So I was rummaging about on my newest thumb drive to figure out what was on it, and I stumbled across something I began right before National Novel Writing Month last year (November 2012), as kind of the prologue to the story I intended to write for it. I actually remember sitting in the upstairs break room at the greenhouse where I worked, on my last fifteen minute break of the day, toward the end of the season--the longest I'd ever worked there--and scribbling this down on a seed company's notepad. Given they wound up keeping me into November, I didn't wind up actually taking part in NaNoWriMo 2012. But this still remains, and I may eventually do something with it. It's not even a complete scene, because that was all I could write in fifteen minutes by hand. Had it been on computer, I would've been faster and gotten more down.
He woke to
darkness and the sounds of unbridled chaos around him. The darkness he knew; those possessing magic
of any strength were born blind. Chaos,
too, had become intimately familiar over the span of…how long now? Days?
Weeks? It had become a companion
following his abduction by mage hunters in Nordren, along with their palpable
hatred and the abuses they eagerly supplied.
He’d never caused trouble, nor had he heard of the fanatics who had
taken him. Judging from the agonized
screams he had heard over the span of his imprisonment, he wasn’t their first
victim.
The chaos he heard
now was of a different sort, one that told him he was one of their last.
The sounds were
not of torture or beatings or misery, but of the sharp clash of steel on steel,
arrows thudding, and battle cries. His
captors had become the victims of someone else.
And it appeared
they were just as helpless against this sudden threat as he and his fellows
were against them. He almost felt sorry
for them.
He had become
familiar with the sounds of combat from time spent on Fort Nordren ’s
practice fields. As a boy, he’d been
drawn to the Guard as they ran through drills.
He knew from sound alone the skill of a combatant. This group—there were too many, friend and
foe, to distinguish the number of the attacking party—were not battle masters,
but they were certainly well-trained and worked as a cohesive unit.
The din abruptly
died down, the lull filled with heavy breathing and the shifting of
weight. He could smell the thick coppery
tang of spilled blood, and the sharp taint of ozone that suggested at least one
of the newcomers was a mage.
“That’s the last
of them,” one of them said into the quiet—a male. His statement was followed by the sound of a
blade being flicked clean of blood and homed.
“Anyone
hurt?” The second speaker was a woman.
A chorus of
noncommittal grunts and denials answered her as more weapons were
sheathed. He counted no more than six.
“Dorr, Ranvel,
check the cells for survivors,” the first voice said. “Find any more of these fools—” the sound
of a boot striking flesh “—kill them.”
“None deserve it
more,” another voice, another male, answered.
His tone was deeper and held gravel compared to the first’s.
“Just be quick and
clean,” the first said with a heavy sigh of familiarity of the second male’s
habits. “We’re not like them. Don’t string it out.”
“Should,” the
second male stated. “Only fitting.”
“Eye for an eye
and everyone would be blind,” the woman spoke again. “Or, in your case, Dorr, dead.”
The second male,
Dorr, grunted and tromped away; from his heavy tread, he had to be a big
man. He was followed by a lighter but
still heavy series of footfalls.
The woman
sighed. “Should I go with him and talk
him down?”
“No. He may like warmongering, but he’ll obey
orders.”
“He’s right, you
know, peace-keeper,” a new voice, another male, stated. His voice was as grating as the one called
Dorr’s. “Don’t pretend you believe
otherwise.”
She did not reply
to his barb.
“What about that
one?” the first male asked. “He dead
too?”
Fingers touched
his throat; surprised, he flinched. He’d
not heard anyone approach.
“No.” The voice belonged to the one who called the
woman a peace-keeper. “That can be
remedied, if you wish.”
“Galen,
stop.” The woman, again, this time with
steel in her voice. “Look at him—he’s
shivering.”
“He’s a mage,” the
first said. “Probably one of those taken
from Nordren or Galar.”
“Not a good sign,”
the woman agreed. “Doesn’t bode well if
the cult has spread this far.”
“Cult?” he could
barely rasp out the word through the rawness of his throat; he hadn’t been able
to scream in a long time. The voice that
came out couldn’t be his own.
“Galen, check him
over. Make sure they didn’t do something
irreversible.”
Galen grunted and
he felt strong hands run over him, expertly checking for broken bones and
internal injuries.
“Got a name?”
Galen asked while he worked.
“Vash.”
“What kind of a
name is that? Sounds like a sneeze.”
He tried
again. “Jason…Vash.”
Galen snorted. “Still sounds ugly.”
“Galen!” The woman didn’t sound amused.
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