Chapter 2 & 3 (yay! got 3 done!) of Regicide

Here's the entire chapter. (I know you're thinking FINALLY). Half of it is 2nd draft, so beware and have fun. The more corrections I get, the better.


CHAPTER 2

Word spread quickly about the unfortunate demise of the three guardsmen. Whispers in libraries occurred as much as shouts in bars, the story being re-told in any manner possible. Children acted it out in the streets, using breadsticks as swords for their duels against the rabid prisoner, only to die themselves while the antagonist ripped into their dead flesh. Once, a half-drunk human approached, somehow getting through the guards, and made a desperate lunge with his knife. Only the prisoner's quick reflexes allowed him to duck below the weapon aimed for his throat. "You killed my son! His child is fatherless!" the man had screamed while the guards apprehended him. The prisoner thought the guards did so late, and with regret.

The day started with dreary clouds, matching his mood as closely as nature possibly could. The prisoner watched the sun come up over the mountains, the sky becoming soft pink with bolts of yellow seeping through, the deeper colors of night slowly fading. That is the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen. Then he realized that it was the only one he HAD seen, as far as his memory went. He stood tied outside while people cleaned up the barn. He had the eyes of all who passed by on him; he could feel their glares, as he'd felt for the entire march.

His head was throbbing, no doubt due to the lack of sleep and water. Stiff muscles confined his movements to as little as possible. The hiss and clanging of a blacksmith across the street added to his misery. The aroma of fresh bread was sickened by the stench of burning hooves from its neighbor. Merchants came in hoards to set up their wares nearby, realizing the crowd the prisoner's presence created. Few dared to come too close, fearing what the insane maniac might do next. One man boldly asked the guards to move their card table; it was his plot in the market to set up. They reluctantly moved when he went to get a sheriff. This man placed his belongings on a large rug, and then left it in charge of a ten-year-old girl. This made the guards nervous, but the child showed the same fearlessness of her father and cried out what was for sale.

When the business grew slower, the girl sat back on her heels, looked the prisoner from head to toe and said, "My name's Harsisa. What's yours?"

Taken aback by the bluntness, he did not respond at first. She repeated what she'd said. This time, the prisoner found his voice, "I don't know."

She cocked her head, looked casually over to the guards, and then seemed contented that they were distracted. "Doesn't matter. My father says you can tell a lot about a person by looking them in their eye and listening to their voice."

Harsisa left abruptly then. The prisoner regretted her absence, but decided it was better for her to stay away. There was a disturbance at the guards’ card table, resulting in them running after scattered cards. She returned as suddenly as she came with a loaf of bread. She split it in half, passed it to him, telling him to eat fast. Harsisa disappeared again. He hadn't seen her since.

An army seemed a bit overkill for the guard of one man, but not when that man had murdered a king. The prisoner's stomach lurched, and he had to gasp a few times to keep the few bites of food in his stomach. He rested his head against the bar, inhaling deeply with his eyes closed. Images of the royal family came to his mind. A wailing wife, concealed from her supporters in her private quarters. A distant son, studying at a university. Most vividly, the daughter came to his mind. Red hair swirling, she had pounded on his chest and yanked his black hair, screaming,
"WHY? WHY? What motive do you have against HIM!!! What reason?!!"
The guards had come, dragging her away while her blue eyes flashed with defiance and tears. Her fists hadn't left any impression, but her words had.
Why? The prisoner would not be able to rest until he knew and explained it to her. She deserved it, for some reason the prisoner felt she needed to know. Why[/i]...that was what kept him from taking his own life.

A soldier motioned for him to get moving. The prisoner complied, walking down the center of the street. This town was selected by the Execution Officials because it he "the best Facilities for Punishment of this Nature", according to the posted sign. What it meant, no one but they knew. Some said it was a hanging. Others, burning at the stake. Still others thought it was a new hook-method, in which a sharp hook was placed below the jaw, and then the trapdoor would open, sending the barb, hopefully, through the brain. This was a human town in Elven territory. Most residents, human or elf, were crude and bloodthirsty.

A cascade of dirt clods and rocks suddenly assailed him from the crowd. Pain erupted from his back, shoulders, and legs. A well-aimed something slapped his face and deafened him momentarily. After a minute or two, the soldiers called an end to the practice, since there was so much friendly fire on the escorts.

