Young Writers Society

Just in case you haven't read any of this story before this point, or if you've forgotten, here's a quick overview of what's happened so far.






The dull, rhythmical thuds of his footsteps, mixed with the cries of men outside, swelled around Godfrey’s ears. As he continued his monotonous pace, he gazed at the door at the end of the passageway, and gripped his father’s sword a little tighter. Dimly burning candles lining the walls made this seem like a tomb. The stone walls, bland and cold, closed in around him, gripping him like he gripped the sword. And yet the door drew nearer; the heavy oak door that separated him from death. Heavy, lifeless, cold; life had abandoned this place. That was why he was here; to kill, to fight, he did not fear dying. It would be a preferable option to this hell. But he would not die, not here. Godfrey felt that he had a purpose here in the Holy Land, only he did not yet know what it was. He would fight here, but unlike his father, this place was not his grave.

Grasping the door’s iron handle he swung it open with all his strength, not even pausing for a moments contemplation. The cold night air flooded into the corridor, extinguishing the candles. Before him, men were locked in a macabre dance, each couple slicing and slashing at the other. A Saracen turned after slaying his opponent and spotted Godfrey. Yelling loudly to his comrades he charged. Taking a step forwards, Godfrey raised his sword above his head and gripping it with both hands, sent it crashing down onto the man’s skull.


‘Look men, up on the walls!’ yelled a Templar Sergeant to the few men who had survived the Saracen’s initial onslaught. A few moments earlier, the Saracens had been finishing off any survivors who remained behind after the walls were taken. No mercy was shown. Men who were knocked to the ground were either taken away to be prisoners or, if they were lucky, trampled underfoot and crushed. Their mopping up operation took little time. They had been heading towards the staircases and towers when a solitary and ghostly figure had emerged from a tower. The figure had been confronted by several Saracens, but after killing them all had stepped slowly, as if asleep towards the rest of the enemies. Cries rose up from the surviving troops.
‘Get off the walls man!’ ‘Run! Flee!’ ‘Send for reinforcements!’ were heard amongst the cacophony. The figure continued on his path. Only seconds later a gasp came from the company. A new group of Saracens had clambered over the walls from the ladders. Upon seeing the figure on the walls they immediately charged him. The figure turned and swung his weapon, catching one of his attackers in the side and flinging him off the walls. He lifted the sword above his head and just as he brought it down onto another attacker’s shoulder, was struck in back by the mace of an enemy who had rushed back. The figure jolted forwards violently and fell onto the walls. The body was left for now but after another wave of attackers had emerged over the walls, physicians would arrive to take away the injured, who were most likely destined for slavery. The dead were to be burnt.

Following the new group of men was a small group of archers, deadly under normal circumstances but when on a wall they were a force to be feared. The company turned from their fallen comrade, some more reluctantly than others, and fell back to the inner defences. Among the retreating Templars was another young sergeant, who had recognised the man on the walls. Godfrey. He had admired him since first meeting him in Acre three weeks ago, but never had the courage to speak to him. Godfrey had become somewhat of an idol to him. Now that he was gone he vowed to be more like the fallen crusader. Sorrow filled the young man’s eyes, tears invisible in their deep blue oceans.
‘Roger! Move!’ yelled another man who had noticed the young Templar lagging behind. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Roger dashed towards the inner walls, dodging arrows and as he sprinted through the gatehouse, lungs aching with the strain, the portcullis shut down, lungs aching with the strain. It crushed a wounded Templar who had been struck by an arrow and Roger veered away in shock and disgust. The man’s companions, who had been frantically attempting to rescue him, dropped the body, out of both anger and hate. Most of the survivors were hardened troops but for a fresh recruit, the sight was sickening. Roger sprinted into the stables next to the gate and vomited, the image of the man’s crushed corpse burnt into his mind. He feared at the man’s last thoughts as he was crushed, he feared for himself and what his fate now would be, and he feared for Godfrey. Was he dead? Was he injured? Would he be sold into slavery or killed on the spot for his defiance?

An older Templar, in his late fifties, the oldest in their company walked over to him and placed his hand in Roger’s shoulder. He was also the fort’s commander.
‘Come. We’ll sort you out. We must discuss what we do now.’ Roger, speechless, turned to face the Templar. Looking up at the kind face, riddled with battle scars and with a neatly trimmed beard, Roger felt ever more conscious of the tears in his eyes. As he walked with the Templar into the keep, he felt diminished and humiliated for his reaction to the crushed man. Yet amongst all the fear and sorrow, the vow to be like the figure he had seen on the walls came back to him. He sniffed, stood upright and continued towards the keep.



