Post by beckyminor on Sept 20, 2009 22:43:33 GMT -5
Hello fellow frequenters of the Anomaly!
I'm working on a fantasy serial for an e-zine, and the following is what I've got at present for my 4th installment. It's kind of long (2400+ words) so I may need to trim like crazy, split it in two, or convince the editor to go for a longer-that-usual episode, but whatever the case ends up being, I'd love some input on the story.
Just to get you up to speed, The MC, Vinyanel Ecleriast, is an elven Captain of the cavalry, who discovered at the beginning of the serial that the Creator has called him to become the High Commander of a new division of airborn cavalry, the Windriders. Vinyanel has a lot of spiritual growing up to do before he's fit for the job, however, so that's where the Prophetess Veranna comes in. She's a half elf and irritates Vinyanel to no end, yet providence decress she should mentor Vinyanel in spiritual matters.
That should stave off most confusion, but feel free to fire questions if I've left something ambiguous. Now for the story:
The sharp crack of lance against shield echoed through the arena, compelling the multitudes that packed the grandstands to gasp as one. I dodged the splinters of the riven weapon that flew over my head. One of the two combatants before me tumbled from the back of his horse and landed with a rattling thud on the dirt floor of the arena, kicking up yet another cloud of caramel-colored dust to join the billowing silt that already drifted in the air. I winced for him as I spun on one foot and dashed closer to the downed warrior. I had been in his position and did not envy him.
The warrior scrambled to his feet, tossing his lance aside and groping for his sword. The lack of surety with which his hand found his hilt told me who would prevail in this round. He spread his feet shoulder width and braced himself to meet the charge of the horseman who came about at the other end of the arena.
The black courser in silver barding thundered toward the center of the field of contest. The elf on its back drew a heavy flail, the links of its chain rattling like impish laughter. The mounted soldier brought his weapon around as he bore down upon the footman, and again, the clamor of weapon-meets-shield split the air. This time, pieces of the shield flew all directions, and the footman crumpled to the ground.
The courser careened past me, a little too close for my taste, so I shot a glare at its rider before I raised my hand high. The herald trumpeters blew the Cease of Battle call.
“No, I—I can go on,” the footman rasped as he struggled to one knee.
With the gruesome angle at which his forearm hung, I knew his words to be no more than bravado. The healers and I converged upon the downed contestant. His condition looked no better up close than it had from a distance.
“This round is over for you, soldier,” I said. “Go get that arm straightened out.”
As the wounded footman turned for the arena’s edge, polite applause rippled through the stands. I headed for the center of the arena, unhurried. Taking my place, I faced the crowd, the high seat of King Saransaeloth in particular.
“The round goes to Sir Direllian Mithveranon!” I proclaimed for the third time that day.
Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd as Mithveranon made a final circuit of the arena to pass through the gate. Over the past three days this warrior, whose name no one had heard before he first took the field, had proven that no opponent could best him. He showed no lack of prowess. Decorum, perhaps. I did not doubt Mithveranon would stand among the finalists on the last day of the Week of Tourney, a contender for the title of King’s Champion.
The trumpeters burst into a complicated rill, calling the spectators to tea. I smirked at the idea. Having stood in the midst of every event today, my body bore a thick layer of dirt. No matter. Those who put me in this position would endure my grime, for I would not forego a chance at a few moments refreshment and shade because of the wages of my forced role in this year’s tournament.
I stepped inside the tent where the officers of Delsinon’s fortress took their repose. Before I had even cleared the entry, the Prophetess Veranna swished up to me and handed me a dainty saucer and cup. I repressed a snort at her doting. After all, this was her fault.
Several officers crowded me as I took my first sip, wetting a throat dryer than the sands of North Deklia.
“His Majesty shall certainly acquire a fine champion this year, with the tournament in your capable hands, Captain Ecleriast.”
“A smoothly run operation, Captain. A true pleasure.”
“Never has the tournament had such an air of authority--all owing to your leadership.”
These and other compliments swirled about me. I nodded in response between sips of tea or mouthfuls of dainties, quietly accepting these spoils of accolades.
“So, is officiating such a terrible arrangement?” Veranna said as the corner of her lip took a crooked upturn.
