Young Writers Society

A Hero Of Time

Flaming torches, women and children screaming. Houses burning and horses neighing. Men crying in both agony and desperation. Explosions filling the night sky as pieces of soil and wood are tossed metres in to the air. The stars twinkle almost childishly, as slaughter, rape, and arson dominates the Earth’s surface. The platinum moonlight illuminates the sickeningly violent scene, blood shining and lustrous swords gleaming. Truly, a nightmarish outlook.

“Tempus!” A shout penetrates the visceral scene. Light floods over the image, and my eyes open.

***

I hear the spritely chirping of the birds, and the familiar whistle of the wind through the fresh green oak leaves. This small, peaceful plateau is surrounded by an aptly named mountainous, non-coniferous forest: The Serene. The clouds seem (and probably are) closer, their wispy bodies giving the endless blue sky a refreshing contrast of white. The faint smell of smoke and cooked flesh floats into my nostrils, but induces no effect in my mouth. I gaze down to study the green in more detail. The flowers, as it is spring, are in full bloom. Daffodils, Narcissi, and an assortment of various plants unknown to me gleefully bathe in the warm but bearable heat, luring bees and wasps to spread their pollen.

“Hey, down here” I hear a familiar voice say. I realise I am perched atop a branch relatively high up in a naked, dead oak tree, when I strain my neck trying to locate the source of the speech. I brace myself to fall, lifting my body by pushing against the fragmented bark. Its rugged texture scratches my hands as I place pressure onto them.

“Watch out,” I call, as I fall down and hit the ground hard, still maintaining balance and staying on my feet. My crimson eyes look up, and a black fringe catches my vision; I could probably use a haircut. In front of me stands the recognisable, neat mocha figure belonging to Verasine Finch, clothed in a beige spring work dress, comprised of cow hides. “Oh, it’s you,” I sigh, raising an eyebrow, “any particular reason for interrupting my meditation?”

“Are you not happy to see me?” She replies, arms crossed, with a disapproving look on her face. I refuse to answer. She stands there, her slender but slightly muscular arms firmly tucked beneath each other, her thin dark brown eyebrows narrowed. Her body, although relatively average in build, possesses firm shoulders and thighs, but is somewhat slim in size. I’ve been well acquainted with her physique before; but to be fair, I was drunk. I stare at her in her smooth hazel eyes, still not speaking a word. Her lips fidget, and she swiftly moves her head to the left, her flowing hair slicing through the air to keep up, like a spirit. I scratch my neck and take a quick glance at the sun; five o’clock, dinner’s ready.

I pivot on my heels and begin to walk calmly down the dusty forest path, back towards the camp. Shaking my head and chuckling with the arrogance of victory, I start to ponder as to what prey I will soon be feasting upon; perhaps a bull... or maybe a boar? The more sentient the better. I hear the rapid footsteps trying to catch up with me, the light horse like strides revealing the signature of Verasine. She pulls up alongside me, firmly facing to the front, her expression bland and devoid of emotion. The silent treatment, huh? I slip my hands into my pocket, and continue to saunter silently towards my destination. I catch Verasine trying to sneak a peek at my abs through my taut, sleeveless black vest; a part of my meditation attire. I turn my head, one eyebrow raised, to glance at her, but she quickly snaps her view back to the front. I huff in humour. The forest begins to thin, and the odour of smoke and flesh increases in intensity.

“Smells like pork,” I break the silence, trying to make a bit of small talk.

Verasine continues to ignore me. Both of us are twenty-five, although you’d believe she’s six with the way she behaves sometimes. We go quite a way back, back to when she first discovered me meditatiing in my early lessons in sorcery, aged maximum of six years old. I guess we were both interested in each other, and although her appeal dwindled to me as I furthered my studies into necromancy, I couldn’t help but think that she continued to have (and still has) a romantic attraction to myself. I’ve explained to her many a time that I no longer am capable of emotions such as love; necromancy limits my influence from these sentiments, however she maintains the behaviour that I still feel in the same way she does. This factor is probably the most to blame for our deteriorating friendship.

***

The tender, emerald green grass flattens beneath my feet as I enter the camp, and the smell of cooked pork is very pungent. I examine the familiar scene, the provisional huts made of wood, mud and various other natural building materials; The Serene Colonists are very nature-aware and ecologically friendly. I sigh in relief as the door of the Finch family hut opens, revealing Hattie (Verasine’s mother) waving to us. I politely salute her with two fingers, and smile. I allow Verasine to step into the warmth first (well, she pushes past me first) and then settle against the warm, smooth wooden wall. Verasine takes a seat at the dinner table and begins to eat, meanwhile Gerald (her father) looks up and grins. I meet his gaze emitted from his deep brown eyes.

“You’ll never guess what we caught today?” he chuckles, as he finishes his mouthful. “I’m sure you’ll find it quite wholesome.”

As a necromancer, I only indulge in food for pleasure, what I live off of is the aura of death; necrosynthesis as it was technically known. Sentience represents nutrition for necromancers, so size isn’t necessarily the main factor when it comes to consumption. The most sentient of beings are dragons, and the least so are insects and arachnids.

“I presume you’ve caught quite the creature then?” I inquire, scratching the bridge of my nose.

“Not necessarily the biggest, but a darn crafty blighter.”

“Ah, a sprite of some kind then?”

Gerald’s grin widens; I’m on the right track.

“Hmm, judging from the season and your boastful grin, it must be impressive. So... a wind sprite?”

“Why would we harm such an innocent creature?” he spits, his voice containing a tone of slight offence.

“So it deserves its terrible fate huh? Well, then it must be a goblin of some sort. A river goblin?”

He huffs. “I was hoping it would be a bit trickier to be honest.”

