This is a story of a boy who grows into a leader of a nation to be reborn. The first part I have inserted here is the introduction to the story, and following is the first chapter.
The city of Westland has more buildings than it does people these days. It's many spires tower over it's mammoth walls and lose themselves against the looming black granite mountains that rise behind the city. Stretching for miles on either side flows low rolling farmland, so that from on high the once regal city stands out like an red ruby floating in a sea of vibrant green. Two hundred years ago the rich soil in this land was prized by kings and commoners alike, and from it grew a nation renown for the size and vigor of it's people. But the nature of men makes peace rare, and war soon ravaged the country of Elsa. Blood soaked boots carved wide swaths through golden wheat fields; fires fueled by bloody bones and abandoned homes burned day and night, sending sickly smoke skyward until it snuffed out the sunlight and it's pungent odor offending every living thing for a thousand miles around. The encroaching army that landed on serene shores did not look to surprise it's opponent, it stomped and bellowed it's way through the country, it's only purpose to mock life and flaunt its power. So marched this horror through every village and city until the only sanctuary left to fleeing Elsans was the capital city of Westland. There the invaders stood goading her finest defenders to fight for the lives of their wives and children, fight to the death knowing what the cost of defeat would mean to those left behind.
By day the black mass jeered, by night it poked and prodded the defenses of the city, driven on by its commander, King Judas Nestor the forsaken. When the tunnels carved under the city walls brought them down, his men rushed in to drag out every living citizen they could, and to the anguish of those who had made it safely behind the inner walls he tortured a thousand innocents as he called out Elsa's last defender, Arathor Bullwye, the warrior king of Elsa. The invitation spawned a battle that climaxed with both armies spilling onto the plains of Noram, filling the naturally formed coliseum until the canyon floor undulated with the sway of soldiers in battle, patches of red charging into shades of blue, the sound of trumpets bellowing orders competing with the clashing of swords as men charged, banners flying. The soldiers in red fought for King Judas and wore the insignia of the Red Hammer. They were brutal and fearless, throwing themselves at their opponents in blue, who flew the banner of the Blue Rose, the army of King Bullwye and the free people of Elsa. The battle turned when from a cloudless sky came a bolt of blue lightening that struck the battling figure of the king, his form dissolving to ash in front of his champions. The usurper gave no quarter and ordered his men to slaughter to the last man all who wore the blue. The men of the Rose fought outnumbered and besieged all around, but pride and bravery drove the sword with such withering ferocity that it seemed no mortal army could best them that day..
But black magic despises mortality, and accounts tell of slain soldiers in red that fell with fatal wounds only to rise again with sword in hand. The champions fought through blade and magic until exhaustion gripped them and death overtook them. The dark king tore apart the remaining defenses, taking the sword to every man, woman and child, then relentlessly tracked the fleeing family of the slain king into the deep of the forest until with great celebration he held above his head the crying babe that was the last of the royal bloodline. As he swung the terrified child into the fire pit, roaring louder than the screams from the flames he pledged to replace the memory of Elsa with a history of conquest and domination of the Red Hammer. For the rest of his short life the savage king made sport of tracking down Elsans with the relish of the hunter to the fox. To this day his evil progeny still offer a reward of gold for the capture or killing of anyone thought to possess Elsan blood.
The Historians of Nestor claim that none wearing the blue standard left the battlefield alive the day lightening killed Elsa's warrior king, but rumor whispered that one of honor did survive, critically wounded but obscured by the countless dead that covered the bloody battlefield. Of all the kings champions there was one who was his most prized, a tenacious knight who brought not only the skill of the sword but nature's fury as well, coming to battle flanked by tigers and wolves and predators from the air. He was an army to himself. In that final battle he was one of the last to fall, and left among the dead he was pulled from the carnage by a black wolf, dragged back into the thick of the forest. Many weeks he lay hidden deep in the boroughs of the wood, nursed by the wild until he regained his strength. Long after his physical wounds healed he suffered still from wounds borne by soldiers who live to see their king fall before them. After long wandering he came to accept that for him the war was over, his people had suffered grievously, it was now time to protect the few that survived. He settled upon finding a wife, a strong woman that would ensure that his bloodline survived, for he believed that within him was a power only the Gods granted, a power that one day would be reborn through his bloodline and begin anew the fight that would bring freedom back to his people.