Ahead, in a circle of loud men, a horse spun around, ears pinned back to challenge them. The mare kept her eyes darting from one person to another. She reared, launching forward. A person went down, group beneath her hooves. She bit the next person who came close and landed a solid kick on those who dared to stand within range.

After another few minutes of fighting, she mare was tripped and loaded onto a cart. The prisoner followed it obediently after receiving a command to do so. He didn't like the way things were coming together.

They entered a stadium packed with anxious humans, loud with their excited chatter. A few silent elves sat broodingly together. As he passed under the gates, he made eye contact with the man Stock had been talking to the night before. That man wore deep violet robes and sat with other Wizards of the Elite Order.

The horse had been deposited roughly in the center of the sandy arena, lying on a saddle without stirrups. Ropes held her still. The prisoner was shoved roughly towards her.

"Get on."

The prisoner sat on the horse's exposed side, and his already chained hands were tied with ropes to the saddle horn. First, he had no stability, and now he had little balance. If he fell forward, he'd break his wrists, and if he fell at all, he'd be attached to an insane horse. He didn't know how he'd stay on. Death by trampling wasn't what he had in mind, since he'd have plenty of broken bones before she killed him.

They waited, the mare with flaring nostrils and white eyes, the prisoner with a grim face and surprisingly steady breath. Only two people remained to hold the horse's ropes. The others were well out of the way.
An announcement rang out as the duo released the mare, and they sprinted away. The mare climbed to her feet, and the prisoner went with her. She stood still, heaving.

The prisoner didn't listen to the commentary, but he understood the general idea. Basically, he was being called Owen the Owing for the history books, and they could think of no more appropriate name, for he would eternally owe the world a debt too great to ever be repaid. Also added with great distaste were the words, "No man worthy of living could taint his weapon and his skill with the evil blood of this traitor. Let evil take evil."

A bell sounded, and a door was opened. The crowd hushed for a long pause while some brave fools ushered something out.

It howled, and emerged from the dark cell, accompanied by a shrill human scream. The human, or at least his head, was still clinging onto one of the claw-like stingers on its paw. It growled, biting into the still twitching face. The creature had a heavy black lion's mane around its neck. Along the slender body ran vertical blood-red stripes that stood out sharply against the short black coat. Some one in the crowd called it a Marssion. Blood puddled on the ground as it bit into the newly-exposed brain.

Owen cringed, and the mare shifted beneath him, nervously smelling the fresh kill. Suddenly, the Marssion lifted its face, eyeing the horse and man. It growled, crouching low to the ground and running in a wide circle to its prey. The horse smelled the air again, and pawed nervously.

Owen sank deeply into the saddle, positioning himself for a wild ride. As the creature jumped forward, the mare duck and bolted. For a brief instant, Owen found himself staring into the golden eyes, with the Marssion almost in his lap. After a frenzied buck that jarred Owen's neck and back, the creature was gone. It landed gracefully, as though it had planned the move to begin with.

The ropes broke at an inconvenient time. They caught his fingers and made it difficult to stay in the saddle. The crowd stood as one, the noise deafening. The mare settled onto all her feet, but ground her teeth nervously when the Marssion came around again. To keep it at bay, Owen took the loose end of the rope and whipped its head. The mare dodged away, nearly throwing Owen off the other side. He steadied himself, squeezing his knees tight.

The mare pawed the ground, tensed up tight, and snorted. Expectantly, Owen leaned forward in almost the same instant the mare lifted, rising off the ground. Owen clung desperately, starting to slide. She landed with a heavy thud. Owen's breath came faster and his blood pounded. The mare charged forward with bared teeth. She latched onto its neck, provoking a cry and sharp claws that dug into her cheek. She let go, racing past and delivered a sharp kick that hit squarely in its side.

As she ran past the arena walls, Owen grabbed a flag pole. It snapped in his hand. By the time Owen regained his balance, they were face-to-face with the Marssion again. While the mare ran crazed past, Owen cracked the stick over its head. It spun across the ground for a moment, disoriented. It regained some of its senses and made a half-hearted lunge. The mare screamed, running panickedly into a section of the wall with no stands behind it. The wood groaned. Owen took advantage of the mare's moment of dazedness to slip the still-knotted loop over her nose. She bolted again, and he heard the resounding crack of splitting wood.

