklace, sever punishment will fall. Your training begins now. Good night.” Kothar whispered a few words to his companions, before rolling himself into his blanket, and sleeping peacefully. The rest followed their leader, and Rathnier also lay down, his senses admiring the pendant which he held. Finding a clasp, he opened the chain and placed it on his neck, where it hung on his chest like a heart of fire. Bundling himself tightly into a blanket, he soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
Joined: Feb 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 41 Location: The Starless Lands
Re: Sable Tears [Serious Issuse, Battle Sequence] « Reply #2 on Jun 27, 2008, 6:17pm »
Chapter 2 Test of the will.
A soft pressure on Rathnier's shoulder awoke him with a start. A rider sitting next to him had nudged his shoulder with his boot. Stretching, he stood and grimaced. The delicious smells of breakfast were filling the morning air. A wooden bowl filled with porridge was passed to him, and he quickly ate it in silence. Once he finished, the riders rolled the blankets into bundles and mounted their horses. “Come, Rathnier.” Kothar's face was again covered in his red hood. He spoke more kindly than he had the previous night, though still in commanding tones. “We have many miles between us and our next camp. If we push hard today, we may reach Zionar before tomorrow's dawn.” Setting spurs to his stallion, Kothar galloped east, the others following him, and Rathnier's horse always kept in the center of the four silent riders. On they galloped, through wide plains of green grass and bright sunlight, and dim forests eternally filled with night. At times Rathnier would finger the blood red stone which rested on his chest, and for a moment he would seem to see things around him in the shadows. As soon as he released the stone, the images would fade, and he would no longer detect anything strange. Late in the day, the riders reined in their horses, and on the horizon could be seen a vast mountain range of black stone. Kothar brought his horse near to Rathnier's stallion, and smiled. “Those mountains are the Mountains of Ice. Massive glaciers of black ice sit eternally unmelted upon those heights. The hottest summers have never disturbed them. For ten thousand years, men labored away, carving and hewing at the rock of one of the lower peaks. The product of their labor was Zionar. The city of Zionar was carved completely from the black rock. No houses have ever been built within its walls, for every dwelling has been hewn from stone. It is the city of great kings, and within its walls stands the Temple of Angetenar. The temple was carved from the solid rock long ago, and has never been destroyed. It is dedicated to Elkosh, the 'Servant.'” Rathnier shifted in his saddle. “Who is Elkosh?” Kothar shook his head. “You are very ignorant, Rathnier, if you do not know who Elkosh is. Elkosh is the creator of the universe. He is the lord of all lands, stars, and oceans. He alone reigns in the earth, and we, the Angetenar, are his warriors and true servants. We are the protectors of his dwelling, and the enforcers of his laws.” A vast plain dotted by farms and pasture land lay between the riders and the mountains. A black marble road divided the plain in half in a line straight and perfect as the edge of a sword blade. Riding upon this, the riders passed many farmers plowing their fields in preparation for the spring planting, and the blossoms of the trees were beginning to bloom. Once they reached the foot of the mountains, they began to ascend into the hills. The road they now followed had been carved out of the slanting mountain side with surpassing skill. Gutters which ran along one side carried the melted snow water down into the valley, and grooves were cut into the smooth surface, affording good footholds to travelers. The road was laid out in a massive switchback across the face of the mountain, ever going upwards, and was broad enough to allow ten men on horseback to pass each other with ease. After two hours of riding, the riders finally stepped off the switchback onto a broad plateau. Before them lay Zionar, capital and fortress city of the kings of Galrenest, and seat of the Council of Seven. Black walls sheer as cliffs rose a two hundred feet into the air, and dotted with massive towers. The ponderous gates of the city had been hammered form some black metal. A banner which snapped and fluttered in the wind above the citadel and towers on either side of the gate depicted a white eagle in mid flight, clutching a great thorn in its claws, and red flames in its background. The gates lay open, and merchants, travelers, and farmer's wagons were passing in and out of it. Riding into the city, they saw a massive structure. “That,” said Kothar, “is the Temple of Zionar, the greatest and only dwelling of Elkosh, creator of the universe. Come.” The other riders urged their horses forward at a trot, and as the came closer, Rathnier felt the massiveness of the temple. A magnificent structure, monolithic in size, and glinting with the light of a thousand gems, stood in the center of the city. Thick walls of sable stone surrounded its perimeter. A black dome over topped its massive defenses, the dark stones glittering and smooth as wet glass. The doors of the temple were hammered from some black metal, and etched with many runes and signs of power. Bronze leopards, teeth barred in a feral snarl, stood on either side of the gates, looking out into the streets, and spouting cool water into shallow basins of copper. Its columns, pillars, and floors were of the purest black marble, all of which were richly inlaid with gold and gems. Black fountain heads depicted as dragons spout icy water into silver basins lined with precious stones and scrolling artwork. A single black altar stood in the center