Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
So, I finally decided to post the beginning of my first book on here. The chapters are very long, so I will probably end up splitting them by scenes which I originally wrote them in. All comments and critiques are more than welcome.
Flames of Lecraesa
Prologue
Some ashes are destined to be found.
Wilted flowers dangling lifelessly from their roots, scorched vines were peeling off the crumbling buildings standing in a courtyard of ashes. The stench of smoke was heavy in the air and dust obscured all vision. Failing fires flickered among the smoldering timbers and stones, consuming what charred remains of life still lingered in the devastated city, and the larger stones protruding from the rubble wept, drizzle glistening on their marble-like surfaces, and the silver grass that once surrounded them seared a burnt hue of black.
The sun hid her face that morning in shame; some even ventured to say she never rose. She retreated from the sky and shirked her duty to sob far away – only her tears touching the flames she fled from. That day the hillside echoed with ghostly cries of defeat; that day a people yielded to the hands of their conquerors like dogs following their new master’s heels, unaware of the knife in the hand beside them. The flame that had once flickered in every man’s eye, the hope that they prayed would never die, faded into a small spiral of smoke, forgotten and neglected for years. But some fires cannot be quenched and some ashes are destined to be found.
After years of shadow and fear, new vines began to grow upon the stone faces of the dead city and the sun no longer hid behind the clouds. She looked upon a different world with determined eyes. In Kalinth, a king discovered the few rays of hope lingering under his shadow and lit his land in a frantic fire – a fire destined to destroy what remained of the dead city and a fire that lit the sky, entrancing the eyes of young ones who would never forget the day - the day the flames of Lecräesa once again raged.
Fingers stiff and cold with fear, the woman closed the old book, clutching her old, tattered cloak about her shoulders. Shivering, she huddled in the dusty corner of the large room and winced as the shouts of soldiers grew louder and louder outside her house. It would be a few hours before they discovered the back door open where her companions had escaped. Squeezing her eyes shut and hugging herself tightly, the woman fought a frightened sob. Strick, where are you?
Chapter 1: Sray-Valom
A tattered flag wrenched in the fierce wind, convulsing as the flames consumed its charred threads. It blazed, black smoke spiraling into the cloudless sky. Commoners were massed around the smoldering wooden pole, and the surrounding streets teemed with curious townspeople, the ashes of the crumbling guard tower that now littered the ground billowing in the musty air.
Shrieks pierced the swarm of muddled voices as the top of the pole collapsed, and the burning flag toppled down upon the people below. The sickening crack of the pole against the corner of the gallows was unnoticed amid the deafening roar that erupted from the crowd. Puddles from last night’s rain doused the fire, leaving the flag a tangled heap of cloth twisted upon the muddy street.
Creiha Arlondom shouldered her way through the edges of the crowd, her eyes widening in horror when the flag struck the ground. The people surged forward, hauling her along with them. She fought the flailing arms and tripped in the gutter, collapsing to her knees on the dirt path. Running one hand through her mud-matted hair, she pulled a few strands away from her smudged face and scanned the street desperately for her sister. “Criscialda!” she called, her heart racing in fear. “Criscialda!”
“Creiha!” an excited voice answered from a few feet behind Creiha, and she turned abruptly to see her sister racing towards her with a huge grin. “Creiha, there you are! Where you have been?”
“Where have I been? Where have you been?! You worried us all sick, especially Mother! What are you doing out here?” Creiha demanded, her face flushing a bright hue of red.
“I’m supporting my people!” announced Criscialda with a grimace, affronted by her sister’s harsh tone, “I’ve been here since sunrise. Look, isn’t it wonderful? The king thought he could tell us what to do. Well, ha! Let him march his extravagant procession through this city and see his flag a dirty rag to clean the streets.” Criscialda stretched her hand towards the gallows in a glamorous sweeping motion.
“Criscialda, the king will ‘march his extravagant procession’ through here, see the mess you and your radicals have made and punish the city!” Creiha exclaimed in frustration, imitating Criscialda’s alluring gesture.
“You side with the king, then?” Criscialda frowned deeply, a dangerous light entering her emerald eyes.