I crunched on a point of toast, topped with a fried quail’s egg. “So far it has been…bearable,” I replied. To Veranna’s good fortune, my temper over the whole matter had cooled from how I felt a few days earlier.
###
A multi-colored palette of banners caught high in the afternoon breeze snapped and crackled like the flames of a bonfire. At the south end of the wide arena, practicing trumpeters called to one another through their silver horns, their clarion bell tones raising goose bumps on my skin. Little else brought me the thrill of a tournament. My excitement mounted with every step as I marked off the strides my steed would take in his conquering of this place of contest. Watch formality Once a year the Week of Tourney dominated all the doings of Delsinon. And this year’s battle belonged to me.
The stables just outside the contest ring bustled as grooms, stable-boys and warriors prepared their mounts, their partners in competition. A tight cluster of well-dressed elders gesticulated over parchments as they kept a sharp eye to both those who worked the stables and those who, like me, previewed the course for tomorrow morning’s first event.
I stood below the rack of rings that awaited my spearing lance. Beside me, a much younger elf, a warrior who had scarcely left boyhood behind, stared up at the rack.
“They look closer once you are mounted,” I said with a smirk.
The youth nearly leapt out of his chain armor. “Yes, Sir. I am certain they do, Sir. You would know. Sir.”
“First tournament?”
The elf swallowed hard. “Is it so obvious?”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “I fear it is. Chances are you shall come through it.”
“I hope so. I would not want to embarrass my unit with an unseemly showing…”
The boy’s nervous prattle receded into the background of my mind as I saw the prophetess Veranna sashay up to the supervising elders outside the ring. What could she possibly want? Must she insist upon casting a dark cloud over my one admitted joy?
As she spoke, the entire group turned their gazes to me. Though I could not hear what they said, their conversation certainly looked interesting, for vigorous pointing and head shaking punctuated it.
“Sir?”
The voice of the young competitor beside me snapped me away from my ruminations.
“What?”
“I asked if you would compete on the morrow, sir.”
I nodded. “Of course. But if you will excuse me…” Sparing no glance to the novice, I marched for the railing of the arena.
As the elders saw me coming, three of them scattered to some pressing business. Lerendir, King Saransaeloth’s Chancellor of War and a retired officer by the name of Ryathos remained. And, of course, Veranna.
“Do you find the course well set, Captain?” Chancellor Lerendir asked.
“Verily,” I replied. “How go the other preparations? I am anxious for a prompt start at daybreak.”
Ryathos cast a raised eyebrow to the Chancellor, which he then volleyed to Veranna. A long, agitating silence hung over the group.
“Will you say nothing?” Veranna said, askance as she turned to the elders.
The Chancellor shook his head. “I know when I cast fuel into a fire, my lady, and I’ll not do so here. This decree belongs to you.”
Veranna climbed onto the white arena fence and perched on the top rail, a dainty cat poised to preen. “Very well. Captain Ecleriast, you shall not compete in the ensuing festivities.”
I guffawed. “No? Just why is that? Shall I spend the week in the library? I have already finished reading The Tree. Is there some book of wisdom you would place above it?”
My words hit Veranna and stuck. I smiled.
She blinked a few times, then cleared her throat. “Excellent, Captain. You are dedicated in your study.”
“So, with that settled,” I began, clapping the dirt from my hands as I turned toward the gate, “I have some practice ahead of me this evening.”
The Prophetess leveled her gaze at me. “No, Captain. You do not. You will not compete this year by the King’s order.”
“What?” No mirth laced my words this time. “Is not this tournament to determine his champion? Had battle not called me from the event last year, I would have secured the title then! Surely he does not intend to slight me by denying me my rightful chance to—”
“While I am sure he intends no slight, his order stands, Captain,” the Chancellor interjected, holding forth a parchment. At the bottom of the flowing script, I saw the undeniable gold seal, the mark of my liege.
I stabbed my burning glance at each of the elves before me, none of whom so much as flinched. “I shall address King Saransaeloth myself over it.”
Veranna hopped down from the fence and into my path. She took hold of both my wrists, her touch like the alighting of butterflies. “Vinyanel,” she said with a supple softness. “Try to understand. Yes, even without your trusted Solaris, you are the warrior who would win this contest. None deny it. But you cannot be everything at once.”