of the courtyard. Its length and width were 7 feet, and it towered 20 feet high above the courtyard. A great ramp, slopping gently upwards, led to its surface. The riders led their horses across the courtyard. The sun had almost set in the west, and a storm was approaching the city. Handing over their horses to the charge of a pair of stable boys, the six of them walked towards a door and entered into the temple itself. Silver brackets embedded into the black walls held lit torches. The floor was inlaid with silver into beautiful patterns of birds, beasts and flowers. Pillars of black marble upheld the vast ceiling. At the far end of the chamber sat seven silent figures in a semi-circle, each wearing robes more white than the purest stone. Each of the white figures looked neither young nor old, but rather middle aged. Guards also robed in white stood at attention on either side of the figures, each guard wearing chain mail shirts, silver helmets shaped like panther's heads, and each wore a sword and dagger at his belt, and a spear rested in his hand. Kothar motioned for his companions to wait. Talking across the smooth floor, he stopped at an area where a circular band of silver was inlaid into the floor. Kneeling within that circle, he removed a knife from his belt and slid it across the floor. A young boy appeared from behind a pillar, ran over to the knife, lifted it carefully, and handed it to one of the men who sat. The seated man took the knife and examined the hilt before standing. “Welcome, Kothar-minir son of Nandor, warrior of Angetenar. You have returned safely. Rise, and come forward.” Kothar stood and stepped four paces towards the figures, before halting again. “I trust my Lord Quarsamel is in good health?” He removed his hood. “All is well. Have you succeeded in your mission, Kothar? You have returned sooner than expected.” Lord Quarsamel had black hair which was streaked with grey at the edges, and a matching beard covered his square jaw. His grey eyes glanced towards where Kothar's companions stood like silent statues, though his gaze rested longest upon the young man clothed in stained rags. Rathnier felt the man's eyes staring at him, and a sudden fear filled his inner being. Kothar motioned with his hand towards Rathnier. “He is the recruit we found. He says his name is Rathnier. I hope your are pleased with the choice I made. We found him in the slave markets of Arnestil. I purchased him with the money you gave us for that purpose.” Lord Quarsamel leaned over towards one of the other white figures, listening to what the man was saying with evident interest. Straightening, he beckoned. “Come forward, boy. Stand before the Council of Seven.” Rathnier hesitantly stepped forward, his bare feet making no noise on the stone floor. Lord Quarsamel looked carefully at Rathnier once more, and anger seemed to fill his face. “The boy is blind, Kothar! Did your inexperienced eyes not see? Would you have a blind boy enter the ranks of Angetenar?” Kothar looked bewildered. “I did not know that he was blind, my lord. The boy walks with such ease wherever he goes. I have not needed to lead him anywhere. He followed us into the temple without stumbling.” Quarsamel sat down, and folded his hands in his lap. “Speak, boy. How old are you?” The fear within his body subsided, as if a comforting hand rested upon his shoulder, calming him. “I am seventeen years old, my lord,” he answered calmly. “I have been blind since birth, but I am not totally unable to see. I cannot see the world around me with my own eyes, but I am able to tell that this room is large just by the whispering wind which runs through these corridors. I have been a slave since I was thirteen years old, and have always accomplished my work to the satisfaction of my masters. If you do not believe me, you may test me, and prove who is right.” One of the other council members stood, and snapped his fingers sharply. The young boy who had brought the dagger to Quarsamel reappeared and listened, as the council member whispered instructions into the boy's ear. The boy nodded, bowed, and hurriedly left the chamber. The man then turned to Rathnier. “Have you ever handled a blade before?” “My brother and I used to spar, many years ago,” Rathnier replied in a confident tone. The councilor seemed unconvinced. The boy soon returned, carrying two pieces of a dark wood, each roughly shaped like a sword. The page handed one to Rathnier, and the other was given to Kothar. The council man smiled confidently. “You men are to fight till one loses his sword, or is beaten to the ground. Begin.” Kothar's eyes narrowed, as he examined his opponent. Rathnier stood still as a statue hewn from stone, tense and prepared. Kothar leapt forward, using a combination of cuts and slices. Rathnier blocked each blow with difficulty, but slowly his arms remembered their skills. Beginning a methodical advance, he began to force Kothar back step by step. Thrusting, parrying, slicing, blocking, leaping back and forth, the two swordsman sought to overcome the other's defenses. An idea suddenly struck Rathnier. Ducking beneath the powerful slice that Kothar brought from the left, he straightened up and brought a vertical cut down on his opponent's head. Kothar blocked the blow, and lunged at Rathnier. His sword suddenly flew from his grasp and slid across the smooth floor, as Rathnier executed a bind upon his sword which wrenched the wooden blade from his hand. Rathnier blushed in embarrassment, as he allowed his sword to fall to the ground. “Forgive me, Kothar. I did not realize that my training had followed me all these years.” Kothar smiled somewhat sheepishly, and grasped Rathnier's extended hand of friendship. The lord steward stood. “The boy has proved our fears wrong, Shenvar. He possesses a gift. He must have good blood running through him.” He