Young Writers Society

i posted this before, and receieved some feedback, and changed it a little. i'd like to know what you all think, perhaps a little lengthy.

Issys took the glass from the young squire, cupping his large hand around the rim without taking a sip. “With armies moving in the east, I hardly think it wise to be threatening the border of Sheebna,” said the stout grey haired Capitan, eyeing the map warily. He leaned heavily against one of the wooden pillars, his great bear-like arms folded across his chest. General Harnek raised his eyes and stood back from hunching over the map, which was laid out on the rough, wooden table in front of them.

“We haven’t much of a choice, Harbrig. The homage Calen offered us is well spent, we’d best be moving and swiftly before his greedy eyes turn our way,” he replied tiredly, his face weary from the consorts and strains being a general had placed him under. Had he been anyone but the stern, fair, headstrong leader of the Southron battalions, the tall, grey-haired Capitan may have pitted him. But one did not pity Harnek. “Saisra is hostile in our Northern boarders, but her Quthall’s are rallying with Mormoch, to our advantage of course. I see that a fealty may be broken if we do not aid them, but we are yet useless to them while Saisra’s armies sit divided, there is not entrance from the South,” he continued, tracing his finger along the eastern boarder of Quthall.

“You mean to return to them, then?” Harbrig asked, drawing closer to the map.

“Yes,” he said after a while, sounding as much as sigh as an agreement. “Countless Breal had advised me against it, but I would rather confront the wraith of Calen than General Calliver.”

The aged Capitan sighed, and looked up as the general folded his arms across his chest and pressed two fingers to his lips in thought; steady, almond russet eyes fallen again to the map.

“He fought with your father in Kingsmarch, general, but it has been many years, and men have changed since then. You need only look at Calen.”

Harnek raised his brow as his looked back up at his old comrade. In that moment, Harnek seemed as earnest as he had been as a child, a face innocent to the duties of war. But as quickly as it had changed, his face returned to the battle-weary general, with a heart as cold as old snow. Capitan Harbrig was an old friend of Beson’s father, Alradur Harnek, and friend to General Calliver and Calen, they had fought many and great a war together. But Calen, shortly after the death of his eldest son and only male heir, had shunned the advice of his old friends, and their comradeship as well.

“You knew my father better than I, and Calliver no less,” he uncrossed his arms from his chest. “What would you have me do, Issys?”

Harbrig shook his head, “Harnek, I’d often stray from advising you, you are not a man easily lead, and nor was Alradur Harnek. But I will say one thing. In this sort of situation, you have two choices. Neither is the wrong choice, but if you want my counsel, son, then choose the one your father would have chosen.”

The General did not reply, but placed his hands on his hips and moved away from the map and the shadow. Standing before the fire, Issys Harbrig watched orange flame and shadow dance across the young mans stern, handsome features. Harnek folded his arms, and turned his head as one of the young squires entered the room.

“Fetch Breal, boy,” he said. The youth nodded briefly before leaving the tent to find the Generals advisor. It took the man a while to find, and when he lifted the flap of the tent, his heavy trench coat and long fair hair were covered in fresh snow.

“Assemble a meeting after supper,” he said without turning from the fire, “we shall be marched by morning.”

The lean, grey hunting hound raised her head to the winter air; her ears pinned back as she paused, sweeping winds scarcely making a ripple in her short coat. Her mistress stood beside her, clothed in worn grey riding breeches, tucked into stout leather ranging boots. Her close-fitted tunic outlined a slender, lean frame, and over straight shoulders sat a thick black sable cloak, frayed and grey from weather and wear. She stood tall, with her long, golden hair set free in the sharp prairie wind, decorated with a few thin plats and the feathers of eagles.

