This is a battle scene - a bit bloody, but not too bad. You've been warned. The first section of my attempt at a novel is just a prologue, and all told in first person, which will be interesting once I actually get into my story and my main character. Reviews needed badly. 50 points to each reviewer. =) If I run out of points, I'll make sure to get more to pay them with.

Esrydil

Elhyan

Chapter One: Courage And Cowardice

This final battle would seal the fate of Esrydil forever.

It was the eve of battle – the stars were glittering in the dark moonless sky, and I heard soldiers preparing for the attack. Swords grated against stones, to be plunged into flesh at dawn. Ignoring them, I stared into the fire, transfixed by the tongues of flames that would rise and snap through the air. Despite the heat radiating from the blaze, I shivered and crossed my arms, huddling closer to the fire. My heart pounded fast, fluttering fearfully. I blinked back tears that were beginning to form in the corners of my eyes. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw my brother approaching dourly, his face masked by shadows. His expression of concern and pity was obvious.

As he opened his mouth to speak, I hissed, “Leave me alone!” I lashed out at him, not wanting to admit I was afraid. I refused to listen to his comfort, or admit my mistake in joining the army against the Dark. It was not his fault I was here, soon to die for nothing, although perhaps it was in spite of his constant urgings to flee, to return home. All his naggings had fueled my determination to never turn back. My friends had whispered of glory and honor – and gold. They had excited all of our imaginations, although it was not their fault that I was here, either.

As my brother froze, I realized bitterly it was my entire fault. I was disgusted with myself. I had destroyed my widowed mother through my rash actions. After the death of my father, she had been fragile, and I had shattered her love and soul. After Jaran had become head of the house, she had been able to understand why he would have to leave and join the militia, but not why I needed to.

I was the pampered son. I had always known that she loved me more – the happiness she felt when she looked at me was evident. The hardened lines of worry would lessen on her face and a ghost of a smile was in her eyes.

While Jaran strived harder to become my equal, I rebelled against my mother’s love. I knew my brother, her firstborn, was the better man but less loved. I hated his constantly virtuous behavior, though parts of me wondered if perhaps it is pity and guilt driving my hatred. After my father died nine years ago, Jaran had to mature overnight. He transformed from an awkward fourteen year old into a father figure that I loathed. He left school without a complaint, and began working at the millers, long hard hours. At night when he thought I had fallen asleep, he would muffle his sobs over his hands that were covered in white blistered, whimpering tears. My mother pitied him, but nothing more. He was obligated to do such strenuous work, lest our family starve.

During my rebellious times, I turned to my friends. I wished I could say it was their fault, they had corrupted me, but I was always the reckless leader that they rallied around. Under my direction, they became like me. My mother was so short-sighted, blind to my faults and the fact that her son was the troublemaker in our small village. Over time, my friends decided to join the army. Their reasons were never noble, just shallow dreams of being heroes. They lusted after riches and glory. At times I longed for these things, but my true drive to join them was to escape my mother and harm her.

The day Jaran and I left was a blustery autumn day. We were standing outside the shabby home of our family, at the rickety fence line that enclosed our small house. I stood proudly, chest puffed out, while my brother slouched beside me.

“We’re leaving, mother,” Jaran called out in a pained voice. My younger sister ran out the door towards us, her face streaked with tears. Kara’s golden brown hair streamed out behind her.

“Elhyan, Jaran, why do you have to leave”? Kara sobbed. She hugged me, and I tenderly brushed a strand of hair out of her face, trying to adjust it into the frizzy knot on the back of her head.

I shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, before lifting her up and staring into her large eyes. She was young and innocent, and a part of my heart felt wounded. I felt immature and foolish. Forcing myself to give a fake smile, I gruffly said, “I will return, I promise, Kara.”

“Really?” she asked incredulously, her face glowing with happiness. I nodded, unable to speak because of a lump that had formed in my throat. As I slowly returned her to the ground, she ran over to wish Jaran goodbye as well. She began to smile and rubbed her grimy hands at her reddened eyes.

My mother looked at me solemnly, pleading. There was no comfort for her that could be created by half-hearted promises. Her lips barely moved as she spoke. “You could still turn back,” she whispered.

I ignored her, pretending not to hear.

The pain of that memory had seized me. The guilt had controlled me mercilessly. During the nights of traveling to war, I had paid for my cruelty through nightmares that startled and awoke me at all hours of the night. One by one, my friends had abandoned my brother and I. My pride had prevented me from following them as well.