‘We must surrender! We have no choice! We will die if we don’t; a waste of forty good Templars I’m sure you will all agree!’ roared a Sergeant, red faced as he slammed his fist on the table with every sentence. Most of the other men in the small room nodded in agreement. Only a few did not.
‘Traitor!’ bellowed one of these men, who leapt out of his seat and raising his fist to the other man roared. ‘We cannot surrender. It is a betrayal of our order and of God. If we abandon him, he will surely bring his wrath upon us! Our faith will bring us victory here! Or are you, Ælfric, also a faithless heathen like those whom attack us?’ Several others nodded and raised their voices in agreement. The Sergeant grinned with the approval.
‘Damn it Hans you b*****d!” yelled the Ælfric as he threw his fist in retaliation for the insult. Both sides rose up, slurring insults at each other.

‘Gentlemen!’ A voice pierced the din. It was that of the eldest Templar of the company and commander, a man named Robierre. Roger sat at his side, still shaken by his experience, his blonde hair that went down to his neck trembled as his mind flickered back. Robierre rose, but not without difficulty; he had been struck on the leg during the retreat from the walls. At the time though he had shown little of the wound. He had endured worse injuries. He pointed at Hans with his left hand. ‘It is because of men like you’ he paused to let his words sink in, ‘that I lost this hand’ he snarled, raising his right arm. It ended in a stump. He was referring to a battle he had fought in almost twenty-five years ago. He had been under the command of a Templar named Guy. They had been cut off from the main force by a group of Saracen spearmen. Guy had decided, in his wisdom, that God would provide them with victory and ordered a charge. It had given Robierre a severed hand, Guy a severed head. He still winced from the memory, his eyes shutting to extinguish their green jewels as he was haunted by the injury.

‘Please gentlemen, be seated.’ He remained standing as the rest of the room returned to their seats. ‘All in favour of surrender raise their hands’ he said in a calm voice, showing none of his previous anger. All of the company raised their hands. Hans and his followers were of course exceptions and they all snorted with disapproval.
‘Bah, heathens’ muttered Hans under his breath as he stormed from the room, his fine crimson cloak trailing behind him. Dismissing this the remaining Templars turned to Robierre.
‘Very well’ he said in a sombre tone. ‘Ælfric.’ He turned, gazing at Hans' companions as he did with a ferocity in his eyes that had reduced many a Templar to ruin.
‘Yes sir.’ Ælfric groaned with the strain of forcing his already stiff body to stand.
‘Send out messengers in the morning. The inner walls will hold for the next few hours. That is all.’ He dismissed the rest of the men before returning to his seat. Only after they had all left did he turn to Roger.
‘God help us lad. God help us,’ he whispered as he rose steadily and disappeared through a door into a back room, probably to gather what little belongings he had. Roger looked down at the table, the words ringing in his ears. ‘God help us’




The sun was rising on ‘De sang’ as the messengers rode out from the inner defences. The morning rays shone onto the cliff face and lit the inner walls of the keep in all their glory. Towers rose up into the mountains as if the fort itself had been carved out of the rock. Rings on walls spread outwards from the main keep, itself a part of the mountain. Magnificent defences, yet too few men to defend even a fraction of them. Whilst they spoke with the Saracens on the ground in front of the keep, a lone pigeon flew out from one of the keep’s towers. In that same tower, a figure turned from the slit window and walked calmly down the spiralled staircase. The morning rays shone through the slit and illuminated a column of dust. There would be blood to pay for the treachery shown here. He knew the cowards amongst them would pay. Hans smiled; he was pleased with his work.

Another chapter very well done. Definitely impressed by the style of writing here. Has a lot of promise to fan out into a very very good story. I look forward to seeing the next chapter. Also noticed very few issues with the grammar and what not. Definitely improved upon your work from chapter one which was nothing to shake a finger at. Very nice style of writing and storytelling. Keep up the good work.

