Oh, Fantasy, How I Love Thee

[Khendon Sevon]

I've been working on a novel. Well, working might be the wrong word. I started and then stopped working on the first part of the first chapter. I know, I'm horrible.

Eh, I do have the story worked out for a couple chapters and a general idea of where it's going. Never the less, the details aren't really there and have a lot of typing and developing to do.

So, I guess I'll post what I have. Why not? Comments, critiques, anything... it's all welcome :)

Eh, as a note... I'm probably going to rewrite it all. I've started to write with a bit more life since I originally wrote this.

[Khendon Sevon]

¬¬ The hills shook with the sound of a thousand hammer falls. Trees trembled in the might of the rolling chortle of armor and bone being bashed by brandished steel. The sun turned pale and sky closed in sorrow. Tears shed from the heavens and fell upon the churned, war-tracked earth.

Shimmering, armored figures rode mighty, black steeds in great lines and met firmly placed resistance in the form of ranseurs, pikes, and crimson-coated war axes. A once green field turned trampled and scarlet, covered in warhorses’ hoof marks and men’s blood.

Fog descended as night embraced the battlefield of Northern Izer. No high white towers or vestiges of civilization met the muddy, bleak scene of death and mayhem. Man’s world had turned upside down and the results were a stew only worthy of buzzards’ stomachs.

Upon the western bank, where the fighting had become muddled and confusing, a heap of brave boys lay, their chain rings of iron bathed in the pink waters of the small river, family scabbards empty.

From this scar emerged Hextin.

¬The young warrior pulled his body along the muddy field. He dragged himself hand over hand toward the only thought in his mind—rest. Soon, the survivor found himself belly down under his last memory of comfort, a tree he and his company had shared a brief breakfast under—that was before the screaming, before blood was shed.

With long, greasy hair falling in his blue-gray eyes, Hextin let his complete exhaustion wrap its silky blanket around his body. The young soldier, still dressed in earth covered armor, finally slept.

When the nobleman’s son awoke, it was not to a bright morning or birds chirping in late Fall’s expected manner. Rather, nausea, the sudden urge to empty his stomach, jerked him to his knees in the gray haze between night and day. It was over in a few heaves and the boy, somehow, found the strength to stand.

The aftermath of the epic battle lay outstretched for the youth’s cold eyes to absorb. As far as an eagle could perceive, bodies lay in various stages of horridness. In fact, there were no words to describe the soul shaking image.

Hextin turned his head slowly from side to side and returned to his bruised knees, hurt when his horse had been ripped out from under him by a Beurge thrown boulder. Birds circled in a mighty cloud and descended upon the fresh kills, eating their fill and gorging themselves on salty flesh.


“Let those that have died for their families,” his voice quivered at the thought of family and friends, “rest in the gardens of the Gods’ keeping… Le-let their footfalls be heard by, by those that love them.

“And, Dear Gods, bring unto them everlasting joy and adulation; for, they are true warriors, and as close to brothers as I will ever have.” The threat of tears had passed, in saying his prayer Hextin had brought his emotions under control.

The sharp musical notes of clapping shook Hextin to his guard. Swiftly, and with a trained hand, he drew his family sword and stood.

“Easy, young Heladune, easy.” The black robed figure held his white palms open in placation. A smile akin to a sneer formed on the pallid, smooth face of the man. His eyes seemed to house murderous storms and reverberated with an untold energy. Hextin looked away to prevent the unease he felt in his bones.

“Come now, Boy,” a little venom entered the stranger’s words, “you showed courage upon the field, what now? Has it left your heart, replaced by a coward’s cold stone?”

“No,” Hextin brought his own gray eyes upon the hazards of the man’s visage, “it has not left,” he bit his lip and spoke no more. The thought of exactly how this never before seen man knew his name escaped the youth’s mind.

“Good,” instantly the black-robed figure’s attitude changed. He walked up to the young warrior and looked cross at the sword, “No need for that, is there?”
Hextin sheathed his mighty weapon, “And what are you, an undertaker? Come to collect from the dead?”

A cold laugh, like the mirth of a murderous stream, sent chills up and down the youth’s spine. He shifted his weight uneasily, “What?”

The stranger’s thin, blanch fingers clasped themselves around the charm dangling from Hextin’s throat. “Saphius,” there was a hiss in his voice, “has this trinket brought you luck, young one?”

“It has, I am alive, am I not?” Hextin was beginning to feel a little short with the strange man. Yet, the shroud-like figure’s presence demanded his attention and respect for reasons beyond his conscious thought. Who was this strange undertaker?

“What of the sword, the one that you just wielded and now carry on your belt?”

The young warrior looked at the delicate hilt protruding from his scabbard. Two serpents of steel entwined themselves and continued on the blade of the weapon for nearly two thirds of its length. The family heirloom had been crafted from southern moon steel and shown bright and sharp, even in the pitch of night.

“Who does it pledge its service to?”

“Syndrell,” spoke Hextin to himself as he examined the intricate runes that ran across the guard. In that moment, his eyes deceived him and he perceived the snakes of his sword moving, weaving themselves around the weapon in a tight, protective mass of dangerous venom.

He looked up to question the stranger; he was gone, vanished into the thick blanket of night.

“Mind your charges,” the words held in the night for a moment, cast by the stranger’s voice, and then disappeared. They’d followed their master’s lips back to where they came from, Syndrell’s home in the dark space of Eternity.

Just then, a heavy hand bit down on Hextin’s shoulder and took hold. A growl, like that of a wolf ready to rip apart its prey, sounded from a place higher than the youth’s head. Dagger in hand before he even thought of the action, the warrior ran the serrated edge along his assailant’s wrist and bolted forward.

On all of Aerahar’s Azermear, only one damned thing had such strength. It was not something of the true Gods’ making. That foul Blood Demon, the Harbinger of Doom, the Heretic could only breed something so repulsively inhuman. It was one of Ahrydune’s Brotherhood.

Turning on the ball of his heel, Hextin brought himself to face the mighty beast. It looked like a man, as they all did, but stood a full six hands taller than any Izerian. The foul creature’s shoulders were as broad as two fully grown foot soldiers. It was bare chest save for tattoos that snaked across its body in a language damned by the Gods.

The mocking image of humanity held a ready axe gripped in its left hand, still prepared to come crashing down upon the young warrior’s skull. Its right wrist bled for a moment before clotting in a red mess.

Veins the width of a smith’s index finger protruded from the bulky mass of muscle. Every breath sent ripples through the tight packets of power. Some say the Brotherhood really aren’t corrupted men; rather, they’re spawned from the granite of mountains. Chiseled as this particular berserker was, Hextin didn’t doubt it. He had seen larger ones defending the Western Bank, though. They had wielded long staffs with heavy heads of stone and massive tower shields with the ferocity of a hurricane.

Blood shot eyes cast their hateful gaze upon the weary warrior in their path. Rage grew in those scarlet orbs until the youth thought they would spit fire. Not waiting to see Brotherhood magic, or for the tremendous hill to charge him, Hextin drew his sword. If he was going to die, he’d at least put up a damn good fight.