Einhauser
02-12-2005, 21:35
I read about a contest in a local magazine a few days ago where they were looking for young authors to write a fiction story and the prize was to be $3,000. Well, needless to say I jumped at the chance. I just finished chapter one of the short story, and i wanted to know what the rest of Nationstates thinks (this story was inspired by an RP I was thinking of making, but didnt). Keep in mind it is pending further corrections, and please do not copy or reproduce this anywhere else without my permission:
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1
The noonday sun beat down on the parched desert sand, throwing up a cascade of light that seemed to eradicate every shadow for miles around. The wind, an ever-present annoyance, whipped the sand into flurries of razor-sharp needles, forming and reforming dunes like some vast, dry ocean. There was one mound, though, that did not move at all.
In the lee of this dune sat an ugly purple and yellow striped tent. The cloying stench of blood magic seemed to usher from the interior, where sable darkness lay across all objects like a deathly shroud. And in that miasmic pool of shadow, a figure stirred.
The shape was roughly human, it’s body hidden behind a cloak of black silk. The figure was best described as being nondescript, for it had no clear height and was of undetermined weight. The way it carried itself, however, suggested a man. And the glaringly white skin and colorless eyes proclaimed the man to be a necromancer.
He growled and pulled his cloak tighter around him, trying to block the rays of the cursed sun from burning his sensitive flesh. He had work to do, and the blasted light was only keeping him from it.
The hours seemed to crawl by, until at long last it was dark enough for him to come out of hiding. As soon as the sun set behind the dune, he cast off his black cloak and strode out onto the shifting sands. The dying rays of the day revealed a spider-web of self-inflicted scars across his muscular chest, of which he seemed to take no notice.
Without hesitation, he pulled out a long, wickedly curved knife made from the bones of a long dead opponent, and dragged it’s serrated edge through the flesh of his left palm. As the deep red liquid pooled in his hand, he smiled a crooked grin and started to work his dark magics.
Walking in a line, he tilted his palm just enough to drip one bead of now enchanted blood into the sand at even intervals. The drops were absorbed quickly, sinking ever deeper into the ground, striving to reach the clay that the magical instructions placed inside them said would be there.
Just as the pool of blood dried up, he stopped. His supernaturally attuned hearing picked up something other than the wind racing across the dunes. It sounded like a gigantic bird, but none lived in this barren land. The sound grew louder; churning the air like a mighty warship crashing through the waves.
The noise reached a crescendo, and with a mighty shudder a looming black creature dropped out of the sky. It was at least fourteen feet high, twice as long, and was obviously a denizen of the netherworld.
It possessed no solid shape. One moment it appeared to be a griffin-like creature, the next a winged crocodile. The one part of it that did not change, however, was the ebony saddle chained to its back by thick links of a dark red metal. On this saddle sat yet another necromancer.
“Master, I bring you news from the south,” he said, dropping off the screeching creature and falling to one knee. “The kingdom has Seen your plans, at least partially.”
The first necromancer grimaced, but he understood that it had been inevitable. One cannot raise an army without someone noticing eventually.
“And what action have they taken, Aistan?” he asked the kneeling man.
“As of the time of my leaving, they had yet to do anything. It appears their councils do not believe anyone would move against them, and thus have taken no action,” said Aistan, not missing the use of his given name. Yet another reminder of the power the other man had over him.
Wiping his bloody hand on his black leather breaches, the scarred necromancer looked back at the sand behind him. Doubtless the blood had reached the clay layer left behind under the sand, from back when this area had been an inland sea. Even now it was having its way with the earthy materiel.
“So it seems there is some good news after all…” he said quietly. “Aistan, step up production of the army. I want another nine thousand done in the next fortnight.”
Forwin balked silently, but forced himself to nod like the good little servant he was supposed to be. “Yes Master Baile. Immediately.” With that, he stood, brushed the sand from his pallid skin, and remounted his steed. In a rush of rapidly cooling air he was away, off to the main camps where the rest of Lord Baile’s army awaited.
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1
The noonday sun beat down on the parched desert sand, throwing up a cascade of light that seemed to eradicate every shadow for miles around. The wind, an ever-present annoyance, whipped the sand into flurries of razor-sharp needles, forming and reforming dunes like some vast, dry ocean. There was one mound, though, that did not move at all.
In the lee of this dune sat an ugly purple and yellow striped tent. The cloying stench of blood magic seemed to usher from the interior, where sable darkness lay across all objects like a deathly shroud. And in that miasmic pool of shadow, a figure stirred.
The shape was roughly human, it’s body hidden behind a cloak of black silk. The figure was best described as being nondescript, for it had no clear height and was of undetermined weight. The way it carried itself, however, suggested a man. And the glaringly white skin and colorless eyes proclaimed the man to be a necromancer.
He growled and pulled his cloak tighter around him, trying to block the rays of the cursed sun from burning his sensitive flesh. He had work to do, and the blasted light was only keeping him from it.
The hours seemed to crawl by, until at long last it was dark enough for him to come out of hiding. As soon as the sun set behind the dune, he cast off his black cloak and strode out onto the shifting sands. The dying rays of the day revealed a spider-web of self-inflicted scars across his muscular chest, of which he seemed to take no notice.
Without hesitation, he pulled out a long, wickedly curved knife made from the bones of a long dead opponent, and dragged it’s serrated edge through the flesh of his left palm. As the deep red liquid pooled in his hand, he smiled a crooked grin and started to work his dark magics.
Walking in a line, he tilted his palm just enough to drip one bead of now enchanted blood into the sand at even intervals. The drops were absorbed quickly, sinking ever deeper into the ground, striving to reach the clay that the magical instructions placed inside them said would be there.
Just as the pool of blood dried up, he stopped. His supernaturally attuned hearing picked up something other than the wind racing across the dunes. It sounded like a gigantic bird, but none lived in this barren land. The sound grew louder; churning the air like a mighty warship crashing through the waves.
The noise reached a crescendo, and with a mighty shudder a looming black creature dropped out of the sky. It was at least fourteen feet high, twice as long, and was obviously a denizen of the netherworld.
It possessed no solid shape. One moment it appeared to be a griffin-like creature, the next a winged crocodile. The one part of it that did not change, however, was the ebony saddle chained to its back by thick links of a dark red metal. On this saddle sat yet another necromancer.
“Master, I bring you news from the south,” he said, dropping off the screeching creature and falling to one knee. “The kingdom has Seen your plans, at least partially.”
The first necromancer grimaced, but he understood that it had been inevitable. One cannot raise an army without someone noticing eventually.
“And what action have they taken, Aistan?” he asked the kneeling man.
“As of the time of my leaving, they had yet to do anything. It appears their councils do not believe anyone would move against them, and thus have taken no action,” said Aistan, not missing the use of his given name. Yet another reminder of the power the other man had over him.
Wiping his bloody hand on his black leather breaches, the scarred necromancer looked back at the sand behind him. Doubtless the blood had reached the clay layer left behind under the sand, from back when this area had been an inland sea. Even now it was having its way with the earthy materiel.
“So it seems there is some good news after all…” he said quietly. “Aistan, step up production of the army. I want another nine thousand done in the next fortnight.”
Forwin balked silently, but forced himself to nod like the good little servant he was supposed to be. “Yes Master Baile. Immediately.” With that, he stood, brushed the sand from his pallid skin, and remounted his steed. In a rush of rapidly cooling air he was away, off to the main camps where the rest of Lord Baile’s army awaited.