Her delicacy blindsided me. In her face, for the first time since I had met her, I saw tender sympathy, and it seared me like a brand. I cursed the lump that rose in my throat as she intoned the name of my lost mount. Setting my jaw, I rolled my eyes skyward. Welling tears? I forbade them.
In a whisper no louder than the evening breeze, Veranna said, “Do not cling to what is good and leave yourself no empty hand to accept that which is best, young Windrider.”
I wrenched my hands away from the Prophetess with greater force than the situation demanded. “Just because I have a duty to pursue this Command--a process which I assume will take months-- does that mean I should sit, untested, in the meantime?”
A desperate look swept over Veranna’s face. “Now, we did not say—”
“I heard enough of what you did say, Veranna! Good day.” I spun on my heel and stomped off.
Before I had gone a handful of paces, the Chancellor called, “Captain, halt. That is an order.”
I brought my feet together, but did not turn.
“Just because you shall not compete, that does not mean you are unneeded,” Chancellor Lerendir continued. “This year, you shall officiate.”
Officiate? The absurdity grew with every word the elder spoke. Officiating fell to old gray-pates like him. Elves whose sword arm lifted little more than a goblet with any regularity. Though I wanted to respond with another infuriated outburst, instead, I sucked my teeth.
I performed the crispest about-face of my lifetime to stare down Veranna and the Chancellor from beneath lowered brows. “Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”
“No, Captain. You are dismissed.”
After pounding my fists into more than one beam that supported the grandstands, I worked my way around the arena, clearing the path of other elves with my mere countenance.
###
Only after I had endured more than enough idle gossip from officers’ wives and Veranna had plied me with every comfort available to the reveler, teatime came to a close. I straightened my tabard for the sake of returning to the arena for today’s final round of jousting. From the tinkling that fluttered up behind me, I knew I had not passed through the tent flaps alone, but I did not slacken my pace. By the time I neared the grandstands, Veranna drew up beside me.
“You really are doing an excellent job, Captain,” she said. “You let the compliments roll off like rain upon oilskin, but I hope you can glean some sense of satisfaction from your contributions.”
We stopped as a runner pushed a cart of rubbish across our path.
I shook my head. “I find no joy in administration. But I must serve my king, and this role is where he has placed me.”
A sudden surge of enthusiasm swept through Veranna. She clapped her hands together. “Exactly! You stand on the brink of the very lesson you must learn if you ever wish for elves to follow you, and I do not think you realize it! Your expertise will serve your earthly king well, not in besting other contestants, but by ensuring that the finest warrior present secures the title of King’s Champion.”
An air of earnestness and urgency swelled Veranna’s words, and something in her imploring tone strummed a chord deep within me.
“The servant shall lead them,” I said to the air. “His greatness shall lie in his abasement. The multitudes shall flock to his humble meekness.”
“There is hope for you yet, Captain.” Veranna smiled, and a ray of inner light lanced across her burdened countenance. She opened her mouth to speak again, but a strangled yelp from behind a tent before us swept her words away. With a raised eyebrow, I turned from my path and rounded the tent.
Behind it, a growing pile of refuse loomed. Clearly, all the revelry of the tournament deposited its trappings here, and the fly-ridden heap had grown quite large already. The runner who had passed us earlier stood in front of the pile, hand clapped over his mouth and eyes squeezed shut. His knuckles whitened around the rake he held in his other hand.
“You all right?” I asked. The rubbish did not smell that bad. Yet.
The runner pointed a shaky finger behind him.
I peered around the young elf. I saw nothing at first besides rinds of melons, crusts of bread, cast-off garnishes, and the bones of standing rib roasts. Then my eyes widened.
Out of the refuse dangled an arm, ash-gray and limp.
Veranna stepped up beside me. “What is it, Cap—” Her jaw hung open, incapable of forming any further words.
I snatched the rake from the runner. With several swipes of the tool, I exposed the shoulder, chest, then face of the unfortunate elf beneath the refuse. The obvious ravages of warm weather on a corpse dead several days distorted the features I saw, but even so, their likeness was unmistakable.