I suffered through the endless drills, the scorching sun, the long marches, and the pitiful rations – “For what?” I asked myself. Tomorrow I would face the armies of the Dark, beside my comrades who had come for their own pathetic reasons. United, we would die. I gave a small involuntary shiver. I had never dreamt of dying – I had always seen myself as invincible, immortal, and full of life. But now, death seemed to be the only future left. I was to be stationed near the front of the foot soldiers, with nowhere to run.

Completely oblivious to my brother as he sat down next to me, I flinched as he spoke. “You could still turn back, Elhyan,” he pleaded.

“No!” I said, enraged. “I can not, and neither can you! We are here, and will face whatever end comes to us tomorrow!” My anger rose up like a snake, striking at the prey before its eyes. “You filthy liar, you always were begging at our mother’s feet for her love, her attention. You never deserved it! Do you think saving my life will earn her respect?”

As he flinched backwards from my verbal abuse, I added spitefully, “Who could love you?”

I knew from the sickened expression on his face that his thoughts had drifted to Mara, the girl he loved since he was twelve. For ten years, he had performed the most insignificant of tasks for her. He eventually courted her, but when he asked her father’s permission to marry her, he was refused her hand. Tension had bubbled beneath the surface of Mara’s father and Jaran’s cold exteriors, and in the awkward silence Mara and I became close friends. I had blossomed under her father’s love – he cared for me like a son, and began to redeem me from my reckless ways. My brother had loathed the acceptance I had received that he craved so.

I stood up, turning away from the fire and Jaran. Ignoring the friendly banter and jokes from the other soldiers, I entered the small makeshift tent and rolled on my side, waiting for dawn. Through the thin cloth of the tent, I watched silhouettes of others walk back and forth. Eventually I drifted asleep.

¤ ¤ ¤

The trumpeting horn echoed through the camp, growing steadily louder. I groggily stirred, looking at the light that filtered through the flimsy tent. The pounding hoof beats resounded, sending thundering vibrations through the ground. I hurried to stand up, fastening my chain mail shirt on and I began to prepare for the battle.

“You picked the wrong morning to sleep in, Elhyan.” Harthsfad greeted me with a sly grin.

“You picked the wrong person to fight with,” I jested, throwing him a mock punch.

“What?” he exclaimed. “I’d easily overpower you, young one! But I will spare you today.” His carefree grin dropped to a frown, and his forehead became wrinkled. “We will need every last soldier we have. Did you here the scout’s reports? Twelve thousand strong!”

“All together? That is all? Why, I could take them myself!” I boasted.

“No, that is only what will attack our division of five thousand.” My face fell as Harthsfad spoke. “They will devour us! Even larger numbers face the other units of our army. The dwarves and Endrians are not so outnumbered, but Galdad shows them no mercy. His plans for victory are well-crafted.”

The older man paused, a faraway look overshadowing his features. He turned to me and gave a pained smile. In a hearty voice, the burly man said, “Well eat! We will face that problem soon enough.” He handed me a steaming bowl of stew. I wrinkled my nose slightly; the stores were unappetizing, like every other day. The soup was murky brown in color. There were meager chunks of meat floating in the watery substance, though it was completely impossible, to tell what kind of meat it was. I leaned closer to the surface and sniffed a putrid burned scent. In fact, I thought with a shudder, I would prefer not to know.

Like a twitch on a horse, I clenched the spoon so tightly that my hand hurt to distract myself from thinking of the war. A soldier, I told myself, that is what I am. But I knew I was much less. I was a simple farm boy, destined to care for my mother, marry, live, and die, in the cycle that so many before me had completed. Cruel Death should not come now.

My comrades and I disassembled out tents, then began to march forward. Harthsfad must have sensed my downcast heart and gloomy thoughts, for he did not speak to me again. Officers upon horses threaded through the unorganized lines, calling out orders. Soldiers shifted and clumsily obeyed.

“You there!” one cried, pointing to our ragged group. I ducked away, my face lowered. “To the front of the line!”

Harthsfad pounded my back, and I turned to face the man. His red hair was long and ragged, his face scarred, but a kind empathy was in his dark green eyes. “Afraid, are you?” he asked. “The worst we face is death – remember that.” He gave a bitter smile.

“The worst is death.” I whispered weakly in response. I repeated the phrase so quietly that no one else could hear me. The phrase pounded in my head like the beat of a drum. We walked forward, following the cavalry. Refusing to focus on the others, I stared at the horses.

Nostrils would flare, showing the red flesh within. Their eyes widened, white rimming the outside of the iris. Horses skittered and reared with excitement, their shoulders and chests darkening with sweat. The riders yanked on the reins, sawing cruel bits in their mouths. As their heads were pulled in tightly, flecks of foam sprayed onto their chests.

