An original story.
Aug. 27th, 2004 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverHello, everyone. About a week ago I asked if any of you would like to read an original story that I had been working on for some time. I finally have time, so I thought I would post it today. Unfortunately there are no hobbits, but there is plenty of action, bad guys, and even an Elf or two. So, for those of you who would like to read a piece of fiction that came soley from my deranged mind, please enjoy and let me know what you think. I'm only posting the prologue today. Rated PG-13.
Dancing with Shadows
The hallway was unremarkable. This was the first thought that many new visitors inevitably had upon seeing the passage for the first time. The stone of the walls was the same light grey granite that marked every other portion of the castle, broken every few paces by candles held in sconces a handbreadth above the height of an average man. Tapestries of scenes from popular stories lined the walls, differing from other such decorations in varying sections of the great Keep only in their coloring; blue background trimmed in silver. The floor was polished stone that had been worn smooth by generations of footsteps, dangerous when wet and glinting slightly in the reflecting candlelight. This time of night, however, there were few awake to appreciate its sense of history.
For the hallway, unremarkable as it appeared, was much more than it seemed. To walk down this passageway was to traverse the domain of a King.
Hajesheram Anasele Jekart Nolesham Meranderu, twenty-sixth King to rule as head of the Grand Council of Teramelain, Land of Ten Kingdoms, slept peacefully in his chambers with his wife, Atia Kelana Meranderu, blissfully unaware of the six men soundlessly positioning themselves outside their room.
The only warning the royal couple had was the cacophony of the door imploding, showering the two with sharp splinters and dust that blinded their already sleep blurred eyes. What remained of the door crashed to the floor, revealing in the entryway six forms.
The sudden silence that fell was deafening.
“Guards!” Hajesheram shouted, throwing himself over his wife as the men advanced slowly into the room.
They wore black from head to toe, their faces covered with hoods that revealed only their eyes, dark as the night outside and with less emotion than a snake. They held daggers in their gloved hands, slim slivers of death that glinted in the echo of candlelight filtering into the room.
Atia’s black hair, sprinkled with dust and bits of wood, cascaded around her blue silken dressing gown to pool in her lap as she screamed at the advancing men. She reached blindly for the dagger that rested on the night stand near her left hand, which bled freely from a cut caused by the shattering door. Her husband, already positioned in front of her, surged from beneath the blankets, bronze skin rippling as he prepared to take on the attackers. No sound of the guards could be heard.
Barehanded, he grabbed the wrists of the man nearest him as the group moved, surrounding the two in the space of a heartbeat. Atia flung herself from the bed, launching herself at one of the masked forms as he deftly knifed the King between the ribs. She shrieked as she plunged her own dagger into his stomach, wrenching it free as she turned on the one her husband still grappled with. Black eyes blazing, she thrust the dagger once more, but this time was stopped by a deft parry from another of the figures. For a brief moment she fought to regain control of her weapon, then the point of another stiletto pierced her skin above her left breast, and she found herself staring in horror at the hilt sticking from her chest.
Her legs gave out from under her and the Queen fell to the floor, vision already darkening, catching only a glimpse of Hajesheram as dagger after dagger was thrust into his body. The only sound in the room was his harsh, gurgling breath and the sickening suction of flesh being rent form the body.
Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out all other noise even as it began to fade. As the darkness began to surround her, she managed to breath out a single word that none heard through lips painted with blood.
“Manjusverem,” she sighed, her eyes closing of their own.
She was dead before the tear slid from beneath her lashes to fall to the floor, washed away by the slowly spreading pool of carmine.
***
He was curled up on his side, arms circled tightly about a stuffed rabbit that had seen better days, thick blankets pulled up to his chin by a loving hand, concealing his small form. Black hair, thick and curling slightly around one closed eye, shone blue in the moonlight that filtered in through the window.
A hand, slim and delicate as any woman’s, gently brushed the stray lock aside as the owner of the appendage gazed tenderly at the sleeping form, green eyes needing no light to make out well known features. The figure froze as pointed ears twitched, the elf’s senses suddenly alert, though what had startled him even he could not say. Slowly he withdrew from the child’s bed, eyes tender a moment before gone steely and dark. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword without conscious thought, the blade never leaving his side. He could feel the leather wrapped grip, knew that its simpleness had fooled more than one would-be attacker.