This elf was a dead copy of Mithveranon.
I'm working on a fantasy serial for an e-zine, and the following is what I've got at present for my 4th installment. It's kind of long (2400+ words) so I may need to trim like crazy, split it in two, or convince the editor to go for a longer-that-usual episode, but whatever the case ends up being, I'd love some input on the story.
Just to get you up to speed, The MC, Vinyanel Ecleriast, is an elven Captain of the cavalry, who discovered at the beginning of the serial that the Creator has called him to become the High Commander of a new division of airborn cavalry, the Windriders. Vinyanel has a lot of spiritual growing up to do before he's fit for the job, however, so that's where the Prophetess Veranna comes in. She's a half elf and irritates Vinyanel to no end, yet providence decress she should mentor Vinyanel in spiritual matters.
That should stave off most confusion, but feel free to fire questions if I've left something ambiguous. Now for the story:
The sharp crack of lance against shield echoed through the arena, compelling the multitudes that packed the grandstands to gasp as one. I dodged the splinters of the riven weapon that flew over my head. One of the two combatants before me tumbled from the back of his horse and landed with a rattling thud on the dirt floor of the arena, kicking up yet another cloud of caramel-colored dust to join the billowing silt that already drifted in the air. I winced for him as I spun on one foot and dashed closer to the downed warrior. I had been in his position and did not envy him.
The warrior scrambled to his feet, tossing his lance aside and groping for his sword. The lack of surety with which his hand found his hilt told me who would prevail in this round. He spread his feet shoulder width and braced himself to meet the charge of the horseman who came about at the other end of the arena.
The black courser in silver barding thundered toward the center of the field of contest. The elf on its back drew a heavy flail, the links of its chain rattling like impish laughter. The mounted soldier brought his weapon around as he bore down upon the footman, and again, the clamor of weapon-meets-shield split the air. This time, pieces of the shield flew all directions, and the footman crumpled to the ground.
The courser careened past me, a little too close for my taste, so I shot a glare at its rider before I raised my hand high. The herald trumpeters blew the Cease of Battle call.
“No, I—I can go on,” the footman rasped as he struggled to one knee.
With the gruesome angle at which his forearm hung, I knew his words to be no more than bravado. The healers and I converged upon the downed contestant. His condition looked no better up close than it had from a distance.
“This round is over for you, soldier,” I said. “Go get that arm straightened out.”
As the wounded footman turned for the arena’s edge, polite applause rippled through the stands. I headed for the center of the arena, unhurried. Taking my place, I faced the crowd, the high seat of King Saransaeloth in particular.
“The round goes to Sir Direllian Mithveranon!” I proclaimed for the third time that day.
Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd as Mithveranon made a final circuit of the arena to pass through the gate. Over the past three days this warrior, whose name no one had heard before he first took the field, had proven that no opponent could best him. He showed no lack of prowess. Decorum, perhaps. I did not doubt Mithveranon would stand among the finalists on the last day of the Week of Tourney, a contender for the title of King’s Champion.
The trumpeters burst into a complicated rill, calling the spectators to tea. I smirked at the idea. Having stood in the midst of every event today, my body bore a thick layer of dirt. No matter. Those who put me in this position would endure my grime, for I would not forego a chance at a few moments refreshment and shade because of the wages of my forced role in this year’s tournament.
I stepped inside the tent where the officers of Delsinon’s fortress took their repose. Before I had even cleared the entry, the Prophetess Veranna swished up to me and handed me a dainty saucer and cup. I repressed a snort at her doting. After all, this was her fault.
Several officers crowded me as I took my first sip, wetting a throat dryer than the sands of North Deklia.
“His Majesty shall certainly acquire a fine champion this year, with the tournament in your capable hands, Captain Ecleriast.”
“A smoothly run operation, Captain. A true pleasure.”
“Never has the tournament had such an air of authority--all owing to your leadership.”
These and other compliments swirled about me. I nodded in response between sips of tea or mouthfuls of dainties, quietly accepting these spoils of accolades.
“So, is officiating such a terrible arrangement?” Veranna said as the corner of her lip took a crooked upturn.
