Young Writers Society

This is my first posts combined together, plus an extra one that hasn't been seen yet. It's only been slightly edited and I want all the advice I can get. Thanks!

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The forest was green and lush. Bright, vivid colours masked the sense of anticipation and foreboding in the air. No birds sang and even the wind seemed to hold its breath. A faint rustle was heard, unnatural in the still air. A flutter of movement. Then silence.

A clatter of hooves through the underbrush could be heard in the distance, laughter was carried towards the ears of the waiting presence. A hunting party rode through, oblivious to the dangers around them. They were richly dressed in blues and silvers, led by a tall, raven-haired woman robed in a purple gown that stood out boldly from the rest. She sat proudly in her saddle, aware of her obvious status. Her companions talked amiably as they rode and she listened with interest while still watching their path.

A movement caught her eye and she raised her hand to halt them. She looked towards the source and saw nothing in the trees. She frowned, sensing that something was out of place. Her horse began to fidget and she leaned down to stroke its neck, uttering soothing words to comfort it. It pranced and whinnied and as she sat back up to steady it, she found herself face to face with an arrow pointed at her heart. Her breath came sharply, shocked.

She sat straight in the saddle and followed the arrow’s shaft down to the cold eye of the man behind it. His pale hair framed a face of malice and greed, undeterred from his goal, yet all she felt was pity. Whinnies punctured the silence making her turn to her friends, and her sadness deepened as she beheld what had befallen them. Each one leant against their terrified horses’ necks, blood trickling down and becoming matted in their steeds’ manes. She shook her head and sighed, all her sorrow coming out in that one breath.

She opened her mouth to speak but was silenced when the arrow sprouted from between her breasts. A single tear squeezed out of her slowly closing eyes. She toppled gracefully off her horse as the man stepped forward with a dagger. But there was no need. She was dead.

The early-day sun shone weakly down into the streets of the small village, casting shadows across the grass beside the paths. The thatched roofs shone with the morning’s dew, and the houses’ windows were still misty from the occupants’ breath. A bright young girl, no more than 14 years old, strolled leisurely along the lanes, her steps light and sure. Her raven hair bounced across her back while the wind blew a few strands into her intense face, and her calculating, blue eyes danced under her long lashes, taking in the familiar surroundings with interest.

Lyllan was traditionally the first one walking around and the villagers had become accustomed to the sound of her feet outside their windows at the earliest possible hour. She enjoyed these peaceful minutes, they gave her time to think.

But this morning she walked with purpose, a determined look in her eyes. Striding quickly, she came to a building on the outskirts. The shop’s exterior was weathered, beaten, showing its age. An intense heat came from inside and the sound of roaring flames in the smithy’s furnace was deafening. She stopped outside, peering into the darkness indoors.

The light from the fire illuminated little of the shop’s interior and cast everything into sharp, flickering relief. A worker’s movement around the flames was accentuated, but the working boy’s features were obscured by his sweat drenched hair. He was bent over a hot, glowing blade, oblivious to his watcher, beating it into shape with a heavy, iron mallet. Sparks flew, some landing on his thick, oiled apron before they faded.

Lyllan stepped into the doorway, taking another apron off the hook as she did so, and approached the boy, tying the straps to fit as she walked. She stood in front of his anvil, waiting for him to notice her presence.

He looked up, and jumped, his mallet swinging precariously in his hand. He laid the tool and blade down and smiled at the intruder.

“Lyllan,” he said, playfully scolding her, “you should know better then to disturb an artist while he’s working, it’s bad luck.”

She smiled crookedly, “Well Bryndon, maybe you should have your master install a bell, so there would be no need to create that bad luck.”

Bryndon shook his head, “Why are you here?”

Her eyes glinted, “Only to see my friend work.”

“I know that look,” he said suspiciously, “what’s going on?”

Lyllan laughed, a young joyous sound, and shook her head, “I’m not telling; it’s a surprise.”

He groaned, but started walking towards the door, untying his apron on the way, “I’ve come to hate it when you say that.”