“You smell that do you, Siael?” she spoke to the wind. The hound regarded her for a moment with the turn on her large head, before setting her steady brown eyes back to the burning heap on the horizon. The village was small, perhaps all of twenty men, and not quite twice as many women. This was the other side of Wenteresse, the side her eldest uncle did not see. The men here were hung on stakes along side their wives, their empty eyes opened to the burning of their village and farm animals, though they were long dead before the smoke began to rise. The children were taken for slaves, or as men of their own. And the babes were slaughtered by half-grown boys on horseback. Her eyes were dark as she watched the smoke haze into the pale blue horizon; the seething wintry chill did not reach her bones. As she descended the hill to the village, Eusurrian could smell the scent of burnt flesh. Barn animals, some fool hidden beneath a bed. She did not want to see this, her people on stakes waiting for flies and vultures to find their graves. She had long since given up finding ones herself. Let Danin find them; let him bury his own people. Let him weep. Eusurrian sighed, she hardly meant aggression toward her uncle, but the Wenteresse was his land too, and the raiders no less his own people than those propped up on wooden stakes. How could he ever think to tame the North, to claim it as his own? Even his brother Aregar believed it a folly. Nothing but empty plains and bitter winters, he had oft said, but the King would hear none of it, and Aregar always did what he was bid. It was true his hunger for land was as apt as his elder brothers, though the people loved him less. If Aregar had it his way, the Ela’ruchii would have imperialized west, and to the south, where there were kingdoms to conquer, not wild men without a regime.

Ridarin was not far behind; she turned her head as he approached on horseback, his golden hair caught in the current of the wind as he descended the hill in a canter. Eusurrian waited for him, the hunting dog had disappeared behind the burning heap.

“How long?” He asked, dismounted, letting his mare free to roam. Eusurrian kicked a stone into the coals and studied the sky.

“Not been burning for more than two days. I’d say it’s new, yesterday. Yesterday and we didn’t even see.”

“Pallid folk, leaderless,” Ridarin muttered as he glanced up at the men and women on stakes. “Your uncle claims the North, and yet he neglects his people that call it their home.” Eusurrian sighed, and watched the fair hair of a young man no older than herself fret lifelessly in the wind, bound to its corpse yet rotted.

“Of all the feathers Suriel looses to the heights of the wind in the prairie, not one of them dress my hair. What do I know of the eagles and the falcons in my plats? That they are wild, but that I should never know them from the sky,” she folded her arms across her chest, and raised her cloudy grey eyes to the sky where the eagles sailed. “My uncle does not know his people here. Do they love him, Ridarin?” she asked the tall, fair haired man, but did not look for a response.

“Danin is a King, no matter how much a man he may have seemed.” Ridarin said gently, “We will let Aregar know of this, I shall see that on the morrow we hunt.”

“Yes, we will hunt,” Eusurrian grimaced, “but we hunt and we hunt and to no avail. Mycel suggests we hunt pig for the beggar children, it would come to greater consequence, don’t you think, brother?” she smiled slightly.

“I would rather hunt these raiders, though. But a pig does sound inviting.”

“I’m up for a hunt, Ridarin, and it’s only just past noon.”

The tall, fair haired northerner smiled, his pale blue eyes the colour of the sky above. Ridarin and Eusurrian were of a similar height, naturally tall as the blood of the Ela’ruchii flowed in their veins.

“Come then,” he said, “we’ll ride home and fetch your horse and our weapons.”

The two rode swiftly on the pale garron, Siael, Eusurrian’s hunting hound following closely at their heels. It was nigh four kilometres until they reached Brok, a small hunting village where they stayed while not in the city. As soon as Eusurrian dismounted, her falcon swooped down and landed on the thick leather band on her wrist, preening his right wing with his black beak. Eusurrian ushered him to her shoulder, and walked into the stables.

“You look smug with yourself, little bird,” she smiled. Surial was the name of her falcon, a beautiful greyer, was his breed. Most Ela’ruchii knights and noblesse had one at their shoulder, their wings unclipped, for being unable to take wind and soar meant the man who is its master is not free himself.