I crunched on a point of toast, topped with a fried quail’s egg. “So far it has been…bearable,” I replied. To Veranna’s good fortune, my temper over the whole matter had cooled from how I felt a few days earlier.
###
A multi-colored palette of banners caught high in the afternoon breeze snapped and crackled like the flames of a bonfire. At the south end of the wide arena, practicing trumpeters called to one another through their silver horns, their clarion bell tones raising goose bumps on my skin. Little else brought me the thrill of a tournament. My excitement mounted with every step as I marked off the strides my steed would take in his conquering of this place of contest. Watch formality Once a year the Week of Tourney dominated all the doings of Delsinon. And this year’s battle belonged to me.
The stables just outside the contest ring bustled as grooms, stable-boys and warriors prepared their mounts, their partners in competition. A tight cluster of well-dressed elders gesticulated over parchments as they kept a sharp eye to both those who worked the stables and those who, like me, previewed the course for tomorrow morning’s first event.
I stood below the rack of rings that awaited my spearing lance. Beside me, a much younger elf, a warrior who had scarcely left boyhood behind, stared up at the rack.
“They look closer once you are mounted,” I said with a smirk.
The youth nearly leapt out of his chain armor. “Yes, Sir. I am certain they do, Sir. You would know. Sir.”
“First tournament?”
The elf swallowed hard. “Is it so obvious?”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “I fear it is. Chances are you shall come through it.”
“I hope so. I would not want to embarrass my unit with an unseemly showing…”
The boy’s nervous prattle receded into the background of my mind as I saw the prophetess Veranna sashay up to the supervising elders outside the ring. What could she possibly want? Must she insist upon casting a dark cloud over my one admitted joy?
As she spoke, the entire group turned their gazes to me. Though I could not hear what they said, their conversation certainly looked interesting, for vigorous pointing and head shaking punctuated it.
“Sir?”
The voice of the young competitor beside me snapped me away from my ruminations.
“What?”
“I asked if you would compete on the morrow, sir.”
I nodded. “Of course. But if you will excuse me…” Sparing no glance to the novice, I marched for the railing of the arena.
As the elders saw me coming, three of them scattered to some pressing business. Lerendir, King Saransaeloth’s Chancellor of War and a retired officer by the name of Ryathos remained. And, of course, Veranna.
“Do you find the course well set, Captain?” Chancellor Lerendir asked.
“Verily,” I replied. “How go the other preparations? I am anxious for a prompt start at daybreak.”
Ryathos cast a raised eyebrow to the Chancellor, which he then volleyed to Veranna. A long, agitating silence hung over the group.
“Will you say nothing?” Veranna said, askance as she turned to the elders.
The Chancellor shook his head. “I know when I cast fuel into a fire, my lady, and I’ll not do so here. This decree belongs to you.”
Veranna climbed onto the white arena fence and perched on the top rail, a dainty cat poised to preen. “Very well. Captain Ecleriast, you shall not compete in the ensuing festivities.”
I guffawed. “No? Just why is that? Shall I spend the week in the library? I have already finished reading The Tree. Is there some book of wisdom you would place above it?”
My words hit Veranna and stuck. I smiled.
She blinked a few times, then cleared her throat. “Excellent, Captain. You are dedicated in your study.”
“So, with that settled,” I began, clapping the dirt from my hands as I turned toward the gate, “I have some practice ahead of me this evening.”
The Prophetess leveled her gaze at me. “No, Captain. You do not. You will not compete this year by the King’s order.”
“What?” No mirth laced my words this time. “Is not this tournament to determine his champion? Had battle not called me from the event last year, I would have secured the title then! Surely he does not intend to slight me by denying me my rightful chance to—”
“While I am sure he intends no slight, his order stands, Captain,” the Chancellor interjected, holding forth a parchment. At the bottom of the flowing script, I saw the undeniable gold seal, the mark of my liege.
I stabbed my burning glance at each of the elves before me, none of whom so much as flinched. “I shall address King Saransaeloth myself over it.”
Veranna hopped down from the fence and into my path. She took hold of both my wrists, her touch like the alighting of butterflies. “Vinyanel,” she said with a supple softness. “Try to understand. Yes, even without your trusted Solaris, you are the warrior who would win this contest. None deny it. But you cannot be everything at once.”