No fancy hilt, no gold embossing. This was a sword for death, drawn only in training or execution of that training. His gaze darted about the darkness, waiting for what had alerted him to show itself. In the outer room the whisper of movement on thick carpet, too soft for human ears to detect but clear to the bodyguard, centered his attention.
With the barest of sighs the sword was unsheathed. Glowing faintly in the silver light from the window, now the artistry of the elves could be seen. Death made beautiful, the etching of a great hawk, wings unfurled, talons striking, distracted the eye from the gleaming edge of the blade, sharp enough, so legends said, to slice though any object, be it diamond or strongest steal.
It was said of men who had faced the blade and had limbs detached, if they survived, they were able to reattach them with only silken thread, though none had tempted the legend in living memory.
Now the elf stood, sword drawn, eyes never leaving the doorway as the sound of men approaching grew louder.
“Erem,” he whispered, knowing the sleeping prince would awaken at his voice. “Keep still and do not move.”
The sound of a frightened gulp was his only answer, though he knew the child would not stir. He moved, then, to stand beside the door. Faintly, the sound of breathing could be heard. His sensitive nose detected the faint smell of soap, cleaning oil, and something more sinister. His jaw tightened as the acrid tang of pitch reached him the same moment the door opened slightly, the figure behind not betraying himself with even the slightest of creaks.
He waited only long enough for the door to be opened wide enough to allow the form to glide in, eyes flicking to the child before seeking out the one he knew guarded the room. He never saw the one he sought, the blade neatly detaching his head and sending it to the ground with a muffled thunk. The eyes blinked several times up at the elf, even as death claimed them.
Tayen kicked the door sharply as another figure filled the small opening, dagger glinting in his hand. With a sickening crunch the heavy wood caught him square in the face, breaking his nose and sending him back with a muffled grunt. Following the move immediately with another, Tayen kicked the door again, sending it off its hinges to bring down the man behind it and revealing two others, scrambling away from the opening. He gave them no time to talk, dispatching them with ruthless efficiency. Their bodies fell a moment after their heads had finished rolling.
Making certain there were no more attackers, Tayen touched the bucket of oily pitch laying beside one of the bodies with his toe, wrinkling his nose at the smell. There was nothing to indicate whom it belonged to, nor were the daggers marked in any way. Cursing silently, he retreated to the Prince’s bedroom, stopping long enough to unmask a bodiless head. He swore again at the symbol branded upon the forehead, marking the assassin as a member of the Quada, age old killers who cut out their own tongues to prevent breaking silence.
He moved quickly, discarding the head with disgust, and going to the child’s bed, his critical eyes making certain the Prince was unharmed.
“Erem,” he whispered, a sound more felt than heard.
“Tayen!” the child quavered, clutching his stuffed rabbit tightly as he gazed at his protector with large, frightened eyes. “What’s happening?” His gaze fell to the sword still held firmly in the elf’s hand, dripping blood, and he paled visibly.
The bodyguard cleaned the blade by slashing it downward, flinging the blood off and revealing its deadly edge once more. With his left arm he scooped the seven year old up, holding him easily.
“We must leave, my Prince,” he said softly, touching his finely sculpted cheek to the boy’s tousled hair before moving swiftly out of the room. “Close your eyes, and hold tight to me as we have practiced.”
Erem did as he was told, though the bodyguard could feel the small form tremble even through his armor. The Prince buried his face in Tayen’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes closed even as strands of the elf’s blond hair escaped his braid and tickled the child’s forehead. He could feel the muscles move beneath his grip, though he did not open his eyes, trying to be brave and fight the tears that threatened to fall.
They moved, though the boy could not say for how long or where they were heading. Several times they were stopped by shouts, and a quick flurry of motion as Tayen defended his charge. Through it all, Erem kept his eyes squeezed tightly closed, and clung for dear life to the elf’s neck. Finally, though, they stopped, and Tayen touched his cheek once more to Erem’s head, his breath slightly labored.
