Hello, and here's-a-piece.
Oct. 25th, 2008 10:27 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writers_loftGreetings, I'm new to the community, and figured I'd introduce myself with a piece of short fiction cross-posted to my own journal. This is a bit from a project that's been percolating in the back of my mind for a little while, and what follows is a snipped of a character's past... Mostly to get a handle on where he came from and to set the tone of his earlier days.
Enjoy!
Title: A Turn in Fortune
Genre: Fantasy
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Draft: 1st, minor editing
Word Count: 1137
Summary: Glimpses of a battle in which a soldier of an expanding empire participates, and the rewards reaped in the aftermath.
At midnight, the legion knelt to pray. As the moon was at its zenith the clerics walked between the lines of kneeling soldiers, incense wafting from iron censors swinging back and forth from steady hands. The Aldinian Empire was mighty in day or night, but the darkest watch was the hour deemed sacred in the eyes of their God, so then did they receive his blessing.
The soldier's name was Landon. Thatcher was the surname birth had given him; his father's occupation, but he had cast it off, just as he had all the ties that made him of the muddy village in the foothills of the Teeth. Landon Thatcher's father had been a traitor to the Empire, put to the sword along with his whore of a wife. Landon Thatcher was a common man of common sires, with no legal rights or chance at glory or the power to change his fortunes. Landon the Soldier, was well on his way.
He kept his head bowed as the cleric passed, the sweet scent of the burning coals tickling his nose with coveted warmth, but he was hard. The Legions had made him stronger, he had risen from water carrier to foot soldier, from foot soldier to Lance Captain, a hundred men at his command. Soon he would call a Quatron his own, four hundred beneath his standard. From there, who knew? He would win a surname of greater glory then the one he was born with, the Dominator smiled upon he who would make his own fortunes.
The High Priest stood before the masses as the moon peered through the clouds overhead, jangling talismans swinging from thick black robes. He looked like a corpse animating voluminous clothing, and as Landon watched him raise his hooded eyes to the sky, a feeling of cold resolve flooded through his chest. He would live through the night, and one day men like that would call him master.
The Priest let fall his hands and bid the Legion rise. Four thousand armored men got to their feet and raised their spears and their voices. The cry was a single, united sound, echoing from wall to wall of the valley. It shook the ground beneath Landon's feet and filled him with fierce pride. He raised his sword and hefted his shield. The second cry was louder then the first, and the shouts of his men filled his ears with his own. A third rolled from hilltop to valley floor, and the legion began to move.
***
They were disorganized and unprepared; wave upon wave breaking on the shield wall. For every rush of barely readied bodies with bad teeth and rusted blades, the legion gained another inch. Shields raised and Landon put his sword through a man's throat, pulling it free and taking a step back. The line moved again, over the corpses of the dead and the dying.
"FORWARD!" He shouted. "FORWARD FOR EMPEROR AND EMPIRE!"
His Lance had the lead, pushing forward through the press. He did not know the names of the lords they were fighting, but it couldn't have mattered less. Under the moonlight, all livery was black and blue. A king was no different from a provincial governor; both were vested with power over men, but at least the latter served something greater then himself. A second wave of the enemy's bonded levies was moving towards them, Landon turned his formation and thrust forward. Bodies moved in synch, trained reactions acting as one. Where one of his fell, a brother pulled him back and slid to fill the breach. Where one of them fell, there were screams and rage and a wild, untempered assault.
They were pushing past the boundaries of their lines, he slammed his shield into the chin of a man and broke his neck, cut another's throat. They were moving up a hillside as flashes of light illuminated the field. The gap in the enemy's lines widened, he glimpsed standards of the fifth and eighth Quatron under the lowering moon. The foe was in disarray and their lines shuddered as brittle iron caught between hammer and anvil. They took the hill, and at Landon's order the standard of his Lance was planted on the crest. He gave the signal and his standard bearer blew a blast on a silver horn that echoed from wall to wall.
The foe was in retreat, flooding into the neck between hilltops and bleeding over the bridges across the river. He ordered a hold... And his Lance watched as the river turned to fire. The light of his Empire's sorcery reached his face long before the scent of the cooking enemy or their massed screams registered in his ears.
***
He stood in a line of men, armor burnished and maille scoured clean under the noon day sun. Landon watched as the High Priest escorted the Legate down the center of another conquered king's throne-room. His voice echoed with the others as their commander passed, a single shout as they had raised in the valley floor. He smiled, resplendent in his blacks and reds, a greatsword of enchanted steel balanced on a cushion carried by two squires behind him.
Landon shifted with his fellows as one to turn his eyes towards where the subjugated ruler was pushed to his knees before his throne. He listened as the High Priest read the litany of his crimes to the assembled body of the Legion and the subjects of the Empire's newest province huddled outside the doors of the fallen keep. Landon saw the banners of the conquered clustered together with the other spoils taken from the field two nights ago. He watched as the High Priest laid the final charge of resisting the Dominator and his anointed Lord of men; Sovereign Emperor Ardaius IV upon the beaten king's head. The sentence was death, to be carried out immediately. The Legate took up his black sword, runes glimmering in the sunlight as the king's head was bowed. It was over surprisingly fast, and the Legions cheers drowned out all dissenting sound.
Later, he stood with other heroes of the battle passed, proudly at attention as the Legate presented him with the black, rune etched longsword of a Quatrain commander and the congratulations he was due for heroism in the name of homeland and emperor. As men cheered amidst the ruins of a broken, subjugated enemy, Landon closed his eyes and breathed in the exultation of victory to silence the quiet voice of disgust in the back of his mind.
