So, I'm writing a book, and will likely have it published in a matter of a month or two, so be on the lookout for the buying link to be posted here soon!
On another note, respond to this in the comments if you're a Rogue Captain fan. Just wanted to know if anyone actually checks these out.
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A single arrow.
That’s all it took. Just one. ***** Jon ran across the field. “General! They’re coming!” the little boy shouted. His older brother, Simon, slapped a hand over his mouth. “Quiet! They will hear you!” Simon handed a wooden sword to Jon with a solemn countenance. “They’ve got us surrounded, private. It’s time for war.” The two brothers picked up fake shields and put on cloth helmets that their mother had sewed for them. They crawled through the ditch that they were currently taking cover in. Jon peeked out. Four other children with the same wooden swords were coming towards them, some older, some younger. Of course, it was all in good fun, but the brothers took it very seriously. This was the third battle. All their playmates had been “killed”, and were waiting at the edge of the field for the game to end. Simon lifted his hand, then dropped it. That was the signal. The brothers bravely leaped out of the ditch and ran towards the other children, yelling war cries. Most of the other children stood their ground as the wooden playthings crashed against each other, but one ran away in fright. He hadn’t wanted to play anyway, but the other children had made him. Simon took on two of the other children, and Jon took a big one. He parried a lunge, then immediately blocked an overhead swipe with his shield. He swiped at the boy’s legs, and the other boy collapsed, pretending that his leg had been cut off. Jon tapped him on the chest with his sword. He placed his foot on the boy’s chest in triumph, then turned to see how Simon was faring. Simon had held his own fairly well. One girl had been dispatched and sent to the other dead children, but now he had to battle a boy that was at least three years his senior. Jon joined him. Now, the older boy was forced to block with his sword on one side, and with his shield on another. Jon whooped. “We’ve got him now, Simon!” he crowed. But he’d forgotten something. Seeing a chance, the boy that had run away came up as quietly as possible behind Simon, and tapped him on the back. Stunned, Jon looked at the boy. In this pause, the older one swung his sword, and Jon was out as well. “We win!” the runaway laughed. He might actually start to enjoy this game. ***** Fifteen year later, Jon was hugging his wife and giving his children tearful goodbyes. He’d been called to real war this time. He was wearing a copper helmet that glinted in the sun, and a shining breastplate. At his side dangled a sword of the same metal, and a shield was on his horse’s saddlebag. “I’ll come back,” he vowed, hugging his son and daughter. “I promise.” Jon turned to his wife and kissed her for a few seconds, then climbed up onto his horse. The soldier snapped the reins. Looking stoically forward, he rode off into the failing light. ***** Later that night, Jon arrived at the army’s camp. He could see at least two thousand tents, but he knew that their enemy had twice that many. On the morrow, they were to ride to their deaths. Torchlight lit the camp from all sides, and almost a score of hastily constructed towers stood on the edges, holding up watchmen. Five black tents stood in the center, in stark contrast with the red tents around them: these were the commanders’ tents. Campfires were dotted around the tents, with black figures huddling around them. Jon rode up and dismounted. A watchman halted him. “Name?” he asked, his spear across Jon’s chest. “Jon Ryder.” The watchman flipped through a stack of parchments, then nodded. “Go ahead. You’re in the third sector of the camp.” He pointed. Jon thanked him, then led his horse towards the area that the watchman had gestured to. Most of these men had been out here much, much longer than Jon would, he realized. Haggard faces and dreary eyes told him this. Cold hands clasped over small fires, wounds still aching throughout the body, armor dented and scraped . . . this was how most of the soldiers there must have felt. Jon found an empty tent and rolled out his blanket and bed inside, and removed his armor and sword belt. Stripping down to his tunic, he fell into his bed and was asleep in two minutes. ***** Two weeks later . . . Jon crouched behind a boulder, barely breathing. About two hundred other men were doing the exact same thing around him, all hidden and ready for an ambush. Intelligence had gathered that half of the enemy’s force was moving in this direction, and would have to pass through the ravine to take Jon’s camp on the other side. Jon had been promoted to a captain. Now, he was leading two hundred in a doomed crusade against those who would kill them anyway. He watched the bend in the ravine, three hundred yards away, with unblinking eyes. Finally, he spotted something. A scout was jogging around the corner. He stopped to have a look around, and Jon got a good look at him. He was dark-skinned, and had black armor. It looked tougher than Jon’s. He carried a light, thin spear, and a round shield, embossed with a dragon’s head. Two others stood behind him, climbing rocks for higher vantage points. One of Jon’s sergeants lifted his head from behind a fallen ash tree, but Jon waved him back down frantically. The soldier ducked his head, but in his haste, he smashed it against a branch that jutted out from the dead trunk, effectively knocking himself out. Great, Jon thought. Down another man. The scouts hopped down from their perches and disappeared back