“You can look now, Erem,” he whispered, though he did not sheath his sword.
Erem blinked open his eyes, peering around him with a mixture of fear and curiosity, wondering where his friend had brought them. After a few moments he recognized the small room as his mother’s reception bower on the lower floor. Four huge windows, one for each wall, allowed the women to sew in comfortable light until dusk. Now only pale moonlight filtered through them, highlighting the silk cushions and armchairs in a ghostly silver.
“What about Mother and Father?” he finally asked in a quivering voice, his surroundings bringing home the fact that his parents had yet to make an appearance, and that if people were sent to kill him, then they were in danger as well.
“I don’t know, Manjusverem,” Tayen whispered, setting the boy down and stroking his hair soothingly. “Right now we have to get you out of here.” He crouched down, until his eyes were level with the Prince’s, meeting the frightened gaze seriously. “Do you remember what to do if we are separated or if anything should happen to me?” he asked in a tone that told Erem just how deadly the situation was.
“I remember,” he answered bravely, still hugging his rabbit to his chest. “Through the woods, over the stream, until I meet the Old Oak. Then south, until I get to the gypsy camp.”
“That’s right,” Tayen agreed, nodding gravely. “The gypsies will be able to protect you in ways my people can not, and I have made arrangements with them. They will know what to do if you arrive.” Tayen smiled suddenly, a tight lipped smile that did not reach his eyes. “But hopefully it will not come to that,” he said softly, touching his hand to Erem’s cheek. “Now, we must be brave and get out of here.”
Once more he picked the Prince up, though rather than head toward the door he went instead to the large window facing east, kicking out viciously until it shattered, using his boot to sweep the remaining shards from the ledge.
A jerk of the elf’s body alerted Erem that something was wrong before the other’s gasp of pain did. Their eyes met for only a moment, and he saw in them shock…and fear. He looked over Tayen’s shoulder and quailed as he saw the figure in the doorway, a wooden blowing pipe in his hand. He followed the evil man’s stare to the shaft sticking between the elf’s shoulders and felt his world shatter.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Tayen sank to his knees, still holding the Prince tightly even as another shaft thudded into his back. “Hold on, Erem,” he breathed into the child’s ear, surging to his feet with a supreme effort and in the same moment using his sword to slice the man’s stomach open. For one moment the two fighters locked gazes, then the assassin fell to the floor, eyes staring sightlessly.
“Tayen!” Erem screamed, pointing as another figure emerged at the other end of the hall, followed by several more, all of them carrying buckets that they used to douse the floor with. With a speed that still seemed too slow to the child, he watched as Tayen struggled to close the door.
A bucket of the oily pitch was tossed over their heads, spattering them, even as a candle followed a moment before the door was slammed shut. The room erupted in flame.
“Tayen!” Erem screamed again, clutching his friend tightly as tears streamed down his face.
“You must run, Manjusverem!” Tayen coughed, setting the child down even as he tore the sleeve off his tunic. He was weakening, the effects of the poison from the darts starting to slow his movements and hamper his thoughts. “Run to the gypsies, don’t stop until you get there!” He spun the boy around so they were facing each other, falling to his knees harder than he could prevent. “Live, Erem! Live for me. Don’t come back, and never let anyone know who you really are. They mustn’t know that you still live, not until you are ready to face them, child of my heart!”
He tied the torn sleeve around his charge’s sooty face, embracing him weakly one last time. Then he pushed him firmly toward the window. “Go!” he yelled, using his sword to help him stand. “I’ll hold them off as long as I live! Run, child, save yourself!”
“Tayen, I love you!” Erem cried, still clinging to the rabbit that was his only security even as he climbed up to the window.
“I love you too, Erem,” Tayen gasped, then spun away, opening the door despite the flames that licked at his hands and blistered his face. As Erem jumped through the window frame to the ground several feet below he heard his bodyguard and friend bellow, “You killed him! You killed my Prince, you bastards!”
Then he was running, running as he had never run before, the wind biting into his face as the autumn air chilled his flesh. He ran until his bare feet were blistered and bloody, until he gasped for breath, not removing the improvised mask that had been Tayen’s last gift to him. He ran as the sun rose, until he could lift his feet no more. Then he crawled, all the time sobbing into the cold, unforgiving dawn that was his new life.