“I’m not siding with anyone!” Creiha responded, fear creeping into her face. She wished she did not sound so worried. “Crisci, listen to me! Don’t get involved in this; it will be death for all of us. Mother will forgive you; I know she will.”
“I already am involved, Creiha.” Neither sorrow nor triumph held precedence in Criscialda’s face. She suddenly appeared very cold, her eyes flashing with frigid determination.
“Criscialda–” Creiha pleaded, reaching out to touch her sister’s arm.
“No, Creiha!” Criscialda flinched at Creiha’s touch, “No, you have to get out of here before they kill the three Svarë. If you can’t take it, don’t stay. Leave, Creiha,” Criscialda commanded. She knew her order was cruel. She had not forgotten the bond they shared. But theirs was no longer a generous bond; it was only a shadow of what once lingered there between them, and now they were alike in nothing but name.
Creiha shuddered at her sister’s words and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. When Criscialda did not leave, she sighed deeply and met her sister’s eyes again. “I only see two ropes,” she observed, cocking her head towards the gallows where the crowd gathered.
A grin spread across Criscialda’s face. “Oh, only two Svarë will be hanged. The other will be burned at the stake!” Anticipation rang sweetly in her voice, and her luminous eyes flashed with excitement.
Creiha swallowed hard. “Why?”
Criscialda glanced back at the crowd amassed around the small gallows. “He’s no fun, too dignified. He didn’t scream once, didn’t cry, not when they proclaimed him guilty, not when they burned his left arm.” She met Creiha’s eyes hopefully. “Understand?”
No, Creiha didn’t think she wanted to understand. She breathed shakily, turning her head aside in sadness.
“Well, I’ll see you back at home, Creiha. Promise you’ll be waiting for me?” Criscialda winked and hugged her downcast sister as if nothing was awry before sprinting back towards the dungeon where the soldiers were dragging out two unconscious prisoners and leading out a third. Creiha suppressed an angry sob and turned away from the scene, allowing her feet to lead her away from the crowd.
Creiha hadn’t traveled far before a deafening roar exploded from the crowd; she froze in her steps and dared to glance behind. The third Svarë stood with contrived confidence, staring at the stake where he was to burn. He looked so calm… and yet so frightened, so accepting and yet so shaken, as if every moment was a hard-won fight to keep the terror from his gaze. Black hair hung in tangled tufts around his face, arms bound tightly behind his straight back. His dark eyes glowed with an unheeded emotion and a resolve about his fate, and he winced sharply as the man behind him elbowed him hard in the back. Creiha could not avert her eyes from the innocent Svarë. Chills raced through Creiha as something pulled at the edges of her heart. What was she to do? Dash up there and be killed? No, she had to find her way back home before the crowd grew more dangerous.
“Before you is one of the three offending Svarë – the enemies of this nation. We present you one of the most trusted spies of the Svarë king. To the streets with the king’s order not to lay hands upon the Svarë! We want justice!” The bearded, bulbous man teetered at the edge of the gallows, shouting with a blazing passion and eyes alight with fervor.
“Justice! Justice!” shrieked the people below, fists being thrust into the air with every roar. “Justice!”
An urge to help the innocent prisoner swelled within Creiha, her eyes still fixed on the Svarë. The Svarë lifted his head slightly at the people’s roar as if preparing himself for what lay ahead while daring the people to make him break beneath their torture.
“Svarë, do you have anything to say about these charges?” snarled one of the other men gripping the Svarë man’s arm tightly.
Creiha saw the Svarë man’s mouth move, but heard nothing over the crowd. This has already gone too far. Creiha told herself and picked her skirts off the muddy ground, sprinting back towards the crowd.
“The Svarë has nothing to say!” announced one of the men before he turned to the pompous leader for his next move.
While the man was leaning over to whisper something in a messenger boy’s ear, the Svarë closed his eyes, his face paling and seeming to glow in the sun. Creiha halted in her run for the gallows in order to join the crowd’s curious stare. And then she felt it – the stirring of the breeze around her, the deep rumble far off. Her eyes narrowed as the leaves at her feet danced in the mud. Creiha crept past the front line of the crowd to duck below the creaking boards of the gallows. Just above her head, the straw that was stacked around the stake caught in her hair; she crawled to the foot of the gallows and stood slowly.