I chuckle. Goblins are quite sentient beings, not as much as a human, but quite close. And Gerald wasn’t joking either; goblins are extremely slippery thanks to their astonishing initiative and cunning. “Thanks Gerald,” I say, gratefully.

“No problem,” he replies “my men were taught a lesson not to underestimate the more undersized of the forest inhabitants.” He laughs, stroking his long, white beard.

I nod to Hattie, before taking the back door into the paddock. The open-air prison feels too familiar; this was the exact spot where many victims fell to my essential thirst for death. The small goblin is huddled in a corner, shivering in fear, hissing and baring its fangs. I step closer, and its stout, turquoise body springs into my sternum, winding me temporarily. I cough the blow away, and punch the vicious pest on the nose so it relents from gnawing on my arm. It squeals in pain, and lands on its backside. To make sure it doesn’t attempt any more hopeless assaults, I leap onto the creature and shove my bloodied forearm into its neck. It tries to growl, but little more than a mere choke escapes its mouth. I place my hand on the beast’s temple, and shoved it to the side; a painful snapping sound confirming the breaking of the goblin’s neck. I feel the aura flow into me, my irritating thirst subsiding and replenishing my energy. I observe the gash in my arm, the odd stinging sensation the product of the fresh spring air jamming itself into the salty wound. I smile as the wound magically begins to seal, repairing itself like a closing fissure.

I close the door behind me, and exhale in boredom. Hattie stares at my vest. “Have a bit of a problem, did we?” her almost melodic voice indicating the blood smear on my pectoral area.

“Never underestimate a goblin” I chuckle. An episode of silence passes.

Gerald pushes back his chair, a squeaking sound echoing from the planked wooden floor. “Well, I’m gonna go polish my sword,” Gerald sighs. “Speaking of which...” he suddenly recalls, raising a finger and licking his teeth. He gaits into his bedroom, before emerging with the black pearl and onyx embedded, blackened copper scabbard, in which rests Infinem: my blade. However, as one would suspect, a blade belonging to a necromancer would be no usual weapon; and one would suspect correctly. Infinem is a broad, titanium sabre with a lethally sharpened edge. Nonetheless, this is where old folklore and nightmarish ghost stories creep into the blade’s repute.

Legend tells that the forger of this weapon was a warlock, heavily cursed by Jgurrunge: the Demon of extinction. Tainting it with his doomed soul, the sorcerer supposedly bound his spirit into a large, single black pearl, encrusted into the ivory grip of the sabre. From there it was rumoured that any man who could befriend the warlock’s soul (obviously only possible via necromancy or séance-craft) would be capable of wielding the cursed sabre without suffering the wrath of the demon’s horrific hex. Whether one chose to believe or ignore the tale, it was their choice, but they who did ignore would be the one to die agonisingly, as they haemorrhaged from every pore on their body.

I nod my head in a thanking gesture, taking the scabbard from Gerald. I fasten it to my belt, and unsheathe Infinem, gazing at his magnificence. Most people name and select a gender for their weapons; after all, they are a part of you. Every kill, you share together. Every blow, you both feel. I return him back to his home. Gerald nods in reply and returns to his room. Hattie wishes both Verasine and I a good night, and tenderly kisses us both on the forehead; to her, I am like a roaming son. She closes the bedroom chamber’s door. An awkward silence drifts in the air between us. Verasine pushes back her chair, the irritating squeal penetrating the quietness in the room again. She sulkily walks over to the window and scrapes the remaining food out into the warm, evening air. She leaves the plate on the counter, and makes for her room. I shake my head and obstruct her; there was something we needed to settle.

“What was all that earlier, huh? Something’s wrong, and it’s something to do with me. So spit it out,” I order.

“I’m guessing you’ll be straight on your way tomorrow morning,” she retorts, glaring at me.

I sigh. Verasine knows I’m on a journey, why doesn’t she understand that I can’t stay? “I’m sorry Verasine, but my schedule is important. You and I both know that visions are a rarity, and there is a correlation between the points and times that I see these events. I can’t stay here, I need to be at Blackmire in three days, or I miss the next vision.”

Verasine huffs.

“Let’s take a walk,” I offer, opening the smooth front door.

My friend keeps her head down, but accepts my suggestion.

***

We take a silent, calm stroll through a slightly thinner part of the Serene, the chestnut, walnut and oak trees lining the protruding footpath. After about a quarter of an hour we reach the lookout spot: a high up cliff edge that is rounded off by a curved stone wall about knee height. From this point, you can see the downhill river Burre, and all the small waterfalls along the route. Also visible is the edge of the ‘danger zone’ of the forest, along with all of the beautiful early blooming flowers, such as bluebells and daffodils. The sky is getting slowly darker, the extremely pale blue closing the chapter on another day. After finishing admiring the sensational scene, I turn to Verasine and beckon her to sit down near the wall. We both peer down at the inspirational landscape. I take a deep breath. “You don’t want me to leave, do you?” I state the obvious, but it has to be cleared up.

“You guessed right,” she replies, a semi-sombre smile on her lips, her eyes facing forwards to avoid my gaze.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes now meeting hers “but as a visionary I have a duty to follow these visions, it could be for the sake of the future of Druevern.”

“Yeah.” She still looks sorrowful and disappointed.

“Look,” I continue, wrapping my right arm around her shoulders “I’ll come back when I can, I promise. If you really need to see me, urgently, Venus can find me.”

Verasine’s smile brightens a bit, and looks less unhappy. She rests her head on my shoulders and sighs; she really does feel comfort in being with me, a lot unlike most others I know. I rest my face on her head, and I hold her tighter, a goodbye for now. I plan to leave as soon as I can in the morning.