The dull, rhythmical thuds of his footsteps, mixed with the cries of men outside, swelled around Godfrey’s ears. Continuing his monotonous pace, he gazed at the door at the end of the corridor, and gripped his father’s sword a little tighter. Dimly burning candles lining the walls made this seem like a tomb. You switched from past to present. The stone walls, bland and cold, closed in around him, gripping him like he gripped the sword. And yet the door drew nearer; the heavy oak door that separated him from death. Heavy, lifeless, cold; life had abandoned this place. That was why he was here; to kill, to fight, he did not fear dying. It would be a preferable option to this hell. But he would not die, not here. Godfrey felt that he had a purpose here in the Holy Land, only he did not yet know what it was. He would fight here, but unlike his father this was not his grave. Grasping the door’s iron handle he swung it open with all his strength. The cold night air flooded into the corridor, extinguishing the candles. Before him comma men were locked in a macabre dance, each couple slicing and slashing at the other. A Saracen turned after slaying his opponent and spotted Godfrey. Yelling loudly to his comrades comma he charged. Taking a step forwards, Godfrey raised his sword above his head and gripping it with both hands, sent it crashing down onto the man’s skull.

‘Get off the walls man!men’ ‘Run! Flee!’ ‘Send for reinforcements!’ were heard amongst the cacophony. The figure continued of his path. of his path? Perhaps say “continued on,” or was this just a typo?

‘Roger! Move!’ yelled another man who had noticed the young Templar lagging behind. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Roger dashed towards the inner walls, dodging arrows and as he sprinted through the gatehouse comma the portcullis shut down, lungs aching with the strain. It crushed a wounded Templar who had been struck by an arrow and Roger jolted veered there are two verbs here. Which one will you pick? away in shock and disgust. The man’s companions, who had been frantically attempting to rescue him, dropped the body, out of both anger and hate. Most of the survivors were hardened troops but for a fresh recruitcomma the sight was sickening.

‘We must surrender! We have no choice! We will die if we don’t; a waste of forty good Templars I’m sure you will all agree!’ roared a Sergeant, red faced as slammed his fist on the table with every sentence. Most of the other men in the small room nodded in agreement. Only a few disagreed but they were renowned trouble makers. Perhaps take out this part because if there is most, then you don’t need to add the few that disagreed.

‘Bah, heathens’ muttered Hans under his breath as he stormed from the room his cloak trailing behind him. Dismissing this childishness comma. Perhaps you could say “Dismissing the child-like behaviour since childishness is not a soft flowing word. the remaining Templars turned to Robierre.

‘God help us lad. God help uscomma’ he whispered as he rose steadily and disappeared through a door into a back room, probably to gather what little belongings he had. Roger looked down at the table, the words ringing in his ears. ‘God help us’

The sun was rising on ‘De sang’ as the messengers rode out from the inner defences. The morning rays shone onto the cliff face and lit the inner walls of the keep in all their glory. Towers rose up into the mountains as if the fort itself had been carved out of the rock. Magnificent defences, yet too few men to defend even a fraction of them. Whilst they spoke with the Saracens on the ground in front of the keep, a lone pigeon flew out from one of the keep’s towers. In that same tower comma a figure turned from the slit window and walked calmly down the spiralled staircase. The morning rays shone through the slit and illuminated a column of dust. There would be blood to pay for the treachery shown here. He knew the cowards amongst them would pay. The figure smiled; Hans was pleased with his work. Oooh. I like this cliffhanger here!

I like this chapter very well but perhaps adding more details would be good. I don’t know what any of these characters look like or the surroundings they’re in. I think this will turn out to be a very good book Continue writing!

Hey!

During the fighting I sort of got confused of what was going on, but at the same time I could picture it as a battle scene from a movie. *moves hands up and down like level* I like how I got a picture of it in my head, but it was also a little confusing a bit in the beginning of the first paragraph.

I'm curious, La Tour De Sang - means the Tower of Blood, correct? Was that historical or did you create that name? 'Cause I looked it up on Google Translate and it's French...hm... that's interesting to me. *thinks on that for a bit, gives up and continues on...*

'Very well’ he said in a sombre tone. ‘Edward.’ He turned to the Sergeant who had previously been arguing with Hans.

- This confused me a little bit. Just because in the first chapter you wrote that Edward was Godfrey's father's name, I thought I had read it wrong and that Godfrey's father was still alive...

The morning rays shone through the slit and illuminated a column of dust. There would be blood to pay for the treachery shown here. He knew the cowards amongst them would pay. The figure smiled; Hans was pleased with his work.

- I'm not sure if the figure is Godfrey or not (it better be! *looks intently at medievalwriter as he types away on his computer* It's too soon for Godfrey to die!), but that was a pretty good chapter ending. (:

I'll review the next chapter soon! Keep Writing!
~ DeadEnds