“Don’t think that, or you won’t enjoy it.”

They hung their heavy aprons on the appropriate hooks and walked out into the brightening sun. The streets were starting to come alive as the early workers prepared for the new day. The smells of cooking were beginning to waft on the soft breezes, and the sounds of households waking were beginning to clamour in the lanes. The pair walked among the shops, Lyllan in the lead, with Bryndon following. He ignored the people milling around them and gazed upon the proud, funny girl in front of him, her dark hair and hips swinging in time with her steps, and smiled he at the sight.

They continued walking until they came out on the other side of the village, and Bryndon had to watch his step when Lyllan stopped suddenly on the edge of the surrounding forest. She smiled back at him.

“We’re here.”

The grass spread from under the horses’ hooves as they thundered across the emerald meadow, their muscles rippling with each stride. Their riders were sumptuously dressed; the majority of them clothed in flowing riding cloaks and rings adorned the hands that held their reins. A black stallion led, his head held high and war training obvious as his powerful legs struck the ground. His rider was just as magnificent, rich purple robes complementing the pale hair that flowed freely with a jewelled, gold circlet its only constraint.

Those that surrounded the nobles wore guards’ uniforms in the same deep purple as their king and carried long pikes with wickedly sharp points. The closest to the king was a youth with the same light hair as his sovereign. Though he dressed as a guard his dark eyes were sharper, his stance stronger and his manner prouder than his comrades.

Jaimes Ceiffeld looked out ahead of the group, across the grasslands towards the outline of a village rising in the distance. His eyes flicked over the king’s face and smiled as they were met by bright blue. The king rose a hand and beckoned for Jaimes to approach. Adjusting his weapon with a hand adorned with a single signet ring, he turned his chestnut mare towards his smiling sovereign who made no move to greet him.

Jaimes inclined his head, “Majesty?”

The King laughed, “Cousin, you know you don’t need to address me with those dignitaries.”

Jaimes raised a brow, “And yet, if I don’t, your pride would mean you would not talk to me at all, dear Zamias.”

The king’s smile grew, “You know me too well, Jaimes.”

Jaimes looked back towards the town, “The men are apprehensive towards this one,“ the king nodded, “to many natives, and the rumours flying around…” he left it hanging.

“I’m sure they’ll give us no trouble,” said Zamias.

Jaimes glanced at his cousin, “You know what the spies are saying though, don’t you? About these natives in particular?”

The king’s tone grew slightly cold, “I have been reading the reports, Jaimes.”

Jaimes sighed. Zamias’ pride was great, it didn’t pay to offend him, “Yes, sire."

The king paused, “Will you be exploring?”

“Yes,” Jaimes said, and gestured to the group behind them, “You know I prefer the commoners to this rabble.”

“I do,” Zamias replied, “Though how you can, I have no idea.”

“They bore me.”

“I know they can be a little aggravating…”

“A little,” Jaimes’ voice became indignant, “The next time I have to hear about Lady Nuitin’s multiple grandchildren; or Lord Griant’s olden days…”

Zamias chuckled, “That’s because you choose the most boring company to be with. If you were with ones closer your age, I’m sure you’d find them far more enjoyable.”

“And all they think about is snaring a wife or being snared as one,” Jaimes shook his head and grinned at his cousin, “No, sire, the commoners are the ones for me.”

The king shook his head as well, “Very well. If you are going to go into the town,” his tone turned serious once more and he looked meaningfully at his cousin, “I want to hear everything that you find out.”

Jaimes sighed, “Why? You just said that they would give us no trouble.”

“Jaimes,” The king gazed at his cousin, “what sort of king would I be if I didn’t have some insight into my subjects?”

“I know, but you have various spies for that. I may like the commoners, but even I won’t sink that low.”

“Jaimes,” his voice was consoling, “as a noble, it is your duty to report back to your king.”

Jaimes opened his mouth, but the look that Zamias gave him made him close it again. He bowed his head, “Yes, sire.”