strode over to where the two young men stood in the center of the room. “Kothar, you have been defeated, but do not be ashamed. All who wish to become great must first learn to except disappointment. Otherwise, they will grow proud, and be suddenly brought low. Remember that.” Kothar bowed. Quarsamel then turned his attention to Rathnier. “You are a warrior, Rathnier. You have bested your opponent, and have been humble enough to beg pardon. We have need of such men. Do you wish to join the Angetenar, and hone your skills to greater heights?” A voice within his mind seemed to whisper softly, “I will use these skills in search of revenge. I will revenge those whom I love.” He bowed before the white robed master. “I do. I promise to serve the Angetenar with my last breath, to avenge the innocent, and punish the guilty.” Quarsamel smiled joyfully. “Good. Rise, Rathnier-minir, warrior of the Angetenar. Tomorrow, you will begin your training. Go, rest now. May the stars shine upon you while you sleep, and may the dawn rise upon you when you awake. Kothar, lead Rathnier to his room.” Rathnier stood, his jaw set and determined. A grin broke across Kothar's face, as he led Rathnier through a door which led into a hall adjoining the room where the council sat. Rathnier took in the sweet smells of fragrant incense burning in shallow censers set in recesses cut into the wall. Turning a sharp corner, they came a long hall lined on both sides with many doors. Striding up to one of them, Kothar lifted the iron latch and thrust it back. As Rathnier entered the room, many smells, sounds, and feelings shot through his body. The room was cold, and the open window admitted a spring breeze which brushed through his short hair, reminding him of the gentle touch of his mother and sister. The smell of a mattress filled with fresh straw reminded him of the summer haying long ago, when he had lived with his family on the farm they possessed. The rough stone floor beneath his feet brought his mind back to the days of wading with his brother in the neighboring river bed, and the homely smell which exuded from the cedar desk and chair which stood in one corner. His sharp hearing picked up the sound of sand dropping from a funnel which stood above another into the lower, as the hour glass which stood on top of the desk ran the course of time. He picked it up, and admired the smoothness of its sides. A smile of delight shone upon his face for the first time in many years. This was truly home. He suddenly realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud. Kothar nodded his head in understanding. “You're a interesting mixture, Rathnier.” Rathnier turned towards his companion. “Why do you say that, Kothar?” Kothar sat down on the straw mattress which lay in one corner of the room. “One moment, it seems as if you would bring the world down with your hatred. I've seen the fire in your eyes, even though your careful to keep your face emotionless and cold. At other times, you seem to ready to fall to the ground and weep, despair welling up within your soul.” The hour glass fell from Rathnier's hand, and landed on the table with a dull thump. “You know nothing,” he said calmly, his voice barely above a whisper and strung with tension. Kothar stood, puzzled. “I meant no offense, my friend. I only...” Rathnier turned to the window, hiding the tears from Kothar's eyes. “You don't know what its like,” he said softly, almost to himself. The salty tears streamed down his face, though his voice remained the same. “You've never stood by and allowed your mother and sister to be torn from your arms, raped, and murdered. You've never listened, unable to do anything, while bandits butchered your father and brother. You've never been forced to stand barefoot in the snow, loaded with chains, while the scum of the earth pillaged your village and burned your home to the ground. You've never been sent to live in hell, where every moment was a lifetime, and every memory as a deadly poison that you grasped, afraid to lose this precious thing, and yet wishing to forget the pain it brought. You've never served as a slave to men who cared only for the gold which filled their purses and treasuries. You've never been born blind, deprived of the beauty which you know is around you, and wish to see with all your being.” Suddenly he slumped to the floor, head buried in his calloused hands. His self control left him, as his screams of anguish reverberated against the stone walls and ceiling, filling the halls with echoes of torment. “Elarial! Fethlon! Bannor! Lidriel! Why did cruel fate and blind hatred tear you from my arms? Why have I lived these years, deprived of sweet friendship and love? Why have I not allowed myself to slip into the sweet forgetfulness of death? When will this burden of bitter pain be spent?” His shoulders shook violently, as he became silent, and allowed his emotions to run their course. Kothar stood and rested one of his hands on Rathnier's shoulder, his face filled with compassion and sympathy. “You have concealed your pain from all around you these many years,” he said, his voice strained with sorrow. “I can never replace your family, Rathnier. But I will do what I am able.” He knelt beside his friend, and placed both hands upon Rathnier's shoulders. “I cannot replace the one you lost, but I will be a brother to you. In joy and laughter and singing and battle, in blood and fire and ashes and death. Will you allow me to share your pain and hatred, and avenge those whose memory you cherished?” Rathnier's head slowly lifted. Though stained with many tears, it was calm and emotionless once more. They pulled each other into a tight embrace. Tears now flowed freely from them both, tears of joy, and not of deadly pain. “Yes, brother mine. With all my heart.”
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