The mare ran into the middle of the arena, and it followed. Looking back, Owen saw the open gate to freedom. He turned the mare hard with one makeshift rein and made for the opening.

In the riot that occurred, full of booing and roaring, people crowded to the edge. Someone small was shoved through, and they landed hard onto the arena ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Owen saw this. As well, he saw the Marssion surveying the new prey with interest.

Freedom was so close...how... With a touch of bitterness, Owen yanked the mare's head back, sending her into a spin. The two steeds put on a burst of speed, the Marssion with the advantage of distance. When it came within range, Owen landed a hard blow onto its hide, and the mare angrily rammed her hooves into it. This happened when they were only a mare's pace from the girl. Owen noticed it was Harsisa as he grabbed her arms with both hands and hauled her up behind him. There was a gasp from the onlookers.

"Take the rope!" he called back to her, and she took the sole rein. Owen slid out of the saddle while the mare turned to avoid the wall, "And get out of here!"

He saw no sense in bringing the girl into any more trouble. The Marssion, mortally wounded by the mare's hooves, was squirming on the ground, writhing in pain from a broken back. Owen took his stick and plunged it through the eye and into its brain. Owen sank against the wall as the creature stopped twitching. He was so tired...Owen noticed scratches on his arm. Must've happened earlier. He added it to the wound on his head.

Not too far away, the mare staggered. She was dying, he realized. Owen looked down at the creature's claws, where poison sacs were hidden among the pads. How potent was it? He closed his eyes, breathing hard. Time stood still. Out of a sleep-like state, a loud clang and shrill scream opened his eyes in a snap. The mare was down, with something resembling an alligator on top of it. It had well-developed legs that were used for running, not swimming. Harsisa was unsuccessfully trying to climb the side of the wall, and the occupants on top weren't helping any.

Attracted by the girl's fear, the new creature turned with eager steps. Owen ran blindly towards it, yelling. It turned, showing a mouthful of teeth, making Owen realize he had no weapon. It snapped and he backed off. Something metallic bounced off the rails, and Owen instinctively caught it. He hardly noticed that it was a sword. The creature advanced again on the girl.

"DON'T RUN!" Owen's words came in time to stop a sprint. Owen advanced, sword in hand. He tried to drive it into the flesh, through the scales, but the sword glanced off. Not even a scratch remained. The creature snapped, but Owen didn't back down this time. It jumped, and Owen barely escaped the attack with his legs. Remembering the last creature, Owen made an attempt for the eye. It spun its tail and slapped Owen's calves, knocking Owen off his feet. It went for the unarmed girl. Owen found his feet again and rammed the sword into the eye just when the girl tripped past him.

She made the three feet back to him, wrapped her arms around his legs and cried. He refrained from comforting her, knowing that arrows were now trained on him. With blazing anger, he wondered why they hadn't killed the creatures when an innocent girl was endangered. He remembered that anyone in the arena was fair game. That same moment, a wary guard came to seize Owen's shackles and take Harsisa back.

As he was placed into a new windowless barn, a thought occurred: There would be no freedom.

So far, this is the only mistake I can find to critique.

C Elocin wrote:He had the eyes of all who passes by on him; he could feel their glares, as he'd felt for the entire march.

It should be 'passed' instead of 'passes.'

I updated some things. Still more to come, Owen's fight with the creature.

Each time it was re-told, the details grew more exaggerated, until the dead trio had been drug through the bars and savagely beaten, dying when their brains splattered on the floor.

This is a crazy long runon sentence. You can easilly split this into three or four sentences. Also I'd like to see this elaborated. Through dialog if you can swing it.

As was fit for the prisoner's mood, the day started with dready clouds.

It doesn't look to bad on the page but "As was fit for" is a mouthful and sounds silly outloud.

For an instant, he thought, That is the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen.

This sentence is akward. Also thought should be in italics. Althoug I'd make the thought an indirect quotation.

In one sense, the prisoner wanted to die.

Cut out "In one sense." Try another way of wording that.

