Young Writers Society

Cal stood in the aftermath, fists clenched. He was smiling. The remaining men raised a heartfelt cheer at that. One which quickly died down as a terrifying shriek was heard. Looking up, Cal saw what appeared to be a wall of darkness speeding toward them. As it got closer, he could see it was in fact an army of massive Harpy’s, lead by a giant, white beast. Cal’s face twisted with hate and rage; with a truly hideous expression that made even Leon stumble backward. He raised his arms up and shouted wordlessly. A solid compacted wall of air shimmered into being, a concrete-strong platform that hundreds of the winged women plunged into. Bodies broke, wings snapped and blood flew as the fanatical creatures came to their end, nearly as one. The white leader, however, merely tucked a wing, her bejewelled talon tearing through the barrier.
She made straight for the stunned Cal, raking talons outstretched. Too late, he tried to stumble backward as they ripped through the right side of his face. Her wings snapped out and were beating frantically to keep her aloft over the sprawled mage. Serena squealed in victory, even as a large broadsword cleaved through her chest. Leon, having run out of arrows, had made his move and with fatal consequence. Blood sprayed over his face as the queen of the Harpies fell in twain. He ran over to his fallen comrade. The barrier suddenly gave way, allowing hundreds of the dead bird women to rain down to their graves.

‘Cal! Are you okay?’ Leon said, kneeling by his side.
Blood flowed freely from three long scratches down the right side of his face.
‘I’m fine,’ Cal said, sitting up. Sweat beaded his forehead and his chest was heaving. As he was rummaging through his pack for a medical kit, the other men clambered over the ledge as soon as they could. There were only a couple left now; they hadn’t even reached the witch yet and already their numbers were decimated. Even though the day was not yet done and they had some way yet to go they decided to halt there and recuperate. There were men to mourn and strategies to revise. The day passed as the men patched each other up, trying to steady shaken nerves. Before darkness fell over them, they struggled up and onward, needing to find shelter. Soon, they came upon a cave and immediately, a fire was started, its roaring heat giving each of them some measure of comfort.
There was silence for a long time. Without a word being said, mugs were passed around, filled with liquor. Each raised their drink up before the flames, before downing it in one gulp. They did it six times, once for each man lost.
‘To Kael-One Eye,’ Leon said.
To Kael.
‘To Valier,’ said Shasta and so on, the list went, the men murmuring the names. It did not end with the men lost in their most recent skirmish, but continued backward, to all who had passed in this silent war. Each had a grievance, a sibling or loved one who had passed at the hands of some monster, witch or other fey creature. Together, bound in hatred, they whispered the names of the dead.
‘To Sarah, my darling sister,’ Leon said, eyes wet.
To Sarah.
‘To victory,’ Cal said, eyes burning with reflected fire. They sighed together as one, ending the chant.

*

Magda sat back and surveyed her work.
She was surprised at how much damage the Harpies had managed to achieve; they’d really been intended as nothing more then a diversion. Not only had they managed to reduce the number of men, but they had also managed to force Cal to expend some of his power. Bless Serena, but she’d done Magda’s cause a world of good. Aside from the detrimental effect on Cal, it had also covered up the use of her magicks, which made this next line of defence even stronger.
Carved deep in the mud was a Knight. Using a simple, craggy staff she had marked the outline of a man in the earth. As she did this, she imagined the Knight in her minds eye; tall, strong, quick and skilled. His skin, slate grey stone; eyes, jewelled emeralds; sword carved from the lifeblood of the mountain, the truest source of metal – as she worked, the ground around the carving melted away to reveal the full figure of a mud-man. Stone quickly flowed over his vulnerable body, fitting the vision she’d had as she worked. The detail was impressive, even to her critical eye, his armour and composition was near perfect. She was sweating heavily.
She leaned over his visor, wiping her damp palms down the side of his face. She lifted the visor; saw his smooth, unmarked face. Using a small, sharp belt knife, she carved a line deep in his face, near his chin. From his new mouth issued a breath, a wave of moist air that smelt of rich loam and green forests. Magda bent even closer and placed her lips over his, breathing deeply into them.
‘Breathe my son,’ she said.
Magda made a shallow cut in her palm, holding it over his lips.
‘Bleed, my son,’ she said.
Much of her strength had gone into this work and time had passed. She was distantly aware of the glittering stars, of the men a ways down beneath her, chanting their hate. Tears came to her eyes as she lay her body alongside the Knight’s.
‘Bestir, my son and love,’ she said as her tears fell on to his dirt cheeks.
His eyes opened, inset into the cavities were the deepest, most brilliant emeralds she’d ever seen. ‘Son of the Earth, my life is danger. Guard the way,’ Magda said, leaving in his mind the image of the location. Between her and Cal’s mercenaries was a divide bridged only by the slimmest of stone walkways. This entire craggy mountain was a natural fortress, designed to suit the native and not the invader. It would buy her more time.
Slowly, the Knight rose to his feet. His limbs creaked and sighed and from his mouth an odd sound issued, as of leaves rustling in the wind. He quickly faded from view, melting into night. There was a man coming, she knew, a champion. That small detached part of her mind overseeing their activities noted his absence; she had anticipated his coming on his own, had made him a challenge he would not overcome, a true Golem that would not be defeated.

*

Leon waited. He made sure Cal was well and truly snoring before making his move; normally, his friend would be up all night and day but after today’s activities Leon knew his reserves would be depleted. He took nothing with him, only his blade, Svagnar, strapped to his back as usual.
He was tired of waiting, tired of plans and patience and magic. It was time to do this the warrior’s way; he would avenge little Sarah’s death so her shade could pass from this plane in peace. Leon’s broad, callused hands grasped the rough rock as he lodged his specially made, climbing boots into rock for balance. Over and over, he heaved himself up the mountain side. It was a clear night; the giant face of the moon smiled on him, lighting the way. Soon, he came to a ledge. Clambering onto it, he realised he was on a path and that for now at least, his climbing was done. Carefully, he followed it, knowing how these paths could end suddenly. It was not so with this one and he followed it for a while, the rage and hate in his chest only building.
Eventually, he sensed the path winding to a close. He found himself facing a huge crevasse, crossed only by a thin span of rock. On the opposite side stood an obelisk. Leon walked closer, blonde hair flowing silver beneath the moon, as it passed before his face. It was not, as he thought, an obelisk, but a Knight and a fearsome one at that. Leon was not a man prone to fear but he realised that his odds of surviving this were hopelessly poor; damn that witch for a cunning bitch! If he stood with both feet together, he could cross the bridge but only then.
‘A challenge is it?’ he called out to his opponent.
The monstrous head nodded once, slowly.
‘Good, it’s been too long since Svagnar has had anyone worthy of killing.’ So saying he came out on the rock, thousands of feet above the ground. He felt the dizzying wind tug at him and didn’t resist its flow. His father had always told him to adjust to the battleground, to use to his advantage and that old bastard’s wise words had saved him on many an occasion. There was a satisfying ringing sound as Svagnar was freed of its sheath, a clean ringing.
The stone beneath his feet groaned as the Knight came forward, his own dark blade already gleaming and ready.
‘Let’s do this, then,’ Leon said, smiling fiercely.
He walked forward, nimble footed, increasing his pace as the Knight approached with far more speed then expected. With a roar and a fierce clang, their blades met.