It has been two hundred years since the last fell defending Westland, today the city is populated by the people of Nestor who migrated here after the conquest to take advantage of the vacant homes and prepared fields. From afar the huge city has an unseemly red glow to it, a trait the superstitious claim was earned when countless thousands of defenseless Elsans were murdered in their homes. Migrating Nestorians who come to choose their new home in Westland often find a cowering skeleton crouching in a back room of an empty home, it's yellowed skull with hollow eyes upturned, a figure frozen in terror, capturing with it's final vision the face of it's executioner. It's thought to be an ill omen, and few men would put his family in a blood house. But one can find for a gold coin or two those who will cleanse any home of it's tortured souls. Still, the red glow remains. Years pass and the population grows, but still most of the city's cobbled stone streets lead only to haunted houses where upon the wind ride the faint echoes of a people long gone.
Living among these usurpers there is a secret community of Elsan men and women who make no mention of their outlawed heritage, not even to their children. It is a secret worthy of execution, and one must acknowledge the sentence for such a heritage before they are initiated into the knowing. So few are willing now to bear that burden.
Tales of avenging heroes are dismissed by Nestorians as the last gasp of a failed race, but misery feeds such stories and it gives the descendants of the lost kingdom hope. Elsa. A country stripped of it's protectors, it's people hunted and it's history relegated to the whispers of those dwindling few who sing outlawed poems. In them survives the heart of a nation, and the prophecy of freedom come home on the rays of the red dawn.
Verse 36
War Wolf, red reaper, first to battle
Savage blue blades, he welcomes bloodshed
bringing beasts to prey, gifted he
The Wolf Hearted
He fought the foe, Black host, hell's pirate
So many the wolf brought low, but not Hell's servant
The hero dies.
He lives!
- Elsan lore
Chapter 1
The setting sun signaled an end to the day's work. The tall, muscular silhouette waving in his sons from the fields stood stark against the wide blue sky. Calib Ambolin was a man well respected by those that knew him, and those who didn't saw in his deep green eyes integrity and strength. He was intimidating to be sure, but the smile that spent so much time on his face disarmed even the pettiest of men. With his hardy wife he had two sons, brown haired and broad Tam the oldest at 18 and Jared, now 16 years old and growing rapidly. Jared was born looking strikingly different that anyone in his family, long black hair that fell over a tanned face with wide green eyes and a strong jawline. He was thin but strong, and had not yet begun to fill out the lanky body that promised to be imposing with age. Together the three gathered the day's bounty and headed for home, to a stone house that sat alone among manicured fields a few of miles outside Westland, the Red City.
As they walked the path that cut through their fields, Tam recited the news he had picked up on his latest trip into Westland. He talked of festivals and competitions, church denunciations and political chicanery. His father Calib was good friends with the mayor of Westland, Theoron Meriandor. All that was important to know, Calib was privy to. All that was salacious, Tam was sure to know. To walk a mile with Tam was to age a year.
Jared listened intently. He wasn't one to talk much, though he was no good at hiding what he felt. The sing song nature of Tam's voice blended nicely with the low, serene voice of his father, which in turn melted into a cascade of chirps and whistles sounding from nature around them. A long cooing snatched his attention, and he watched a pair of young grey squirrels wrestling among the leaves. A raven landed lightly on a branch above them, casually watching as the two below oblivious to the eyes that spied them. The black bird sidestepped along the branch pondering its chances, bobbing its head, its black eyes sparkling with optimism.
" I saw Bhalin's daughter near the tannery. That one there, she looks like a handful - but what a beauty." Tam rambled on. He saw his brother daydreaming and gave him a halfhearted punch to the shoulder. " Girls. I'm talking about girls..." he said sarcastically.