He was affected dramatically by the hatred he recieved, feeling his mental core diminishing as each minute passed, and starting into a depression.

Is there any way you could show us this through how he walks and his posture? Its very telling and not very interesting.

Then, when he was ready to just give up, a stronger sense came to him. A sense of innocence. He had to live.

Here also telling and no showing. What exactly changes his heart? I think this has to be an internal moment but it has to be there. What is it that this man wishes to live for?

This was a human town in elven territory, so most here were crude and bloodthirsty.

Elves are cruel and bloodthirsty? Or are humans cruel and bloodthirsty? I'm not quite sure what you're saying here.

That man wore the robes of wizardry and sat with other Wizards of the Elite Order.

I don' think you need to specify robes of wizardry since he's identified as a wizard. Instead show us what the robes look like. What color are they for instance?


These are the biggest glareing problems I saw in this chapter. Also there could be some expansion in the description department. I'm anxious to know if this is an execution or some sort of gladiator fight. If he is fighting a monster it might be more of a gladiator thing. But I'm not sure that someone who killed a king would get that kind of respect. He would probably just be killed outright. Still interesting.

I edited the mistakes pointed out to me, and added some things in. I hope that is what you had generally in mind. Thanks.

Here's Chapter 3. Any and all comments are greatly appreciated. Haven't revised it yet. To quoteth the Great Fire, "Fresh from the oven and full of holes probably". I thank you for that excellent bit of genius, Firestarter.

Owen’s execution had only been delayed. Normally, he would have been shot dead in the arena, but superstition was running high. They feared that spilling his blood would result in the release of uncontrolled evil. No archer would take the shot, and no educated wizard would correct them. However, he had to die, in one form or another. They decided that the safest way would be to starve the evil away.

The air was crisp, with a sharp bite that increased with every occasional flurry of wind. A soft glow radiated from ill-fitting doors and half-shuttered windows of houses beyond the shops. Fires died low, and the reflection off the polished cobblestone disappeared. The nearest bar, the Black Witch, released the final few late-night customers out onto the street. These people wobbled away by the faint light of the hidden moon, two men laughing, a woman singing, and another man adding to Owen’s ever-increasing vocabulary of colorful words. Smells of beer and cheap champaign hung in a cloud around them. Their commotion was the only thing that broke the silence. After they disappeared around the corner, quiet reigned supreme once again. Even the soldiers standing guard didn’t speak.

After what seemed to be an hour, but which was only a half-hour according to the clock tower, a whispered spell broke the silence again. In the stocks, Owen could only lift his head. The guards standing in a huddle froze, not a muscle twitching. The flames stood frozen too, their fingers reaching skyward. Nothing moved. The wizard came forth, saying as he undid the locks on Owen’s stocks,
“Five more minutes until time resumes again.”

Owen nodded appreciatively, then stretched. Without giving any time for more to be said, the wizard turned on his heel and left as tranquilly as he had come. Steady hoof beats preceded Harsisa’s appearance. She stood walking a young colt. She hesitated a moment, looking for someone, then said abruptly, “Take him and go.”

Owen eyed the horse with tall withers, long legs, a heavy head, and not much else to speak of. In the night, he seemed to be a bluish color. Owen patted the colt, “I’ve already been given freedom. Now a horse is added. Why the sudden kindness?”

She licked her lips, then shrugged and said in a matter-of-fact voice, “I’m Elyas’s niece. He finds it necessary to repay life for life. You are given freedom and a horse because you have shown my life is worth more than freedom and a wrecked nag.” She paused. “In the bags are two days’ rations, a blanket, and water.”

Owen nodded, swung bareback onto the colt and spun him. He stopped and looked down just long enough to say, “Thank you.”
He dug his heels into the colt’s side, and went for the one place he would have a hard time being followed: The Dunes.



Dawn found Owen exhausted and a healthy distance from the border. The horse proved to be a fleet and steadfast one, undoubtedly of racing stock. Owen could not judge distance accurately, but he could find directions. He traveled South, following the star Anyse. Since he knew consciously nothing of survival at all, he was greatly relieved that Harsisa and Elyas had packed sufficient supplies.