Dancing with Shadows
The hallway was unremarkable. This was the first thought that many new visitors inevitably had upon seeing the passage for the first time. The stone of the walls was the same light grey granite that marked every other portion of the castle, broken every few paces by candles held in sconces a handbreadth above the height of an average man. Tapestries of scenes from popular stories lined the walls, differing from other such decorations in varying sections of the great Keep only in their coloring; blue background trimmed in silver. The floor was polished stone that had been worn smooth by generations of footsteps, dangerous when wet and glinting slightly in the reflecting candlelight. This time of night, however, there were few awake to appreciate its sense of history.
For the hallway, unremarkable as it appeared, was much more than it seemed. To walk down this passageway was to traverse the domain of a King.
Hajesheram Anasele Jekart Nolesham Meranderu, twenty-sixth King to rule as head of the Grand Council of Teramelain, Land of Ten Kingdoms, slept peacefully in his chambers with his wife, Atia Kelana Meranderu, blissfully unaware of the six men soundlessly positioning themselves outside their room.
The only warning the royal couple had was the cacophony of the door imploding, showering the two with sharp splinters and dust that blinded their already sleep blurred eyes. What remained of the door crashed to the floor, revealing in the entryway six forms.
The sudden silence that fell was deafening.
“Guards!” Hajesheram shouted, throwing himself over his wife as the men advanced slowly into the room.
They wore black from head to toe, their faces covered with hoods that revealed only their eyes, dark as the night outside and with less emotion than a snake. They held daggers in their gloved hands, slim slivers of death that glinted in the echo of candlelight filtering into the room.
Atia’s black hair, sprinkled with dust and bits of wood, cascaded around her blue silken dressing gown to pool in her lap as she screamed at the advancing men. She reached blindly for the dagger that rested on the night stand near her left hand, which bled freely from a cut caused by the shattering door. Her husband, already positioned in front of her, surged from beneath the blankets, bronze skin rippling as he prepared to take on the attackers. No sound of the guards could be heard.
Barehanded, he grabbed the wrists of the man nearest him as the group moved, surrounding the two in the space of a heartbeat. Atia flung herself from the bed, launching herself at one of the masked forms as he deftly knifed the King between the ribs. She shrieked as she plunged her own dagger into his stomach, wrenching it free as she turned on the one her husband still grappled with. Black eyes blazing, she thrust the dagger once more, but this time was stopped by a deft parry from another of the figures. For a brief moment she fought to regain control of her weapon, then the point of another stiletto pierced her skin above her left breast, and she found herself staring in horror at the hilt sticking from her chest.
Her legs gave out from under her and the Queen fell to the floor, vision already darkening, catching only a glimpse of Hajesheram as dagger after dagger was thrust into his body. The only sound in the room was his harsh, gurgling breath and the sickening suction of flesh being rent form the body.
Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out all other noise even as it began to fade. As the darkness began to surround her, she managed to breath out a single word that none heard through lips painted with blood.
“Manjusverem,” she sighed, her eyes closing of their own.
She was dead before the tear slid from beneath her lashes to fall to the floor, washed away by the slowly spreading pool of carmine.
***
He was curled up on his side, arms circled tightly about a stuffed rabbit that had seen better days, thick blankets pulled up to his chin by a loving hand, concealing his small form. Black hair, thick and curling slightly around one closed eye, shone blue in the moonlight that filtered in through the window.
A hand, slim and delicate as any woman’s, gently brushed the stray lock aside as the owner of the appendage gazed tenderly at the sleeping form, green eyes needing no light to make out well known features. The figure froze as pointed ears twitched, the elf’s senses suddenly alert, though what had startled him even he could not say. Slowly he withdrew from the child’s bed, eyes tender a moment before gone steely and dark. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword without conscious thought, the blade never leaving his side. He could feel the leather wrapped grip, knew that its simpleness had fooled more than one would-be attacker.
No fancy hilt, no gold embossing. This was a sword for death, drawn only in training or execution of that training. His gaze darted about the darkness, waiting for what had alerted him to show itself. In the outer room the whisper of movement on thick carpet, too soft for human ears to detect but clear to the bodyguard, centered his attention.