Jared smiled at the ribbing. He hadn't seen Bhalin or his family in years, though he often heard of them through his father. He couldn't remember what they all looked like, but he was sure they remembered him. Everyone remembered what Jared looked like. The smell of dinner riding upon the breeze broke him from his musing in time to hear Tam mention the herd of wild horses that had been driven into Bhalin's stables.
Tonight they were coming home a bit early. They had finished most of the work they had to, the spring had been busy. This past weekend had been the New Spring celebration, where for a day everyone in the city ate and drank for free. It was the new year, and the bounty one gave now was sure to be returned at harvest time. Jared had spent his weekend hiking up the peaks above the city, where he spread out his blanket and ate his meals looking over the flickering lights of Westland. As the sun set he'd look out onto the Plains of Noram, imagining the battles that once raged there. His imagination was vivid, the scenes in his mind were like the memories of one there, inspiring in him true feelings of rage and fear and hope he was sure they had felt. His imagination was both a curse and a blessing, it had been that way his whole life. It was much of the reason he liked to spend so much time alone, among the wildlife that lived among the trees and plains. But truth be told, it was his shocking appearance made the forest the safest place to be, far away from the city and its people. So he watched the celebration from afar, and did not miss the looks of shock and fear that the cityfolk were unwilling to suppress.
The dinner table was cleared and a cover thrown over it, and soon from the kitchen came the food, bowls of potatoes and carrots steamed, grilled seasoned meat and warm garlic bread. A pie teased the room with it's scent. The men clamored in and sat themselves down, at once filling the peaceful fire lit room with the warm, rambunctious sounds of a hungry family. Later, as the plates were cleared and the pie passed out Calib cast a last glance at mother and announced his decision to send Jared to Bhalin's to apprentice as a horse trader. The noisy room became very quiet as the words fought their way through the lingering scent of the pie sitting hot on the table between them all. It was a discussion that the boys had followed since the idea had been floated months before. The parents had taken opposing sides on the issue, his mother Kia insisting that Jared remain home while his father felt the time had come, the boy couldn't spend his whole life hiding on the farm. He had given up trying to teach Jared farming, the boy had no interest in it, he was always to be found tending to the animals or slipping into the wood that surrounded the property. For obvious reasons his parents had kept him close to home and he hardly ever took more than a few steps toward the city, especially after the incident at the Fork years ago. Calib announced that early the next morning the two of the them would be heading to Bhalin's stables by way of the city road, which would take them through the middle of the city to the far side.
The news brought both thrill and dread to Jared - the chance to learn the horse trade would take him out of the fields and put him among the animals, where he belonged. From an early age it was evident that he had a gift for taming the wild, his father would attest. Jared bristled at the term 'taming,' he was hardly tame himself. He just knew instinctively how to make an animal comfortable with him, he knew how to ease their fears. Those times he had successfully escaped his father's attention and disappeared into the forest were hours he delighted in his gift. He would spend them sitting on the forest floor drawing to himself animals of every kind. He found that if he concentrated hard enough sometimes he could bring even the most shy to his hand to sniff the snack he was offering. How he did these things he didn't know, but he felt he was in his element when surrounded by the trees, meandering through the forest attracting creatures great and small, hunter and prey. Among the many wild creatures that had come to trust him, one beast kept its distance but ever had its eyes on him. Black wolves. Sometimes many of them, more often just a few. Their broad shoulders and brooding eyes would have sent any sane man running for his life. But towards Jared never was there any threat, in fact the opposite seemed true, the watched him with a protectiveness that bordered on familial. But they would not approach him, though he had tried to coax them. He soon came to realize that they were never very far from him, circling silently, watching constantly. The thought comforted him. Maybe he was crazy. He knew he was human, but his people spurned him and burned within him a shame that glowed like a fuse lit. Here, alone among the wild, no one saw him for the symbol of a god's curse on earth. So it came to be that very early in his life he knew that if ever he was forced to choose between the company of man or animals (except for his family), he would choose animals because they treated him for who he was, not for what he looked like.