The Svarë heard Creiha rustle the straw by the stake and turned his head slightly, eyes opening and meeting Creiha’s gaze curiously. Creiha stared back at him in awe. She wasn’t sure why she was standing there staring at him; she wondered why she didn’t run home, appalled at the sight. A movement entranced Creiha’s eye, and she glimpsed a single flame stemming from the torch in the hand of the guard reaching towards the pole, a little gust of wind urging it forward. Her eyes flitted from the torch to the man and back again. A hint of mischief glowed in the man’s eyes, and a strange, weak smirk lifted the corners of his mouth.
It occurred to Creiha that, indeed, he did not look fully Svarë at such a close glance. He might possess Svarë blood, but he was not Svarë. The flame singed the edge of the stake but retreated as quickly as it had reached. The man seemed focused on the little flame, and Creiha watched in wonder as the flame once more was propelled by a gust of wind. This time it grazed the straw. The little fire flickered weakly before spreading, slowly at first and then rapidly, consuming the straw in its path. The guard nearest cried out in alarm and demanded that his men fetch water. The guard holding the man’s hands behind his back shrieked in fear and took a frenzied step forward, the man teetering dangerously by the fire, panic crossing his face when he almost tripped.
The bulbous announcer observed this grimly and cocked his head at his chief guard. The chief nodded and shoved the frenzied guard out of the way, gripping the prisoner’s wrists cruelly and forcing him to his knees.
“No,” whispered Creiha in alarm. She scrambled up the steep ledge of the gallows in desperation, but her dash for the scene was too late.
The chief placed a hand on the back of the prisoner’s head and shoved his face down into the fire. The prisoner screamed, a shocked, piercing scream that chilled Creiha’s spine. Creiha cried out in rage, running and kicking the chief of the guard hard in the shin. The unsuspecting chief fell backwards, tripping over himself and falling into the now raging fire below. Covering her mouth to stifle her cry of shock when the chief vanished into the flames, Creiha was about to rush for cover of the woods when the prisoner’s labored breathing below caught her attention. She knelt down beside the man, ignorant of the indignant crowd scrambling for the gallows to kill them both and was happy to see at least one side of his face unharmed. She helped him to his feet.
Before Creiha could lead him toward the forest nearby, a splitting pain ravaged her arm, and a hard sword cracked on her head. She shrieked in surprise and collapsed to the wooden boards of the gallows, barely hearing the stampeding footsteps of the crowd rushing toward her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a guard’s silver sword raised above her, ready to behead her, but as the sword began to fall, another sword clashed with it, and the guard cried out, falling backwards at the force. Creiha felt a strong arm wrap around her waist and she was sure death had already claimed her when a violet wind engulfed her.
~
Some general notes:
This first scene has been heavily cut multiple times, so I feel it is a little bare in description. Is this just me and my love of description or is it lacking in that area?
Also, I feel like in some of the actions sequences, the guards with no names and the prisoner/Svare who has no name in this scene can get confused. Did anyone have any trouble understanding who was doing what?
Lastly, I feel like perhaps I am telling too much in the little piece where Creiha talks about how she and Crisci no longer have the same bond they once had; that their bond is a shadow of what once was and how they are alike in nothing but name. It is a powerful piece of foreshadowing, but I keep wondering if I am giving away too much there.
(Chapter 1 continued)
Creiha moaned softly and rolled over, wincing as her shoulder struck a rock. For a moment, she just lay there, a placid breeze combing through her hair and tickling the backs of her legs. She shivered at the freezing dew stinging her face and unconsciously pulled a cloth that didn’t smell familiar around her. “Where am I?” she murmured to herself.
“Nowhere special.” A male voice startled her, and Creiha twisted toward the sound, sitting up abruptly. Clenching her teeth, Creiha groaned at the sharp pain in her arm.
A bolt of fear coursed through her when she saw the prisoner sitting on a rock across from her. “What are you doing here?” Creiha cried in alarm.
