Young Writers Society

“They are butchered , my lord.” Vauquelin said, as he pulled his black cloak tighter around him.

“Does war frighten you boy?” Lord Ancelm said his finely made cloak, held on by a gold pendant, swaying as his massive body moved. Ancelm could see the tension in Vauquelin face, practically smell the nerves.

Vauquelin shrugged, the cold wind blowing a bang form his face. He had been to many battles before, had felt his sword end another’s life. He had vomited in a nearby bush after the battle, at the nameless life he had took. When he looked back on it, had laughed at how hard the first death was, how it had turned his gut watery. He had not felt that fear, the recoil in his gut snice.

That was until now, where in the twilight forest he felt something watching him, waiting for him. Something was wrong with the murdered, legs torn off men, only to be found a few paces away. A newly forged axe of fine make left untouched. The far away looks of the murdered villagers. Vauquelin felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Are you cold boy,” Ancelm asked, his massive war horse slowly moving through the snow and trees, “Then hurry up.”

Vauquelin kicked his horse, barley larger than a travel horse, into a small gallop. Vauquelin narrowleded threaded their way through a thicket, that lead into a clearing. The clearing was wide, barely any trees within and where the men and woman had once laid dead. Where there was once a house, where people had made their lives. The finely-made axe that had speared into the tree in this clearing not even twenty minutes ago. The clearing was now empty.

Ancelm noticed Vauquelin paleness, the tightness around his mouth. There was something wrong here. Was it the war, that now caused the sinking of his gut? There was only the rustle of the leaves, the howl of wolves, the wind yet, Ancelm was still unnerved. Ancelm held his broad sword a little closer

“Come where is it.” Ancelm asked in a grunt.

“It was here, my lord.” Vauquelin stuttered.

Ancelm scanned the clearing, the forest. The smell of frost covered the dirt, the sap of trees.. The leaves rustled over head in the wind. He took his cloak, and pinned it around Vauquelin neck. The howl of a dying wolf sounded not too far away. “Come boy, let us ride back.”

Vauquelin moved to his stallion, and he laid his head against its neck, felt the soft fur of his companion. His hand at last relaxed form his sword and he grabbed for the saddle. He felt the muscles beneath the saddle, felt the muscles of his horse with his legs. Despite himself, he said a silent grateful prayer that he had his horse.

He heard from behind him, Ancelm pull his sword from his sleeve. He turned his head back to lord Ancelm, who stood pale as the snow on the ground, his sword in hand. The hilt had a small carving of a bear on the end, the crest of his family. He had never known the commander to act so before. He said a prayer to the gods and pulled his sword and rode up beside his lord. His lord eyed him and gave a grateful nod for his company.

The wind whistled, as a awful smell slowly filled the air, the smell of rotting things and death. Vauquelin knew the stories, had never believed them true. He knew the other’s could move on silent feet, but to move so that even the world did not recognize your presence. It was other-wordly. A figure emerged, wearing a black robe, it's eyes looked space place far away. A screeching sound echoed in the clearing as it drew a sword of white metal. The figure staggered forward, before swinging at Ancelm. Anelm brought his sword above his head, yet the sound of metal on metal did not sound. Instead, the sound of a low pitched noise, barley on the sound of hearing. It was as if someone had hit a gong. The figure swung again, Ancelm narrowed dodge. Ancelm fought the creatures for minutes, before he started to slow. The figure push ancelm to the ground, as ancelm had little energy to fight back.. The figure sword again and swung down, and this time Ancelm was too slow, and the blade pierced his skin.

My horse spooked, but I forced it to charge at the figure, my sword aimed figure. The other turned to me, in those glazed black eyes, and lazily moved to stab my horse. My blade connected first, as it landed directly in those far-away eyes. The sword shattered.

I closed my eyes and forced the horse to run form here, to leave my sword now it shambles. I leaned down and caressed it’s mane, even as I kicked its side to run faster. I said one last prayer for Ancelm