That thought tempered Jared's excitement about his father's decision. The beasts may not care what he looked like, but people certainly did. Jared had been born with a sprawling red birthmark across his face, a pitted, bulbous mass of skin that started at his forehead and crept across his nose and covered his cheek. Amongst strangers, it was all they would stare at, and then faces would contort into cruel expressions that made him feel an outcast. The times he had ventured into the city children would run from him, pointing their fingers. Some laughed with cruel delight, others cringed in fear, still others mocked him as some of the boys did by squashing tomatoes on their foreheads and clumsily dancing around in front of him. To be scarred like this in a world where superstition passed for science and life hung on the whim of the gods was to be the incarnation of man's futility.
He was nothing to them but the blood red mark on his face. They did not see a person, a boy, soon to be a man. They saw only deformity and disease. Should anything go wrong in his presence, it would be blamed on the demons he had attracted. Should anyone fall ill even weeks after he passed by, it was his face they remembered. The humiliation impressed upon him from so young an age burned within him an expectation of callousness from people, and he found no empathy, the ugly and the beautiful cursed him, the tall and the short ridiculed him, skinny and fat, young and old, sober or drunken sot, all saw on him the mark of providential disgrace. They spurned him like one would spurn the creeping stench of impending doom. When young, he had not taken the judgment gracefully, so now he spent his days on the farm and in the forest behind it, a self imposed banishment from the glowing city of mysterious spires and tolling bells. The only new faces he would see were the hired hands his father brought in from the city, along with their gawking stares and the nudging elbows of their comrades which made seeing him a gross ritual to the uninitiated. Now his father spoke of walking through the city, and it unleashed visions of degradation, of him trudging through the streets like some circus freak escaped from his cage. In his daydreams among the pines he saw them all stricken with the deformity, the beautiful suddenly horrifying to behold, crying aloud about the unfairness of it all. They could pray to the gods to heal them, they could believe they were protected. The gods had already forsaken him, and he had no use for them or their promises. But he knew these dreams were the worst kind of fantasy. The faces gone pale on the pretty girls who looked at him stung deep enough to shatter illusions. It took a mountain of discipline to not answer the unkindness with his own. From across the table his father's eyes settled on him. Jared wondered to himself as his gaze fell to the floor whether he wanted to work with horses more than he wanted to avoid being the star of a passing freak show.
His father knew what was going through his son's mind as the boy sat staring down at his plate, brooding; the sight caused him to lower his head as well. But a second later he lifted his head and with a another sideways glance at Kia he cleared his throat and announced " Tomorrow morning we'll be out early, so fill a pack with enough to last you a few weeks. "
" Do we have to walk through the middle of town, can't we go around the village, through the forest?" Jared blurted out, slowly looking up at his dad, his shoulders sagging as his hands slipped inside his pockets.
" Son, that would add hours to the trip. What's wrong with taking the main road?" His father replied, knowing the answer to question he asked.
" The people, they hate me, they say terrible things and I don't want to hear it."
" They don't hate you, Jared, they don't even know you. They're mean because they're afraid of you, son. You don't want to hurt anyone, so soon they will see that you're nobody to be afraid of," said his father as he lifted a forkful of pie to his mouth, but his son just sat there with his long black hair swaying from side to side in disagreement.
" I think not, father, I've never mocked an angry black bear because I was afraid of it."
" If I remember correctly the last angry bear you met spent two weeks on our front porch waiting for you to play with him, I was deprived of your help in the fields because of an "angry" black bear," Calib replied, bringing a bashful grin to the faces of all at the table. He bent down close and looked into his son's green eyes, his finger traced the dark birthmark. Then he pulled the boy toward him and kissed it. " I love you son, and the mark on you that makes you special. You are destined for great things, that's what I think it means. I am sure of it."