“Good,” the king kicked his horse into a gallop as he called back, “get ready to learn.”

Jaimes sighed again as he followed suit, slotting back into his position of guard.

The village gates were missing, a rotting archway was all that had been left. As the entourage rode through, Jaimes glanced up at the worn wood, looking at the various signs of attempted repair that obscured the original, intricate carvings of strange patterns. At the top of the arch was a ring gouged out of the ancient oak, the inside looked younger, less-weathered in comparison to rest, like something had once filled that gap.

Jaimes frowned as he looked at the oddity, but his gaze was drawn towards the many villagers appearing from around them, coming to meet the group, and the ring was soon put out of his mind as it started to take in the many faces, his curiosity making him gaze without caution. Children gazed in wonder at the handsome horses and rich colours of the nobles, but their parents’ faces were of veiled dislike, and when their eyes met Jaimes’ their anger burnt into him.

The reports seemed to be right.

These natives weren’t happy.

Lyllan looked thoughtfully at the boy beside her, his voice was cautious as he spoke, “Where exactly is here?”

“Well we’re technically not here, but we’re near the place,” Lyllan said matter-of-factly, then walked towards the forest “come on, it’s only a bit further.”

Bryndon didn’t move, “It’s in the woods?”

“Well yes, why?” she frowned at his terrified expression, “is something wrong?”

He shook his head, trying to clear his face of any obvious discomfort, “No, of course not.” Her frown deepened; it was unlike him to be scared. Bryndon noticed her expression, and smiled forcefully, “I swear.”

She smiled back, though her frown mellowed only slightly as she turned back to the forest, this time with Bryndon following.

As they entered the trees darkness quickly enclosed them, shutting them in and making it difficult to see where their feet were placed. Lyllan walked calmly, no fear in her steps and just as surely as when she was walking through the town. But behind her, she heard heavy breathing escaping Bryndon’s pale lips, his eyes darted between the boughs, and the sound of him stumbling through the undergrowth worried her, but he still followed without complaint. The long branches seemed to reach, spindly and sharp, towards them, but withdrew willingly and almost respectfully from Lyllan as soon as she approached, only to raise themselves threateningly towards Bryndon as he passed. She kept walking through the boughs and glanced back frequently at her jumpy companion.

As suddenly as the darkness had surrounded them it disappeared, and the pair stood in a large, misty clearing, devoid of trees or plant life of any type, except for the short grass that grew under their feet. Fog draped itself across the ground obscuring the rest of the space from the youths’ sight, but as Lyllan walked forward it raised its cloak and a wall, 20 feet of stone, rose up in front of them.

“It’s wonderful isn’t it,” she proclaimed, gesturing towards the fortification, “I wonder how old it is.”

She gazed along the stonework, fascinated by the craftsmanship and untouched beauty of the structure. No mosses or vines extended up the bricks, through the cracks or inside the fissures. Bryndon walked, wide-eyed up to the rock, raising his hand, but hesitating to touch it. He gazed wonderingly at her, unsure of how to react.

“How…?” He started.

Laughing, she wandered away from him, along the wall. He stared after her, watching her until she stopped and cried out.

“Bryndon, come see this!”

“What is it?”

“A door, we can see what this is all for.”

He hesitated, “I'm not sure that we should, the messengers said that Royals were due to reach our village today, shouldn’t we get back?”

Lyllan sneered at him, “Who cares about them? They’re bound to be dull and boring, and besides,” she shrugged, “who knows when we’re going to get another chance to come here?”

Bryndon sighed, and she smiled again; he was easy to persuade. Following her they pushed open the door to reveal an exquisite courtyard before them. It showed no signs of the wear that should have accumulated over the hundreds of years it had stayed hidden from the world. The garden seemed to be suspended in time, all the plants young and arranged in glorious patterns. Exotic birds that Lyllan had never seen sang in the trees.

Lyllan looked in wonder at the amazing sight, no one had given them any hint that such a paradise existed behind the village that they grew up in.

And rising up from behind this beautiful garden was a magnificent palace.