With the barest of sighs the sword was unsheathed. Glowing faintly in the silver light from the window, now the artistry of the elves could be seen. Death made beautiful, the etching of a great hawk, wings unfurled, talons striking, distracted the eye from the gleaming edge of the blade, sharp enough, so legends said, to slice though any object, be it diamond or strongest steal.
It was said of men who had faced the blade and had limbs detached, if they survived, they were able to reattach them with only silken thread, though none had tempted the legend in living memory.
Now the elf stood, sword drawn, eyes never leaving the doorway as the sound of men approaching grew louder.
“Erem,” he whispered, knowing the sleeping prince would awaken at his voice. “Keep still and do not move.”
The sound of a frightened gulp was his only answer, though he knew the child would not stir. He moved, then, to stand beside the door. Faintly, the sound of breathing could be heard. His sensitive nose detected the faint smell of soap, cleaning oil, and something more sinister. His jaw tightened as the acrid tang of pitch reached him the same moment the door opened slightly, the figure behind not betraying himself with even the slightest of creaks.
He waited only long enough for the door to be opened wide enough to allow the form to glide in, eyes flicking to the child before seeking out the one he knew guarded the room. He never saw the one he sought, the blade neatly detaching his head and sending it to the ground with a muffled thunk. The eyes blinked several times up at the elf, even as death claimed them.
Tayen kicked the door sharply as another figure filled the small opening, dagger glinting in his hand. With a sickening crunch the heavy wood caught him square in the face, breaking his nose and sending him back with a muffled grunt. Following the move immediately with another, Tayen kicked the door again, sending it off its hinges to bring down the man behind it and revealing two others, scrambling away from the opening. He gave them no time to talk, dispatching them with ruthless efficiency. Their bodies fell a moment after their heads had finished rolling.
Making certain there were no more attackers, Tayen touched the bucket of oily pitch laying beside one of the bodies with his toe, wrinkling his nose at the smell. There was nothing to indicate whom it belonged to, nor were the daggers marked in any way. Cursing silently, he retreated to the Prince’s bedroom, stopping long enough to unmask a bodiless head. He swore again at the symbol branded upon the forehead, marking the assassin as a member of the Quada, age old killers who cut out their own tongues to prevent breaking silence.
He moved quickly, discarding the head with disgust, and going to the child’s bed, his critical eyes making certain the Prince was unharmed.
“Erem,” he whispered, a sound more felt than heard.
“Tayen!” the child quavered, clutching his stuffed rabbit tightly as he gazed at his protector with large, frightened eyes. “What’s happening?” His gaze fell to the sword still held firmly in the elf’s hand, dripping blood, and he paled visibly.
The bodyguard cleaned the blade by slashing it downward, flinging the blood off and revealing its deadly edge once more. With his left arm he scooped the seven year old up, holding him easily.
“We must leave, my Prince,” he said softly, touching his finely sculpted cheek to the boy’s tousled hair before moving swiftly out of the room. “Close your eyes, and hold tight to me as we have practiced.”
Erem did as he was told, though the bodyguard could feel the small form tremble even through his armor. The Prince buried his face in Tayen’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes closed even as strands of the elf’s blond hair escaped his braid and tickled the child’s forehead. He could feel the muscles move beneath his grip, though he did not open his eyes, trying to be brave and fight the tears that threatened to fall.
They moved, though the boy could not say for how long or where they were heading. Several times they were stopped by shouts, and a quick flurry of motion as Tayen defended his charge. Through it all, Erem kept his eyes squeezed tightly closed, and clung for dear life to the elf’s neck. Finally, though, they stopped, and Tayen touched his cheek once more to Erem’s head, his breath slightly labored.
“You can look now, Erem,” he whispered, though he did not sheath his sword.
Erem blinked open his eyes, peering around him with a mixture of fear and curiosity, wondering where his friend had brought them. After a few moments he recognized the small room as his mother’s reception bower on the lower floor. Four huge windows, one for each wall, allowed the women to sew in comfortable light until dusk. Now only pale moonlight filtered through them, highlighting the silk cushions and armchairs in a ghostly silver.