" I know, father," Jared replied, having heard this too many times. It had stopped making him feel better long ago. "But the people in town don't agree, because I don't look like everybody else. I don't want to be special, I want to be like everyone else."
Calib slammed the table with a heavy fist. "You will never be like anyone else! Nobody is like anyone else!" his father bellowed. "Tomorrow we'll be walking through town, I think soon you will see that I'm right, that the experienced earned will become its own reward."
Well written, as per usual. I've read it twice now, once before I was a member so I didn't comment. (Not sure if I could have) Your work always impresses me, and this is no exception.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Theru
Really, Serac, if you weren't so lofty and I weren't already taken, I would definitely want to marry you. (Or maybe... one-night-stand you. You're not very good husband material, I think.)
be consistent with ur naming style. king arathor, king bullwye. choose one and stick to it.
i like the story. the plot seems good for now. i was just commenting on ambrose's story about having backstory at the very beginning. while i see that we probably need to know about the history of elsa, wouldnt it be good to put it in bits throughout the story? or is it that 200 years have passed, thus limiting the history narrative from jared?
one other thing about the backstory. perhaps it would be better if u described the fighting scenes. i think it would give more impact to the battle, instead of sticking to exposition.
by the way, i like the part about the elsan lore. even though it seems to be part of the fantasy genre, i still think it lends a unique touch to the story.
__________________ "I like to write in the night, when everyone is asleep and I can hear the silence reverberating like an audio feedback. That is because I need the quiet to get into myself and open the doors to the noise in my head." - Me
i found not many things wrong with it. Your start was good in explaining the condition of the city followed by the epicness of the rest. Keep going I like it and want to read more.
I like the development of this story, as well as little tidbits of information about Jared's past and his connection with the wildlife, a great way to initiate a bond from the read to the character.
Ooo just started your westland series, and upon reading this first chapter i'm intregued!
I'll be reading the other...(*counts*)....9 parts over this week, I look forward to finding out about this character. I like the introduction and the little poem/song (not sure) is a nice little intro to the first chapter.
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I write 2 stories in the morning, I write 2 stories at night, I write 2 stories in the afternoon and it makes me feel alright. I write 2 stories in time of peace and 2 in time of war. I write 2 stories after I write 2 stories and then I write 2 more.
Interesting story. I personally liked the calm, peaceful atmosphere you've started off with, makes me feel at home in the story. The only critique I've got for you is to mix up your commonplace vocab a bit. You have excellent diction, but there are many places where you repeat the same word is used twice or three times consecutively, making the reading seem a bit choppy. Great so far overall though, I'd give it an 9.3/10!
__________________ "I generally sleep, eat, and sleep when I get tired of the other two..."
1. I think that your Introduction and Fist Chapter OR Chapter 1 (One) should be posted separately following the other chapters that are to come.
2. More of a question than an opinion. So, why ‘color’ the writing(s) Will it serve a purpose? Or do you do it for just something different to post?
3. I believe in the second sentence it should be (its) and not (it’s)…Its* many spires tower over (its) mammoth walls…
4. What kind of ‘mammoth walls’ are they, this? I am asking of what natural material do you speak of?
5. Maybe say something more of its rear city’s surrounding? Or say something more concerning the city’s back side?
6. In what ‘miles’ does your story travel?
7. I think it should be…(…out like a* red ruby floating in a sea of vibrant green/emerald (to match the jewel reference, maybe).
8. Perhaps something as…Two hundred years has passed (Two centuries have passed) industrializing a once pure/virginal earth; its rich unscathed soil by man and his (metal) tools, the grass so long, luscious, effervescent* of life…(and then you go a bit forward possibly speaking of the clear skies and the birds that once flew in large amounts previously).
