The Tempest at Leurs (Part I)

Lancrist · 2007-02-26T05:46:02Z

This is a short story in progress. I'll add the rest to this post as it goes. *** The Tempest at Leurs Part I "W ho's that, mama?" asked a small boy looking out at the road. She drew the shutters closed. "Don't you worry about people like him." Sasburas knelt in solitude in his garden. Nothing had changed: silence persisted, no movement had caught his eye, and yet... The icy sensation of being watched stiffened his spine. He paused at his work, and the impression formed in his mind of a blade hovering at his back, poised-- Sasburas whirled. The stretch of lawn between him and his home remained unoccupied. You fool, he thought to himself with a sigh, and turned back to his plants. Towering blackness now loomed before him. A half-choked cry escaped Sasburas' lips, and he fell sprawling back against the lawn. Before him rose a silhouette, flanked by the dying rays of the sun. Emerald points of light stared down at him beneath a broad hat. Sasburas stared paralyzed up at this shadowy menace. It was the hat, like an anchor into reality, which suddenly struck him with understanding. It came with some reprieve. Just a traveler, he tried to convince himself. “Who are you?” Sasburas asked. But did he really want to know? “A tradesman," said the figure. The voice was masculine, soft yet firm. The ambiguity of the answer caused Sasburas' imagination to reel with the possibilities. He looked at the halberd mounted on the stranger's back doubtfully. Finally, he ventured: “What is your trade?” “Death." The spade tumbled from Sasburas' limp fingers. Blood pounded in his ears like savage drums, heralding his fate. The figure reached into his cloak. Desperately, Sasburas seized his wrist. A stare passed between them that seemed to endure for centuries. Then, as if held by a child, the man in black withdrew his hand effortlessly. He grasped nothing more than a sheet of paper. A glint of amusement twinkled in his eyes, then was gone. Sasburas sagged with relief and released his grip. “You issued a summons regarding the murdered villagers,” said the stranger, indicating the document he held. “I answered it.” Sluggish memories forced their way back into Sasburas' addled brain as the tide of fear ebbed. Yes, he had issued a request for help. But never in his wildest dreams had he expected someone so... uncanny. “ You are a hunter?” he asked. His voice, normally deep and coarse, quavered slightly. The memory of the moment before, when he had been convinced his end had come, was burned into his mind, staring back at him like a glaring eye. Now, he realized that he stood in the company of a man, but not before. Something else, deeper and darker, had been exposed. Gloom had begun creeping in from the east. Sasburas noticed the sun had set during their exchange. His home became an inviting prospect. “There is an inn--” The man nodded slowly. “I know. I merely came here to”--he paused--“introduce myself. I will return here in the morning, when we can discuss our business.” With those words he turned around in a flurry of black and strode away. Sasburas stared after him for a moment, then shook his head and retired. The mind plays funny tricks when you're tired, he told himself. Had it? Night passed largely without event. The cracked moon hung in the sky, flanked by its army of stars, where distant worlds turned. The villagers of Leurs slept peacefully, stirring occasionally at the howl of a distant dire wolf. The golden rays of dawn spilled light across the grasslands of the Eastern Provinces. The ocean of blades, soaked in dew, sparkled as if filled with jewels. Leurs, a farming hamlet like hundreds of others in the Provinces, was already bubbling with life. Overall, the houses of Leurs covered a square mile, with the greenbelt of paddocks and fields radiating outward. They were constructed mostly by oak hauled down from the Gigatta forest, or in rarer cases (such as Sasburas', the mayor) from quarried stone. Mostly they were humble and compact, providing only what space was necessary, enclosed by roofs of thatch or wooden shingles. Only two real roads existed, intersecting near the town’s middle: one slithering north to south and the other east to west. Beside the east-west highway stood what was simply called “the workshop”: an amalgam of blacksmith, fletcher, and carpenter. Neighbouring this was a tiny chapel with flaking white paint, crowned by a wooden statue of the demigod Tifurien. Further along was the town common; a wide square of well-kept lawn framed by a flower garden, in which grew a myriad of blooms ranging from roses to theracorums, with their gold-specked indigo petals. Adjoining the common was the town hall, a small single-room arrangement that did not warrant much attention. Beside the north-south road was situated the Goldwine Inn, which was in actuality no more than a two-story house. An iron sign--depicting a flagon of wine with the gold-paint long peeled--creaked above the heavy door, and vines encroached along the vertical boards. Within was a humble bar and dancefloor, and upstairs five small rooms. It was toward this inn that Sasburas presently embarked as the blinding curve of the sun defeated the horizon, yet barely had he left his home when he noticed the stranger from dusk seated at the intersection. Beside him, a huge Ismian warhorse was tethered to a tree. No breeze yet stirred, and it seemed then to Sasburas that the black-cloaked form could have been a statue. The sensation dissolved, however, when the man in black turned his pale face toward him. “I had been expecting you earlier,” the man in black remarked, though his voice held no hint of reproach. Sasburas, surprised