“What am I doing here?” The man stared at her calmly, a ghost of a smirk playing upon his face. He might have appeared mysterious if not for his laidback manner.
“Yes, what are you doing here? Do you carry women off into uncharted forests often?” Creiha frowned at him, wincing at the pain erupting in her head and rubbing her temples with the heels of her palms.
“You make me sound like a criminal. This is not an uncharted forest. Now I get to ask a question. Are you out of your mind?” When Creiha looked up in surprise, she could see his face was impassive and controlled, his eyes trained upon her with subtle interest.
Creiha glared at him. “Excuse me?” she whispered incredulously.
“Are you out of your mind?” the man asked again, leaning back and staring at her expectantly.
Creiha opened her mouth to respond, but her words were stolen away when she glimpsed his incredible blue eyes. His eyes were whirlpools, deep wells of blue turning slowly and swirling from light blue to dark blue and all shades in between. Creiha had never seen eyes like his. “No, I am not out of my mind, thank you very much!” she informed him in a faint voice.
“Well, in that case, thank you.” The prisoner nodded with the beginnings of a smile and stood slowly, wincing almost unnoticeably, and Creiha was surprised to see his right arm swathed in drenched, mud-stained bandages that hung limply around the injured limb.
“Um, you’re welcome, I guess.” Creiha eyed him uncertainly, her fear dissipating in the endless expanse of his eyes. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked.
“I didn’t deem it wise to let the guard decapitate you at the time,” the man said casually, shrugging slightly and kneeling to reach into a small bag he had managed to conceal.
“At the time?” Creiha grimaced.
“At the time.”
“So, you would ‘deem it wise’ to let the guard decapitate me at another time?” she asked, fear stirring in the pit of her stomach.
“Perhaps.” He didn’t notice the angry scowl on Creiha’s face when he began pulling out two clean bandages and two bizarre-shaped leaves.
“How encouraging,” Creiha murmured, glaring at him beneath her eyelashes. “I can take care of myself anyways. I don’t need some prisoner dragging me away from my angry hometown!” She crossed her arms and glancied down at the ground.
“You’re welcome,” the man responded. “Now sit down.” He motioned for her to sit on the rock beside her.
“Why?” Creiha asked suspiciously, leaning away from him instinctively.
“Because you’re bleeding” The man frowned.
Creiha pointed to her legs and face, a stubborn scowl edging its way across her lips. “I am not bleeding! See? No blood!”
The man sighed, aggravated, “Your arm.”
Creiha winced and slowly turned her head to look at her arm. An arrow was buried in the joint, blood painting her arm gruesomely. “Now you made me look!” she complained and wrinkled her nose, “Everyone knows it hurts more when you look!”
“You didn’t have to look. You could have just taken my word for it,” the man muttered. Before Creiha could assent, he crouched on the ground in front of the rock she had climbed onto and was examining her arm gently.
Creiha swallowed hard and stared down at him, wondering who he was and why he had bothered to rescue her. She felt her heart pounding hard in her chest, fear and excitement intermingled.
“Try not to scream,” the man advised her calmly, reaching for the leaves.
Creiha bit her lower lip, heat creeping into her face. “I don’t scream; I’ve never screamed from pain. I can take anything. I- Aaaah!” Creiha screamed when the man yanked the arrow out of her arm, dropping it so he could handle the leaves. Creiha’s head fell to his shoulder when she screamed again. The man froze in his work, stiffening in surprise until her scream died in her throat, and Creiha blinked, realizing what had happened and quickly shoving him away. The man began arranging the leaves on her arm as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry,” Creiha apologized in embarrassment, wiping at an unbidden tear with her good arm.
“It’s all right.” The man lifted his head and smiled weakly. The breeze pushed his hair to the side and revealed a long red-blotched area on the side of his face.
Angry bile rose in Creiha’s throat when she saw the ghastly, discolored burn on the right side of his face. Her eyes traveled down the burn gravely, down his face and shoulder until they rested on his left arm, bound with soiled bandages. She remembered Criscialda saying something about burning his left arm. Crisci…Creiha flinched in surprise when a cold cloth touched her injured arm; she glanced down to see the man wrapping her arm in an off-white fabric over the leaves. “What about your arm and face?” she asked softly.