Faraway in the distance, I saw a massive black shadow. The dark army had swelled to enormous numbers. As the columns formed, I heard snippets of dialog from those nearby.

“I will miss me wife,” one man said. “I wish I could have seen my children grow up. The oldest is naught but four.”

Another sighed wistfully. “I was engaged to be married. The girl was the most fair and beautiful maiden I have ever seen.”

I grimaced, not wanting to hear the stories of loss and love that each soldier had. Failed hopes and final wishes were all that remained. This was war. Regrets were soon to be silenced by death.

We marched further, and I began to see faces of our enemies. Their expressions were calm and unfeeling, all personality and soul seemed to have left their eyes.

“Twisted, they are,” the man nest to me said. He gestured at our adversaries. “It’s that Galdad’s doing.”

I looked at him. His hair was receding and graying, he was passing his prime. His expression was calm, but there was a grim fire masked beneath. There was no excitement, nor was their fear. “Why are you here?” I asked curiously.

He smiled understandingly. “Well, I heard rumors. I saw villages burned down to ashes, and carcasses of friends piled up and defiled. I told myself that maybe, just maybe, by joining the fight I could change something. The chance of success is laughable - the smallest fraction of a percent - but action needs to be taken. I cannot change my fate, I will be long dead, of course. But perhaps, due to my small contribution, my family will not have to face the same bitter end.” I stared at him, wishing I had the same noble reasons, though at the end of the day, it would not matter. “Name’s Kalhn,” he added. “And yours?”

“Elhyan,” I replied.

Our army paused, and then began a united scream that spread throughout the soldiers. “For blood, for death!” My quavering heart stilled and courage began to build inside of me as the chant swelled to a deafening roar. The people in my village – my family, my friends – their faces flashed before my eyes. I would fight for them. I joined in the chanting, unsheathing my sword and holding my shield higher. A metallic sound rang out as others did the same. In front of me I saw men raise their rusted pikes.

“Charge!” cried the generals. Riders jammed spurs into the sides of their horses. Loud whinnies trumpeted from the horses that surged forward. The ground pulsed, pounded by thousands of hooves.

I watched as the horses approached the Black Army’s cavalry. They collided, swords swinging, blood splattering as legions galloped through the enemy’s lines. Overwhelmed, I staggered backward, feeling nauseous. Kalhn grabbed my soldier.

“You all right?” he asked, concerned. I nodded, seeing the horses of Galdad’s own army approach. An arc of arrows rose up and to meet them, streaking through the air. Horses toppled to the ground before they reached us.

Crashing through our first defenses of pikes and shields, they galloped toward us. I swung my silver blade, slashing at horses and riders. Moving quickly, I sidestepped those charging directly at me, darting away. Thousands of desert men and foul entities of the Dark fought for the Sorcerer. The thieves of the vast Hithadrin Desert were scum – betrayers of their own kin, traitors of the East, twisted and blinded by the dark. These barbaric men were animals, undeserving of the honor of being called human. This battle was the climax of the Great War, where thousands of mortals strained against the Necromancer.

I attacked viciously as hundreds of horses thundered past. The soldiers approached, twisting and pushing past the pikes. I parried their blows, raising the shield in my left hand and slashing diagonally. My weaker arm vibrated with pain as I drove it forward into my enemy’s swinging sword. I jabbed at him, my sword hitting its mark. The enemy collapsed to the ground dead, and I glanced at my sword proudly, its tip splattered with scarlet blood. I struck out at the next man that followed, stepping forward into his comrade’s place. My heart pounded, and I broke into a sweat, but I was no longer afraid. I parried and hacked awkwardly, unaccustomed to the heavy weight of the sword. As I sidestepped to avoid a fatal blow, I staggered, weary and footsore. As I had to catch myself, my small hesitation gave my adversary his chance. He slashed at me, grazing my side and slicing into my flesh. Giving a scream of pain, I fell to the ground. He stepped over me without a second glance. My blood pooled around me, and silent tears began to roll down my face.

“And so it ends,” I thought. My awareness began to fade away into the darkness that bridges this world to the next.

As my thoughts fluttered, I dreamt of my family. “You cannot turn back now,” my conscience told me mockingly.

“No, I cannot.” I whispered to myself. “But I wish I had.” I gave a bitter smile as I escaped the dull throbbing of pain and death claimed me for its own.

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Major kudos if you got through all of that. Now rip it apart.

EDIT: Yes, Chapter Two is now gone. I'll post it another time. I realized that it would otherwise be an insanely large ammount of text, lol. You poor editors would probably no longer be able to see straight if you tried to edit that much.