by his early arrival and taken off-guard by the comment, found himself at a lack for words. Perceiving this, the cloaked man continued. “I have been told that a man-shaped beast with a black hide has taken control of a nearby bridge on the Eskas River. It is, I understand, the only crossing for leagues.” A pause followed. Sasburas became aware that the man awaited a response. “Yes,” he said. “Also, this creature slays those who do not relinquish an item of strong sentimental value when attempting to cross. Four known deaths have thus occurred due to ignorance of this fact. This information, also, is correct?” “That is no discrepancy from the truth.” “Undoubtedly, then, the thing which you have hired me to kill is a phadipaph.” Sasburas' heart missed a beat. He mouthed the word, but did not repeat it. The man in black--the demon hunter--apparently experienced no such horror. “I reserved any discussion of payment amongst our messengers, for lack of surety on the nature of the demon. Now, however, would prove an appropriate time.” Payment? Sasburas shook his head, as if to dislodge the nightmare images clinging to his mind. Again his mouth opened, hesitated, then closed again without speaking a word. A dilemma had struck him. Among his vices he could not count greed, yet nevertheless he did not desire the village’s funds, delivered but once a year from the Axis-Capital, to be obliterated by a single misfortune. The question was, was the hunter aware of these reimbursements? Or would he simply assume it was another poor village where the spoils were few? He turned his gaze on those unknowable jade eyes. Gooseflesh broke out all across his body. There was an uncanny wisdom there, he knew. Did he want to test his luck against it? As if he perceived Sasburas’ train of thought, the beginnings of a smile played at the hunter’s lips, then disappeared. “Do not fear that my demands will be excessive. “However—I will not work for crumbs. If you refuse adequate compensation, I will leave you to your misery.” Sasburas considered these words. What, he wondered, was the head of a phadipaph worth? He made a stab in the dark. “A thousand gold crowns,” he offered. Without hesitation: “Five thousand.” Sasburas gagged. “Five? You promised me justice!” “The phadipaph is no trifling pest.” Cold resolve shone in the hunter’s eyes, an expression without toleration for protest. The look said: take it or leave it. Five thousand crowns. The entire deposit barely surpassed that number. Sasburas repressed a groan. If another catastrophe occurred in the next eight months, Leurs would be doomed. Yet they could not, would not endure the loss of anyone else, nor could they survive without passage across the bridge. Either way, the fate of Leurs rested on the roll of a die. “We can only pray for a six,” he murmured. If this confused the hunter, he made no sign of it. “Five thousand. Just get rid of it.” Darkness welled up in front of Sasburas as the hunter stood. In a gesture that struck him as peculiar, the man offered his hand. They shook; the deal was made. Sasburas noticed his palm was strangely cool. “Your crowns are well spent,” he said. It was of little consolation. “Have you tried building another bridge?” Saigot asked. “To get enough wood from the Gigatta and bring it here would take at least a week. And even then, with the river at its strongest, we wouldn’t have a chance of putting anything stable over it,” Sasburas said with a shake of his head. “Well, then,” Saigot said, and turned towards his steed. He said nothing more about the matter. The hunter untied the rope securing his warhorse. It was a colossal thing; all muscle and rancor, its back rising higher than Sasburas’ head, who was himself of an impressive height—one that almost rivaled the hunter’s. Despite this, the hunter vaulted into its saddle in a single fluid motion. One more thing,” Saigot said. A grimace worked its way onto Sasburas’ angular face. He had almost found contentment with the situation. “In order for me to do my job, send several villages across the bridge each day for the next two. I’ll return on the third.” Too far, Sasburas thought. Whatever sorcery had been repressing him before was now crumbling. Who did this demon hunter think he was? “No.” Defiance raged on Sasburas’ face; his thick gray brows pressed inwards in a scowl above an aquiline nose. Something flickered on Saigot’s face. Sasburas' rebellion died instantly. The thing he had perceived during their first encounter was returning, an uncontrollable terror began to rise in— It was gone. Sasburas stared up at the calm features of a young man. Yet the impression clung to him like a vampire to its victim. “Send them,” Saigot whispered. His voice boomed with silent command. He grasped the reigns, almost spurring the horse away when Sasburas’ voice--rumbling baritone—burst out. “There’s one thing I’d like to know,” Sasburas blurted, still combatting the animal fear infesting him. Turning in the saddle, the hunter fixed him with a debilitatingly impatient gaze. It struck Sasburas' courage like a hammer, yet he drew on some desperate reserve and persevered. “What’s your name?” A peculiar gleam washed over the hunter’s eyes, and there was a minute shift in his face. It was barely perceptible, yet it bestowed a vague impression of hesitation. It was in those few seconds that Sasburas received his most vivid account of the hunter’s face; smooth and pale, with thin, callous lips, dominated as ever by the eyes, as daunting as windows into another world. Then the hunter turned away. Sasburas thought he had disregarded the question, but as he started off into a quick trot, a single word floated back on the wind: “Saigot.”

