a/n: hey, thanks for checking out Starry Veins! This is the novel I
wrote for Round V of LMS, and it's still a first draft! While I don't
discourage any feedback, I prefer not to receive feedback on grammar!
I'm not polishing this draft up yet, so I'm not as concerned about
editing. I am, of course, open to all feedback, but I ask that you keep
this in consideration! Thanks <3
*
[Mishal]
He
immediately shoved Isadora back, yanking his sword free as the rest
of the riders rushed forward or leapt off their mounts.
The
one at the head of the charge went right for Margaretta, leaning
around his mare’s neck to slash at her. He caught of glimpse of her
sneering and swinging up at him in retaliation.
“Mishal,”
Isadora hissed behind him.
He
turned to find one of the riders leaping from their horse and yanking
a battle axe free from a back holster. The horse staggered backwards,
spun around, and then took off the second the rider had let the horse
go.
This
man did not remove his scarf, but from his eyes, Mishal could make
out the malice, as well as a misplaced excitement that made him
uneasy. The man with the scarf charged forward and brought his axe in
an arc towards Mishal.
He
stepped out of the way rather than trying to catch the blow. He was
using a sword and not even a broad one at that. This man had a battle
axe he was throwing his weight behind with two hands.
His
palms prickled and he readjusted his grip on the sword. He’d never
done training with or against an axe before.
Focus.
Focus. Focus.
The
man pulled back to right himself from his swing. Mishal lunged
forward in a decisive slash. The axe-wielder leaned back, but the
blow caught him on the collarbone. A thin trail of blood welled in
its place, but it was hardly a significant wound. The man snarled at
him.
He’d
hurt someone. He had acted with intention to hurt, and he had hurt
someone. He stepped back again, beginning to shake. He hoped it was
adrenaline and he’d get lost in the motion of combat.
Focus.
The
axe-wielder hovered for a moment and then bounced forward, flicking
his wrists enough to fake the beginning of a swing. He sucked in a
breath, twitching, and the man laughed.
Then
he lunged forward, for real, and tried to bring the axe down like he
was trying to cleave Mishal straight in half.
He
moved deftly to the side, sweat beginning to form on his brow. In the
same movement, he threw his weight into shouldering the man hard.
A heavy grunt followed as the man was imbalanced. Mishal went for his
calves with his sword and slashed along the backside of his right
before the man went down, cursing filthily.
“Stormy!
Behind!” Isadora called from… somewhere.
He
whirled in time to find another assailant, this one wielding a sword
much like his own. He quickly twisted his blade to catch this new
attacker’s swing before he could lose his arm and threw off the
blade with a horrible metal grinding noise.
Then
he was kicked in the back of the legs and he barely managed to avoid
falling into his second attacker. His sword clattered to the ground
as he reached out to catch his fall and glanced over his shoulder to
see the axe-wielder rolling away to collect his fallen axe.
The
second assailant went for his blade but aborted the motion less that
halfway to dodge out of the way of a moderately sized log that had
made for his head. Isadora nearly fell over as she missed her target,
but quickly steadied herself, log in hand.
She
shouldn’t be here, not in the middle of combat, but he… he…
Focus.
Somewhere
in the distance, he heard a few strings of music notes.
He
lunged for his blade and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Bracing
himself with his knuckles, he pushed himself back to his feet and
turned back to the axe-wielder. His opponent was reclaiming his axe
and pulling himself to his feet.
From
his periphery vision, he watched Isadora dodge a strike from the
second assailant. Then she kicked out, brought her log up, and swung
it right at the attacker’s head.
He
turned and leapt at his opponent right as he heard a sickening crunch
from behind him, followed by sound of a thud against the ground. The
axe-wielder had gotten back up, but he was unprepared.
Mishal
caught his arm in a downward motion and, for a moment, he dropped a
hand of the axe with a howl of pain. Blood began to flow freely down
the long gash down his arm.
Quickly,
the axe-wielder grabbed onto the axe again, and with power born of
fury, swung incredibly wildly towards him. It was such an erratic
blow he had little trouble dodging it, but his eyes kept returning to
the blood gushing down his arm.
He
had never, never,
aimed to hurt anyone like that.
There
was a clear opportunity as the man fumbled so badly, but he couldn’t
do anything. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his sword again out
of a readied stance. Tremors ran through him, upsetting his grip on
the blade and the food he’d just eaten.
The
axe-wielder raised himself again, but Isadora had snuck around him.
She used an end of the log to jam into his back, hitting him between
the shoulder blades. The man shouted in pain and swung around, axe
loose now in his grip. Isadora quickly moved back, but the tear of
fabric and her stifled gasp told that she hadn’t gotten away
unharmed.
Instead
of turning again to swing at them, the man whirled and fled.
Then
he realised many of their attackers were fleeing. He surveyed the
area quickly to find Margaretta, still relatively close, with Gracia
and Kizia near her. Margaretta was breathing heavily, blood trickling
down the side of her face and staining her tawny hair. On the ground
in front of her was a figure, lying still. Her sword was caked in
blood.
He
heard the whistle of wind before he felt the arrow, but he staggered
back from the sudden impact. He glanced down as the pain began to
flare in his leg, and then reached down to grip where the shaft of
the arrow was stuck right above his knee. He opened his mouth,
exhaled sharply, and then shut in again and dug his fingers hard into
his flesh.
Then
he glanced up. The axe-wielder was nodding to an archer, watching
from afar with little more than some dirt on her face, lowering her
bow. Then they both turned and took off.
When
he glanced back down at the arrow, he tried to even out his breaths.
It didn’t hurt nearly as much as he’d ever imagined arrows
hurting, but there was pain.
Ah,
damn, it was probably the adrenaline mollifying it.
“Ok,”
he said, under his breath, and sat heavily onto the ground.
The
noise caught Isadora’s attention, who’d been watching Margaretta.
She put her hand over her mouth and sucked in a breath. There was a
tear in her clothes, on her shoulder, and a mild cut that only
trickled behind that. “Stormy, your leg.”
He
nodded. “Mmhmm. Yeah.” He kept it straight in front of him and
bent the other one to lean into. He buried both hands into his hair
to take a few breaths. His heart was pounding, and his entire chest
hurt like it was too small to compensate for this vital motion. “Ok.
Ok.”
His
first real fight. That was his first real battle, where people were
trying to hurt him and he was trying to hurt people. He had
hurt people. He’d been shot by an arrow.
A
cry broke the stillness that their assailants left behind. He raised
his head to see Gracia catch Kizia as she crumpled towards the
ground, head lolling. Margaretta was still standing, although looked
as though she could be knocked over with a feather and approached the
two of them.
The
music notes. Kizia’s magic tell was music. Why would she be using
unpredictable, uncontrollable healing magic in the middle
of combat?
Isadora
stepped forward as if to move towards them, and them stopped,
glancing around. Her expression fell.
“Mishal,”
she said, her voice soft.
He
glanced around, fully absorbing his surroundings now. The expedition
was all scattered, some still crouched near the two walking carriages
as if they would offer enough protection to save them. Some were
wielding weapons still, as if ready for further attacks. Among them,
he spotted Forestter, Thom, and Gillian, a hunter from the village
who was built as though she could be take out two men with both her
fists in a single hit.
And
there were some that lay on the ground and were not moving. Only
three, aside from the one behind him that Isadora had knocked out,
were wearing the navy scarves.
So
much for being safe on the industrial roads.
When
the adrenaline wore off, his leg hurt like absolute hellfire, and the
sour taste of iron and death wouldn’t leave his mouth.
word count:
1,481
Points: 29825
Reviews: 465
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