The man shrugged, “I’ll be fine. I know a monk nearby, and these leaves should be able to staunch the bleeding until we get there.”
Creiha blinked, “Wait, we’re going somewhere?” What was he saying? Did he really intend to take her from her home? Creiha’s eyes danced with an unbidden excitement. A certain intrigue lay in a world outside Sray-Valom. But to leave her family? Criscialda will hate me if I go back. They’ll be ashamed. Creiha thought grimly. Her sister had always called her a skeptic; Criscialda would have followed this man with dreamy eyes.
“You can stay here if you wish, but I’m not,” the man replied.
He appeared calm, almost uncaring about what had happened, but Creiha knew by the way his arms trembled as he tied the last bandage around her arm that he was shaken by the thought of the stake and fire. And who wouldn’t be? He had every right to be shaken, even fearful, but it seemed he thought otherwise.
Creiha lowered her eyes indecisively. She would miss her family; she would miss her town, but who was to say they would accept her after what she had done? Her parents would be ashamed of her; her town would loathe her. Creiha lowered her head bitterly. But this– this was an opportunity for adventure, an opportunity for the intrigue she had dreamed of. And this man didn’t seem all that bad, especially for one who was almost burned at the stake. Surely she could choose to return if she didn’t like the world outside, right? “May I ask your name?”
“Yes,” her rescuer answered shortly.
“Well, what’s your name?” Creiha would not be dissuaded.
“You may call me Strick,” Strick informed her with a small nod of his head. He was standing now, biting his lip against the pain that ravaged his arm hanging limply at his side. Creiha could see that his arm was anything but fine, but she was frightened to offer any help.
“Strick?” Creiha asked incredulously. It was a strange name, probably not his full name if his real name at all. “What does it mean?” she asked curiously.
Strick smiled more bitterly this time, an unexpected pain in his expression, “It means Strick,” he said quietly.
“So, Strick means Strick. That doesn’t help me.” Creiha crossed her arms and leaned back.
“No, it doesn’t… not yet at least,” he affirmed and quickly moved on, “So, are you coming or not? If there is any chance of reaching the monk’s place before sunrise, we have to head out soon.”
“We can’t travel by night!” Creiha exclaimed, shaking her head in surprise. The flash of worry that crossed Strick’s eyes alarmed Creiha, but she continued anyways. “The roads are dangerous at night, and– and there are robbers.”
“I’ve never known robbers to attack travelers who can defend themselves.” Strick said grimly, glancing out at the trees longingly.
“Surely we can wait until morning, can’t we? I’m exhausted, and I can’t return to Sray-Valom,” Creiha pleaded in a low, expressive voice, “and your arm. It doesn’t look so good.”
Strick straightened his mouth into a thin, pale line and nodded hesitantly, something akin to fear veiling his features. “And who are you?”
“Creiha. My name is Creiha,” Creiha told him with a smile.
Strick nodded distractedly.
Creiha sighed in relief. “Thank you,” she whispered in exhaustion and sat down where she had awakened, her hands remembering the strange feel of the blanket. She lifted the blanket, which was actually an old, threadbare cloak, and smiled, “Is this yours?”
“Yes, but you need it more than I do. You were shivering when I first brought you here, and, I daresay, it has gotten colder more than warmer since earlier tonight.” Strick smirked crookedly, sending Creiha’s heart into a sequence of excited spasms.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I believe I’ve had enough heat for today,” Strick said mirthlessly.
“Thanks.” Creiha lay down slowly, wincing at the pain in her arm. She heard Strick sigh and retreat to his rock. Smiling, she rested her head on the grass, suddenly feeling an unbidden elation. Deep in the rivets of her racing heart, Creiha nurtured the lingering idea that life was beginning over again.
~
Notes: If anyone could give me some character impression of Strick and Creiha, it would be wonderful. Besides that, I'm worried that perhaps Strick is too easily convinced to wait for the night. I know you all don't know why he wants to leave so badly, but any suggestions are welcomed.
The description in the prologue was excellently done, especially.
. Okay, well I shall be off to read more of your posts on this story.
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