I thought this was good, overall. But I feel it had one distracting problem. Keep in mind, fantasy is not my thing.

Overall, the houses of Leurs covered a square mile, with the greenbelt of paddocks and fields radiating outward. They were constructed mostly by oak hauled down from the Gigatta forest, or in rarer cases (such as Sasburas', the mayor) from quarried stone. Mostly they were humble and compact, providing only what space was necessary, enclosed by roofs of thatch or wooden shingles. Only two real roads existed, intersecting near the town’s middle: one slithering north to south and the other east to west. Beside the east-west highway stood what was simply called “the workshop”: an amalgam of blacksmith, fletcher, and carpenter. Neighbouring this was a tiny chapel with flaking white paint, crowned by a wooden statue of the demigod Tifurien. Further along was the town common; a wide square of well-kept lawn framed by a flower garden, in which grew a myriad of blooms ranging from roses to theracorums, with their gold-specked indigo petals. Adjoining the

Woah, woah, woah. What makes you even think I would want to know all that? :p Kidding, kidding. Seriously though, overload of information. Some people like the heavy description; I'm not one of them. Perhaps, if you will be having characters travel through this town in the future, you could sprinkle the description of the village around in those passages. And, if characters won't be spending a great deal of time here, then what's the point of this chunk of description? It almost seems a bit like an infodump.

So I guess that sums up my main problem with this: liberal description. Sometimes I don't want to know what the character's face looks like when he says a certain phrase... Make the words invoke a certain expression in the reader's mind.

I did like the "'what is your trade?' 'Death.'" line. That set the mood. I also feel that you are building a solid foundation for a captivating plot in the future chapters.

I thought this was quite good, but my combined distaste for fantasy and your writing style stops me from liking it. If someone asked me if this was good and if they should read it, I'd say yes, they should. But it's simply not for me.

Hope you found this helpful!

Prokaryote

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