around the corner. Rather than be relieved by their absence, Jon was even more nervous and desperate. When scouts leave, armies aren’t very far behind. His troop was doomed. Unless . . . Jon scanned the valley. Was there something that could be used as a weapon? He looked upward, immediately spotting the answer. At least a dozen large, jagged boulders perched precariously at the top of one particular cliff. Quickly, he stood and whispered fiercely, “I need a score of strong soldiers! Render,” he called to his chief lieutenant. “Pick twenty of your choice and follow me!” Soon, they were standing above the rest of the troop, and above the quickly approaching enemy force. Their red helmet plumes could be seen about half a mile off, approaching the pass. “They should choose a different color,” Jon muttered. He gestured to the boulders. Now that he was on the same level as them, there were twice as many of them than he had first reasoned. “Men, do you each think that you could successfully move one of these and send it tumbling down into the ranks of the foe?” “Aye, sir!” they chorused quietly. Jon nodded. “Good. Now, each of you set your back to a stone, and be ready to push at my call.” As this pass between the mountains was the only way on the east side into Jon’s country, he planned to push the boulders into the narrowest point here and, as well as destroying a good portion of their troops, efficiently block the enemy from passing by. If they tried to get through, Jon’s archers could just pick them off from up here. We just might make it, he thought. Ten more minutes passed, and the foreign troops had almost reached the point underneath the cliff. “Ready, men!” Render and his chosen soldiers braced their backs against their stones. Closer, closer . . . Jon thought. Finally, the enemy was in place. “NOW!” the captain yelled. Twenty two boulders came crashing down with tremendous force, followed by larger pieces of rock and other debris that they knocked loose. They were immediately followed by cries of outrage and pain from below. The rocks were still falling, and when Jon looked over the edge, he saw that the smaller stones had shot in all directions and were slicing into the ranks of the other troops. “It worked!” he laughed, then turned to another soldier. “Sergeant Clipton! Go fetch the archers, as fast as possible!” Jon ordered. The man saluted. “Yes sir!” He took off towards the path down from the cliffside. By the time he returned with twoscore more men, the enemy had reformed and were ready to proceed. “Quick! Shoot! Cause confusion!” Jon ordered. Each man took a knee and drew back, waiting for command. “Fire at will! No need for commands!” Arrows flew thick and fast, each hitting home and driving the foreign men back. As each man climbing the boulders fell, he took at least another or two men with him. Soon, a commander had to call the retreat. The red plumes receded back around the pass’s corner. Ten minutes passed. Then another five. Then ten more. Finally, Jon had been convinced that the enemy wasn’t coming back, so he whooped. Then slapped a hand over his mouth. Still keeping it there, he waved his men back in the direction of the main camp, to tell his commander how two hundred men held the pass against . . . “Aargh!” one of his men screamed. Two black arrows showed sprouting out of his chest. For not the first time in his life, Jon was too stunned to think. Until three arrows entered his body at the same time. The first killed him. Icefurr strode down a misty path.
Something strange had happened. One minute, his friends had been trying to keep him alive, pumping his chest and wrapping strips of cloth around his limbs, and the next he was here. The foxwolf’s keen eyesight couldn’t pick anything out except for a bright, soft moon and the path ahead of him. Even so, everything seemed more beautiful under this light. Everything was quiet, and one or two white flowers were always glistening beside the path. The path itself wasn’t made of rock or earth, but rather silvery grass. Cool water flowed around Icefurr’s paws. The mist drifted along beside him, as if it were a river in its own right. It was still dark, though, and the military-trained soldier didn’t like it. “I wonder . . .” Icefurr thought for a moment. Doran was always with his children, and one way (though Icefurr had never tried it) was through ancient words, like those that he spoke at the battlefield. Icefurr knew quite a few from his time among the rebels, that drew never-ending strength from Doranfather. If the right intentions were had, and they were spoken through one of royal blood, then something amazing could happen. “Ithiniel sen tiren doran . . .” he said quietly, somewhat unsure, then again, louder. “Ithiniel sen tiren doran!” The foxwolf was temporarily blinded as a white light filled the air around him. It grew slowly, until it illuminated the path ahead, blending with the moonlight to create something even more wonderful. “Thank you, Doran,” he whispered, and continued down the path. His paw subconsciously reached for his sword and shield. They stopped, touching nothing. Icefurr felt all over his tunic, and there wasn’t a hint of armor, or weapons of any kind. No signs of battle, not even the wounds that had almost . . . killed him. “I’m dead?” The foxwolf almost fell. “Yes, you are,” a voice said. The Rogue Captain spun, creating ripples in the water. A strange creature stood before him. It was as tall as a wolf, but had glowing wings that stretched out behind it, giving off a soft light of their own. Its features were undefined in the mist. “Who are you?” Icefurr inquired warily. “I am who I will be.” That didn’t make any sense. “Do you have a name?” the foxwolf asked, now