Her delicacy blindsided me. In her face, for the first time since I had met her, I saw tender sympathy, and it seared me like a brand. I cursed the lump that rose in my throat as she intoned the name of my lost mount. Setting my jaw, I rolled my eyes skyward. Welling tears? I forbade them.
In a whisper no louder than the evening breeze, Veranna said, “Do not cling to what is good and leave yourself no empty hand to accept that which is best, young Windrider.”
I wrenched my hands away from the Prophetess with greater force than the situation demanded. “Just because I have a duty to pursue this Command--a process which I assume will take months-- does that mean I should sit, untested, in the meantime?”
A desperate look swept over Veranna’s face. “Now, we did not say—”
“I heard enough of what you did say, Veranna! Good day.” I spun on my heel and stomped off.
Before I had gone a handful of paces, the Chancellor called, “Captain, halt. That is an order.”
I brought my feet together, but did not turn.
“Just because you shall not compete, that does not mean you are unneeded,” Chancellor Lerendir continued. “This year, you shall officiate.”
Officiate? The absurdity grew with every word the elder spoke. Officiating fell to old gray-pates like him. Elves whose sword arm lifted little more than a goblet with any regularity. Though I wanted to respond with another infuriated outburst, instead, I sucked my teeth.
I performed the crispest about-face of my lifetime to stare down Veranna and the Chancellor from beneath lowered brows. “Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”
“No, Captain. You are dismissed.”
After pounding my fists into more than one beam that supported the grandstands, I worked my way around the arena, clearing the path of other elves with my mere countenance.
###
Only after I had endured more than enough idle gossip from officers’ wives and Veranna had plied me with every comfort available to the reveler, teatime came to a close. I straightened my tabard for the sake of returning to the arena for today’s final round of jousting. From the tinkling that fluttered up behind me, I knew I had not passed through the tent flaps alone, but I did not slacken my pace. By the time I neared the grandstands, Veranna drew up beside me.
“You really are doing an excellent job, Captain,” she said. “You let the compliments roll off like rain upon oilskin, but I hope you can glean some sense of satisfaction from your contributions.”
We stopped as a runner pushed a cart of rubbish across our path.
I shook my head. “I find no joy in administration. But I must serve my king, and this role is where he has placed me.”
A sudden surge of enthusiasm swept through Veranna. She clapped her hands together. “Exactly! You stand on the brink of the very lesson you must learn if you ever wish for elves to follow you, and I do not think you realize it! Your expertise will serve your earthly king well, not in besting other contestants, but by ensuring that the finest warrior present secures the title of King’s Champion.”
An air of earnestness and urgency swelled Veranna’s words, and something in her imploring tone strummed a chord deep within me.
“The servant shall lead them,” I said to the air. “His greatness shall lie in his abasement. The multitudes shall flock to his humble meekness.”
“There is hope for you yet, Captain.” Veranna smiled, and a ray of inner light lanced across her burdened countenance. She opened her mouth to speak again, but a strangled yelp from behind a tent before us swept her words away. With a raised eyebrow, I turned from my path and rounded the tent.
Behind it, a growing pile of refuse loomed. Clearly, all the revelry of the tournament deposited its trappings here, and the fly-ridden heap had grown quite large already. The runner who had passed us earlier stood in front of the pile, hand clapped over his mouth and eyes squeezed shut. His knuckles whitened around the rake he held in his other hand.
“You all right?” I asked. The rubbish did not smell that bad. Yet.
The runner pointed a shaky finger behind him.
I peered around the young elf. I saw nothing at first besides rinds of melons, crusts of bread, cast-off garnishes, and the bones of standing rib roasts. Then my eyes widened.
Out of the refuse dangled an arm, ash-gray and limp.
Veranna stepped up beside me. “What is it, Cap—” Her jaw hung open, incapable of forming any further words.
I snatched the rake from the runner. With several swipes of the tool, I exposed the shoulder, chest, then face of the unfortunate elf beneath the refuse. The obvious ravages of warm weather on a corpse dead several days distorted the features I saw, but even so, their likeness was unmistakable.
This elf was a dead copy of Mithveranon.