9. Should this be ‘renowned’ and not just ‘renown?’
10. And here it should be (its)…(…for the size and vigor of its* people).
11. Maybe…(But the nature of man* makes peace rare,…)?
12. Maybe say something like...(…fires fueled by splintered/shattered bloodied/bloody bones…)?
13. Maybe…Blood soaked boots carved deep* worn* wide swath through the* golden wheat fields, fires burned/raged high into a never ending oblivion of black smeared/powdered lightly by grey by the splintered/shattered bones of the fallen. Abandoned homes with no attendance/care to its lumber encouraged* the fumes* to burn throughout the many coming/passing* days and nights. Sickly (type of) smoke danced about free snuffing out the sunlight releasing a pungent odor offending/smothering every living being for* a thousand miles around.
14. Should ‘encroaching Army*’ be capitalized?
15. I think...(…through farmland did not look to surprised* its* opponent. They vigorously* stomped and bellowed forward making its* way the defenseless country.) –Obliviously, I have add and changed your words to fit my alterations. You may or may not want to use any parts of my variations; it is always your decision.
16. You CAN use short sentences and not go on and on with so many, possibly too many long sentences.
17. Here, it should be (its)…(…of even its* own soldiers.).
18. Maybe something as…It was here, in the heart of Elsa that her citizens, her brave men fought zealously* not just for their land, but for the lives and well being of their families.
19. Maybe something more concerning this ‘black mass.’ Swayed by their fearless and most obsessive* leader, King Judas Nestor the forsaken, urged his men of/with precise and calculating movement. His swift black masses of sword (whatevers) and (whatevers) archers…King Nestor and his troop/flank pierced through the weak/futile defenses of Elsa….
20. Again, I think (and it is only my opinion,) you are using too many long sentences.
21. Should ‘Warrior King’ be capitalized?
22. Have you been inspired by ‘Troy’ for this particular engagement of warfare concerning the ‘bloodied coliseum?’ It reads most familiar.
23. And once more, you have (I think) too many, extremely long sentences.
24. Maybe…The defenders of King Judas were identified by their/the bold Red Hammer against/upon their biceps. The warriors of…were identified…
25. Possibly…The brutal and fearless fighters of Elsa were identified by the burgundy/dark cheery Red Hammer upon their shoulders. Their combatants, the….were identified by the hand-stitched* Blue Rose upon their fallen shoulders/backs as their bodies fell to the ground…
26. … ‘could best them that day.’ This (to me) makes no sense. What is it? I know what you are saying, but the ‘words’ are not there.
And for now, I stop here with my reading and commenting. I will say for now that there could have been ‘more’ in every sense to this Action Adventure. Also, you must watch your 'its' and 'it's.'
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If you'd like to express Yourself ...please call 1-800-WHATEVER (lol)
Thanks for the compliments - It has been years since I wrote this and going through it again I cringe with some of the mistakes I found. But I do love this story...I ought to finish it.
Thanks again!
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" People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates."
You should in paragraph three, identify by name and not just by symbol which King is doing the relentless slaughtering.
You have read for example Lord of the Rings and its series? I inquiry for your attempted ‘telling’ reads like the author.
Possibly…The black magic despises mortality. Countless accounts were told* of slain soldiers bloodied in their cherry red garments/armor…(who were telling these accounts as the soldiers fell?) their mutilated hands clutched so boldly* their swords. Numerous champions fought through the swinging blades and spontaneous* magic until, finally, mortal exhaustion gripped their bodies/them and they screaming soldiers gave into merciless/blissful death. –
I must once again return to my clear thoughts tomorrow, but do you see the point(s) that I am attempting to make?
Perhaps I should wait until you have readdressed this tale then give my thoughts? Tell me what you think and I will continue or halt with these, my current suggestions/ideas...
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If you'd like to express Yourself ...please call 1-800-WHATEVER (lol)
Thanks for the compliments - It has been years since I wrote this and going through it again I cringe with some of the mistakes I found. But I do love this story...I ought to finish it.
Thanks again!
Man - you need to get back here on a regular basis - period; and not just to finish this story. I've read your stuff. I love it. I teach creative writing on a university level, and I can safely say that you're an incredible prose writer. We can always use more great prose writers here.
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"I wanted revenge - whenever somebody kills me, I tend to get a little upset..."
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