curious. “Yes.” “Will you tell me?” “Why tell you when you already know it?” Icefurr moved closer. The closer he came, the bigger this creature seemed, yet grew no larger. “I do not believe that we have met,” he answered. “You believe that you have met me, but never will until you learn to depend on me, and me alone,” the creature said. Another set of wings blossomed from its back. “Yet you have called me Father.” Icefurr’s jaw dropped. “Doran?” He stumbled back, then fell to the ground, bowing his head. A soft paw lifted his face. “Gethnoel Swiftblade, I have loved you since the day you were born. I created you. I’ve adored you through all of the things that you have ever done, even under the command of the warlord Gulrag,” Doran said, smiling. That much Icefurr could see. “Gethnoel?” “Yes. Your true name.” Doran stood, bringing Icefurr up. “Your mother named you. I named you, through her. She is waiting to see you. She always has been.” “Can I see her?” “You’ll have to wait a little longer, son.” Somecreature else strode out of the mist. He looked almost exactly like Icefurr, but with green eyes and silvery fur. “Do you know me? My name is Mc’Kenthon!” He laughed, and hugged Icefurr . . . Gethnoel tightly. “Father? Father!” Gethnoel hugged Mc’Kenthon back. “Father!” Tears streamed down his face unchecked. He pulled back. “Why can I not see Mother?” “It is not time yet.” Doran’s shape became suddenly clear. His head was covered by a huge shaggy mane, and golden fur covered his body. Gethnoel could tell, though, that it was just a shape, not his Father’s true form. “I know somebeast else that you would like to see, though!” With that, Doran laughed such a joyful laugh that Gethnoel and Mc’Kenthon couldn’t help joining in. It rung all around them, surrounding them with mirth. Another voice joined in, a hearty one full of wonderful amazement. “Captain!” Leo Gundar came through the mist. “Shantali!” Gethnoel ran to him and embraced him. “Shantali!” he replied, echoing the old greeting. “Leo, how . . . when did you . . . Doran?” The prince turned to his creator. “He came to me on the day that he died, on his way to find you. A sick rebel had come to him two days before, bleeding and on the doorstep of Afterlife, and begging for help. Leo took him in and bandaged his wounds. As he did so, My servant told him of everything: who you were, who I was, and many other things. Immediately, Leo pledged his allegiance to Clandoran and I. He is newly made, in Me!” Doran laughed again. Gethnoel looked around. “Am I to stay here?” he asked. “Yes, someday, but now is not your time,” Leo answered him. “You are needed for other purposes, in new Clandoran!” Doran placed a paw on Gethnoel’s shoulder. “But first, you must learn something.” “What?” “It will be difficult, but you must be taught to know Me. Go back the way you came, My son.” Gethnoel turned to ask a question, but his father, Doranfather, and Leo were nowhere in the mist. ***** Back at the battlefield, Jennter and two other fighters -- Keefe and Ryder -- were carrying Captain Icefurr’s broken body back to the rebel encampment. Tears dripped down the fox’s, wolf’s, and hare’s face. Suddenly, Icefurr’s mouth opened, and a strangled gasp came out. His eyes shot open. “He’s alive!” Keefe cried, but Ryder stopped him with another exclamation. “No! Something’s not right!” Indeed, Icefurr’s eyes were still cloudy, and the pupils were black! ***** Gethnoel looked around. The light was gone, and a wave of darkness was coming towards him. “What . . .?” he whispered. There was only one opening in the fog, and that was the pathway. The foxwolf ran towards it, but the darkness rushed towards him. He sped up. “Aargh!” he screamed. When it touched him, it felt like fire burning his flesh and fur. “Get back! Father! Leo!” He stumbled away, tripped in the shallows of the water and landing muzzle first in the grass. “Father . . .” he whispered again. The darkness closed in . . . ***** On the battlefield, Icefurr’s body twisted, and he let out a strained scream. “What’s happening?” Jennter asked frantically. “Get a physician!” The prince’s eyes suddenly shut, and his breathing calmed. ***** Gethnoel suddenly had a moment of quiet thought, even as the fire spread over his body. Only one voice could ever command this to leave, and it was the one that he almost always ignored. Only one person could ever drive out darkness, inside and out. Only, forever, and always one. “Doran! Doranfather!” The call erupted from the Rogue Captain’s mouth. “I love you! Help me! I believe!” Light flashed around the foxwolf, pushing back against the force of shadows, and swirling around and around him. Finally, it drove the darkness away. White light filled the air. All at once, Gethnoel felt something enter his soul, like a breath of cool wind, or a never stopping flow of water. “Doran!” he breathed. My Spirit shall forevermore abide in you, Gethnoel, my servant and son. ***** Icefurr’s eyes opened. This time, they were silver, and clear as crystal. Jennter watched in wonder as sparks of white light erupted around his captain, and every single wound on the foxwolf closed. When they vanished, Icefurr was standing before his soldiers, smiling. “Icefurr?” Keefe ventured. “No longer am I Icefurr, Keefe. I am Gethnoel Swiftblade, King of Clandoran and forever servant of Doranfather.” Something about him made Jennter want to bow. And he did. |
AuthorI love fiction, fantasy, roleplaying, and reading. Nice to meet you too. All of my tales are little kid-friendly, except perhaps a few stories in the Rogue Captain universe. Those are more geared towards teens. Check with your parents, just in case. Archives
August 2019
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