Here's some writing I've been working on. Comes after the first topic I made on "The Sun Prophet".
All part of the third to last chapter.
I'm sorting the end first, because I need a clear ending for me to finish a story for once. Without further ado:
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Ravin lay, perfectly awake, on his mattress. The camp was quiet, the soldiers making little noise as they thought about, he assumed, the same things that had crossed Ravin’s mind several times this very night. No, it wasn’t noise that kept him awake.
It was fear.
Fear of the inevitable. He knew he would die in this battle, the Grand Monk of Creva had already pronounced it to him. Who was he to disagree with such a wise, and truthful, man? His words were golden. Ravin feared death like nothing else. It had constantly plagued his life, and from the very day that his legs could, he would run from death. Whenever, there was too much danger, he didn’t hesitate to run.
He wasn’t a coward. He could fight, and he could win. But there is a small line between honour and stupidity. Men would fight, and die, just because they could never stand down. Ravin never understood this. Sure, if others were a concern, running was never an option. But to save your own skin? To Ravin, the answer was as clear as the waters of the Million Isles.
And yet he couldn’t run. He must stand, he must inspire his men, he must fight alongside them, and never once could he run. Ravin was their last hope, their shining sun, their commander, their prophet. The light of Shas’er was with him, but he doubted it was enough. Even the Holy One himself could not stop an endless wave of suicidal maniacs from slaughtering the small band.
Just ten thousand men would stand against ten times their number, even more. The guesses of their scouts were staggering enough before they could be confirmed. Every one of his men would have to be tougher than ten barbarians, and this he sincerely doubted. He couldn’t count on the fresh recruits. The men who had followed him through thick and thin, he was sure of, perhaps the Machuli, but not the conscripted men of Norfor. They were balanced on a sharp knife, ready to topple when a strong enough force hit them.
That strong force, in that darkness, was enough. More than enough.
His thoughts were disturbed by the swift lashing open on his tent front. Assuming it was an intruder, he immediately felt for his weapon and was ready to shout for the guards, but saw the dark figure was Celareena.
“Cel…?” he began.
But she had thrown herself onto him and their lips touched. And all that was built up over the last months was released.
Her cries echoed the silent camp, forcing a smile on a few soldiers and a scowl on some others.
“Lucky for some,” one complained, “I don’t see us gettin’ some entertainment.” It was obvious from his young face he was one of the new recruits.
“You could always try one of those Machuli women, lad. I’m sure they’ll be happy to accommodate you,” said a veteran. The crowd around the fire laughed. Machuli females were renowned for killing men who were even close to propositioning themselves.
Another one of the recruits at the back was brave enough to speak up, “You don’t actually think we can win tomorrow, do you?” The laughter died away.
The veteran sighed. He had fought through countless campaigns; killed many, seen battles won when they shouldn’t have been, “Now look here, laddie. From my experience, nothing is certain. A battle is not won or lost before it has been fought. Having more men never secures victory. It only increases the chance. And I stress the word chance. Because battles are won, or lost, on luck. Perhaps the other Shas’er countries will come to our aid, turn it in our favour. Perhaps the barbarian cavalry won’t break our flanks. Perhaps it’ll rain tomorrow, slowing their advance. I could go on. What matters is nothing is assured. Anything could happen.”
The group was silent for a while again, but the first recruit that had spoken, whispered, “But how many must die before we win, Ildor?”
“As much as is necessary, lad. All you need to do is make sure you’re not one of them. That goes for all of you. Look after yourself, look after the ones beside you.” They nodded, Ildor was a wise soldier; when he talked others listened.
Though Ildor didn’t believe what he had said. To him, defeat was so obvious; it was foolish to deny it. How could just ten thousand prevail against the might of one hundred thousand? And with young men like the ones before him, their courage tethered by a loose string, their skills little. They had maybe 5,000 worthwhile troops. The rest were recent recruits or inexperienced. It was said that each barbarian was over six foot, wielding heavy weapons and had no fear. Ildor was not fool enough to fall for such stories, but he knew the latter was at least true. They encouraged death, they sang for death, they cheered for death. They lived for death.
And for Ildor, a seasoned fighter, an old soldier, it damn well scared him.
He could kill a man before they blinked; he could swing an axe faster than most. But he was always scared, like every other soldier. To face something without fear, an enemy that threw him at you without a second though, was a frightening thought. They would need every inch of their courage and toughness to see them through.
As he stared over the ridge, past the scattered tents, and looked into that same darkness, the same despair swept over him. He, and they, would die. To think of anything else was false hope. If only they had real hope, the kind of feeling that inspired men to do extraordinary things, they might have a chance. But they would find no man here with hope.
“I heard what you said to those young men back there. Good words. Unfortunate that you don’t believe them yourself,” said a voice, a man standing beside him. He looked up and realised it was one of those strange Creva priests. He himself had told his men to stay away from them.
“You can read minds?” he said, stunned.
“No, my son. But the look on your face says it all,” he said, laughing, “Do not worry. The Holy One will be with us tomorrow,” he added, more seriously.
“I was never much of a religious man. I’d rather put my faith in something like this beauty,” Ildor said, patting the head of his axe he held in his scarred hands.
“It’s going to need more than steel and wood to defeat the enemy tomorrow, something supernatural. That thing is belief, belief in something greater in power than mere human strength and design. The Sun God will shine alongside us tomorrow,” the priest said.
“Spare me the lectures. I’ve been told it thousands of times by people like you, and it gets less believable each time. Funny that,” said Ildor, with a small bit of annoyance.
The priest looked at him, and said, “You see that darkness you’re staring into,” pointing as he spoke, “It’s not going to leave when the sun comes up. It’s going to get bigger, but this time, it’s going to be a darkness of evil and death, sweeping up the land, and it will destroy us. Unless we hold faith with the Light, we’ll never push it back. Keep faith, and it will shine strong, and slowly, with strong, good men like you, we might just win. Be well, Ildor.”
Ildor didn’t reply, but as the priest began to move off, he said, “I thought you said you couldn’t read minds?”
“I don’t need to read your mind to know your name. It is spoken with reverence around here – I’ve heard some tales. They’ll need you tomorrow, my son,” he said with a smile, and then added, “You know the Sun Prophet stands with us?”
“I heard a rumour,” he admitted.
“It is no mere rumour. He will shield the darkness from us. Protect him, Ildor.”
Ildor was about to ask who he was, but the priest had walked off, his dark red robes trailing behind him. The man had ignited something he had yearned for, a little
something called hope.
So far, I've been pronouncing it rah'-ven (a little like robin with a 'v' instead of 'b'.