“What about Mother and Father?” he finally asked in a quivering voice, his surroundings bringing home the fact that his parents had yet to make an appearance, and that if people were sent to kill him, then they were in danger as well.
“I don’t know, Manjusverem,” Tayen whispered, setting the boy down and stroking his hair soothingly. “Right now we have to get you out of here.” He crouched down, until his eyes were level with the Prince’s, meeting the frightened gaze seriously. “Do you remember what to do if we are separated or if anything should happen to me?” he asked in a tone that told Erem just how deadly the situation was.
“I remember,” he answered bravely, still hugging his rabbit to his chest. “Through the woods, over the stream, until I meet the Old Oak. Then south, until I get to the gypsy camp.”
“That’s right,” Tayen agreed, nodding gravely. “The gypsies will be able to protect you in ways my people can not, and I have made arrangements with them. They will know what to do if you arrive.” Tayen smiled suddenly, a tight lipped smile that did not reach his eyes. “But hopefully it will not come to that,” he said softly, touching his hand to Erem’s cheek. “Now, we must be brave and get out of here.”
Once more he picked the Prince up, though rather than head toward the door he went instead to the large window facing east, kicking out viciously until it shattered, using his boot to sweep the remaining shards from the ledge.
A jerk of the elf’s body alerted Erem that something was wrong before the other’s gasp of pain did. Their eyes met for only a moment, and he saw in them shock…and fear. He looked over Tayen’s shoulder and quailed as he saw the figure in the doorway, a wooden blowing pipe in his hand. He followed the evil man’s stare to the shaft sticking between the elf’s shoulders and felt his world shatter.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Tayen sank to his knees, still holding the Prince tightly even as another shaft thudded into his back. “Hold on, Erem,” he breathed into the child’s ear, surging to his feet with a supreme effort and in the same moment using his sword to slice the man’s stomach open. For one moment the two fighters locked gazes, then the assassin fell to the floor, eyes staring sightlessly.
“Tayen!” Erem screamed, pointing as another figure emerged at the other end of the hall, followed by several more, all of them carrying buckets that they used to douse the floor with. With a speed that still seemed too slow to the child, he watched as Tayen struggled to close the door.
A bucket of the oily pitch was tossed over their heads, spattering them, even as a candle followed a moment before the door was slammed shut. The room erupted in flame.
“Tayen!” Erem screamed again, clutching his friend tightly as tears streamed down his face.
“You must run, Manjusverem!” Tayen coughed, setting the child down even as he tore the sleeve off his tunic. He was weakening, the effects of the poison from the darts starting to slow his movements and hamper his thoughts. “Run to the gypsies, don’t stop until you get there!” He spun the boy around so they were facing each other, falling to his knees harder than he could prevent. “Live, Erem! Live for me. Don’t come back, and never let anyone know who you really are. They mustn’t know that you still live, not until you are ready to face them, child of my heart!”
He tied the torn sleeve around his charge’s sooty face, embracing him weakly one last time. Then he pushed him firmly toward the window. “Go!” he yelled, using his sword to help him stand. “I’ll hold them off as long as I live! Run, child, save yourself!”
“Tayen, I love you!” Erem cried, still clinging to the rabbit that was his only security even as he climbed up to the window.
“I love you too, Erem,” Tayen gasped, then spun away, opening the door despite the flames that licked at his hands and blistered his face. As Erem jumped through the window frame to the ground several feet below he heard his bodyguard and friend bellow, “You killed him! You killed my Prince, you bastards!”
Then he was running, running as he had never run before, the wind biting into his face as the autumn air chilled his flesh. He ran until his bare feet were blistered and bloody, until he gasped for breath, not removing the improvised mask that had been Tayen’s last gift to him. He ran as the sun rose, until he could lift his feet no more. Then he crawled, all the time sobbing into the cold, unforgiving dawn that was his new life.
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Wow...!
Date: 2004-08-27 11:23 pm (UTC)Smiles!
Linda
no subject
Date: 2004-08-28 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-30 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-31 03:25 am (UTC)Love,
L