My Fortunes are changing, he thought; I have earned this. He was proud to serve Empire and Emperor. Proud to do whatever was needed.
He would not balk, he would not hesitate. He would make his own fate.
Enjoy!
Title: A Turn in Fortune
Genre: Fantasy
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Draft: 1st, minor editing
Word Count: 1137
Summary: Glimpses of a battle in which a soldier of an expanding empire participates, and the rewards reaped in the aftermath.
At midnight, the legion knelt to pray. As the moon was at its zenith the clerics walked between the lines of kneeling soldiers, incense wafting from iron censors swinging back and forth from steady hands. The Aldinian Empire was mighty in day or night, but the darkest watch was the hour deemed sacred in the eyes of their God, so then did they receive his blessing.
The soldier's name was Landon. Thatcher was the surname birth had given him; his father's occupation, but he had cast it off, just as he had all the ties that made him of the muddy village in the foothills of the Teeth. Landon Thatcher's father had been a traitor to the Empire, put to the sword along with his whore of a wife. Landon Thatcher was a common man of common sires, with no legal rights or chance at glory or the power to change his fortunes. Landon the Soldier, was well on his way.
He kept his head bowed as the cleric passed, the sweet scent of the burning coals tickling his nose with coveted warmth, but he was hard. The Legions had made him stronger, he had risen from water carrier to foot soldier, from foot soldier to Lance Captain, a hundred men at his command. Soon he would call a Quatron his own, four hundred beneath his standard. From there, who knew? He would win a surname of greater glory then the one he was born with, the Dominator smiled upon he who would make his own fortunes.
The High Priest stood before the masses as the moon peered through the clouds overhead, jangling talismans swinging from thick black robes. He looked like a corpse animating voluminous clothing, and as Landon watched him raise his hooded eyes to the sky, a feeling of cold resolve flooded through his chest. He would live through the night, and one day men like that would call him master.
The Priest let fall his hands and bid the Legion rise. Four thousand armored men got to their feet and raised their spears and their voices. The cry was a single, united sound, echoing from wall to wall of the valley. It shook the ground beneath Landon's feet and filled him with fierce pride. He raised his sword and hefted his shield. The second cry was louder then the first, and the shouts of his men filled his ears with his own. A third rolled from hilltop to valley floor, and the legion began to move.
***
They were disorganized and unprepared; wave upon wave breaking on the shield wall. For every rush of barely readied bodies with bad teeth and rusted blades, the legion gained another inch. Shields raised and Landon put his sword through a man's throat, pulling it free and taking a step back. The line moved again, over the corpses of the dead and the dying.
"FORWARD!" He shouted. "FORWARD FOR EMPEROR AND EMPIRE!"
His Lance had the lead, pushing forward through the press. He did not know the names of the lords they were fighting, but it couldn't have mattered less. Under the moonlight, all livery was black and blue. A king was no different from a provincial governor; both were vested with power over men, but at least the latter served something greater then himself. A second wave of the enemy's bonded levies was moving towards them, Landon turned his formation and thrust forward. Bodies moved in synch, trained reactions acting as one. Where one of his fell, a brother pulled him back and slid to fill the breach. Where one of them fell, there were screams and rage and a wild, untempered assault.
They were pushing past the boundaries of their lines, he slammed his shield into the chin of a man and broke his neck, cut another's throat. They were moving up a hillside as flashes of light illuminated the field. The gap in the enemy's lines widened, he glimpsed standards of the fifth and eighth Quatron under the lowering moon. The foe was in disarray and their lines shuddered as brittle iron caught between hammer and anvil. They took the hill, and at Landon's order the standard of his Lance was planted on the crest. He gave the signal and his standard bearer blew a blast on a silver horn that echoed from wall to wall.
The foe was in retreat, flooding into the neck between hilltops and bleeding over the bridges across the river. He ordered a hold... And his Lance watched as the river turned to fire. The light of his Empire's sorcery reached his face long before the scent of the cooking enemy or their massed screams registered in his ears.
***
He stood in a line of men, armor burnished and maille scoured clean under the noon day sun. Landon watched as the High Priest escorted the Legate down the center of another conquered king's throne-room. His voice echoed with the others as their commander passed, a single shout as they had raised in the valley floor. He smiled, resplendent in his blacks and reds, a greatsword of enchanted steel balanced on a cushion carried by two squires behind him.
Landon shifted with his fellows as one to turn his eyes towards where the subjugated ruler was pushed to his knees before his throne. He listened as the High Priest read the litany of his crimes to the assembled body of the Legion and the subjects of the Empire's newest province huddled outside the doors of the fallen keep. Landon saw the banners of the conquered clustered together with the other spoils taken from the field two nights ago. He watched as the High Priest laid the final charge of resisting the Dominator and his anointed Lord of men; Sovereign Emperor Ardaius IV upon the beaten king's head. The sentence was death, to be carried out immediately. The Legate took up his black sword, runes glimmering in the sunlight as the king's head was bowed. It was over surprisingly fast, and the Legions cheers drowned out all dissenting sound.
Later, he stood with other heroes of the battle passed, proudly at attention as the Legate presented him with the black, rune etched longsword of a Quatrain commander and the congratulations he was due for heroism in the name of homeland and emperor. As men cheered amidst the ruins of a broken, subjugated enemy, Landon closed his eyes and breathed in the exultation of victory to silence the quiet voice of disgust in the back of his mind.
My Fortunes are changing, he thought; I have earned this. He was proud to serve Empire and Emperor. Proud to do whatever was needed.
He would not balk, he would not hesitate. He would make his own fate.
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