They stopped, and Owen let the horse drink. He had to use of the saddle bags for a container. Around them, dunes covered the landscape, most resembled teeth more than hills. Morning rays glistened off the sand, which gleamed like diamonds. The sky was a soft pinkish hue, with blue streaks slicing through the heavens. The horse shoved his wet lips between Owen’s shoulder blades, and snorted. Owen rolled his eyes, First I’m a murderer, then a regicide, then an escapee, and now I’m a snot rag. How much lower can I get?

When they started to walk again, Owen realized how exhausted both of them were. The horse held his head low and occasionally stumbled. Owen wasn’t much better off. Weeks of poor food and a steady night of traveling, added to the hardships of the day before, were now quite apparent on his face. Owen sighed.

“Alright horse, let’s try to find some shelter for the day.”

The closest thing to shelter that they found was the shadowed side of a dune. Owen dug an impression into the sand and slept, the horse standing nearby.


His skin was flaming. Owen bolted upright, and shot his eyes open. He regretted both actions when the wind-borne sand found newly exposed places. He staggered onto his feet, only to be sent tumbling as another cascade of sand blew him over. He searched for any sign of the horse, but he could not see beyond his fingertips.

Owen remembered that he’d tied the horse’s lead to his wrist. After following the rope all of the three feet on his hands and knees, he found the colt with its backside to the wind. Owen jumped onto his back, burying his head into the colt’s neck. He held down the whipping mane with one hand and clung on with the other. The colt moved without Owen’s directing.

His body shook with the effort required to stay on in such an awkward position. The sand bit through his thin clothes and settled into creases. As Owen moved with the slow shuffling of the horse, it exposed new places every second. The horse repeatedly snorted and laid his ears flat.
Owen closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and concentrated solely on remaining on the horse.



There was no wind, no sun, no heat. The change came suddenly as they stepped into quiet, darkness, and soft air. The horse shook, dislodging Owen as though her were a sack of gravel. He sat dazed for a long moment. Slurping sounds came from the direction of the horse. Water. Lots and lots of water. The horse had its front hooves in the pool, and was greedily taking long gulps. Owen feared the horse would drink it all, even though there was enough to drown them both in.

Owen scrambled over on his belly and hands. Cupping his hands, he drank, receiving some gritty particles although he learned to filter most of it through his teeth. Water dribbled down his chin and drenched his clothes, the cool liquid soothing his chapped lips and dry tongue. He drank until he felt his stomach slosh with it.

With a smile, Owen wondered who was messier, him or the horse. He laid back onto the cold floor. Brushing aside some sand, a stone floor beamed its smooth surface. The coolness relieved his pounding headache and sore skin, coaxing him into a deep sleep. Beside him, the horse locked its knees and slept, lowering his nose to Owen’s chest.

When he woke again, a beam of moonlight was staring at him that originated from an arc at the end of the building. Under the high wooden beams of the ceiling stood a dragon statue. Its wings stretched upwards to the heavens, and its neck was craned down to guard a box.

Owen stepped over the painted tiles and through the puddle, which Owen determined had been intended to be a shallow-knee high pool that had overflowed when sand filled the bottom. Upon closer inspection of the rectangular box, runes and carved pictures became evident. The pictures illustrated an exile, a march across baren desert dunes, attacks by a group of bizarre creatures, and a meeting with dragons. Owen couldn’t read the runes, but they were evidently words of praise and telling of his life. On the hardwood cover of the tomb was etched the man lying inside. The man had noble features, braided hair, and large eyes. Owen felt he should know this man’s name, but no name came to him.

The clatter of the horse’s hooves came to him. Owen turned, jumped onto the colt’s back, and clung on when he objected by raising his front feet into the air. Owen held on with a smile, and the colt settled down after he tossed his head several times. They exited the lodge, and stepped out into the soft halo of moonlight. The dunes had completely changed position during the fierce winds. The colt snorted, sending a puff of sand into the air. Owen oriented himself, and kneed the horse into the southerly direction he desired, the spirited hoof beats helping him to continue on his self-assigned quest.

You know I love this story C, but you lost me somewhere around the pool. And when did Owen figure out his name?

Are you ever going to write this one again?

Awesome story! I liked it alot. Keep up the good work. I am, hoping for more. Two thumbs up. :D :D :D

-- M.B.Author