The Borg�s Kings ... Introduction

This is the rewrite after an exercise in story analysis I did for Story Craft Group. I hope you enjoy. There is a novel planned for this character.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Introduction

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Merric awoke with a start. His mind instinctively went to his long knife only to find it already in his left hand. Rolling quickly to a sitting position, he scanned the room. It was simply attired, clean, and empty. No one was with him. Hmmph, he thought. Another dream.

 

   "By the Nine, they seemed so real," he found himself saying aloud.

 

   He sat staring at the decorated long knife he still held in his left hand. Ornate but surprisingly effective in a fight. The ghods must have blessed this thing, he thought. He rolled his tongue in his mouth. Last night's food and drink did not do his mouth well this morning. Inhaling deeply, he cleared the remnants of his dreams from his mind. It was a new day.

 

   Sounds from the kitchen below alerted him someone else was awake. The hosteller must be about preparing the morning meal, he thought. Perhaps the he had some khaffe freshly brewed. If not, reheated from yesterday would still suffice.

 

   It took Merric a few minutes to collect his belongings. He looked about the room one last time and headed downstairs to the main room of the inn. The really poor travelers were still asleep on the floor on simple pallets. The room had the look of a hasty barracks. These were not pilgrims, nor peasants. Many had the look of ruffians and down-on-their-luck adventurers... mercenaries. Merric's seasoned hearing could pick out one or two only feigning sleep. Their breathing being too regular and soft. Picking his way through the sleepers, Merric made his way to the hosteller's bar. He was told the khaffe was cooking and his morning meal would be ready soon. He found a table near the bar, sat down, and waited. His mind went back to his dreams.

 

 

   A high, wind swept plateau overlooked the valley below. Merric could see himself. His long, thin silhouette was standing near the edge; the valley blurring with distance. The air was chill. The wind had proven itself too strong for Merric to easily hold his cloak closed. He stood with the wind to his back letting the wind hold it in place.

 

   His long, fighting knife and saber were already in his hands. They were made as a matched pair. They were crafted from some magical ore that only a few knew existed and even fewer knew how to craft into anything. The winged helm and hauberk were made of the same black metal that still managed to shine and absorb light. His ice blue eyes scanned the field of view for any movement. He was here to kill. He knew that much for sure. He could sense it.

 

   The air was clean and crisp, nearly too cold. It burned his nostrils as he inhaled. Ahh, he caught the scent. Spinning to a crouch in the direction of the wind, he began to pick his way toward the source of the scent. Gradually picking up speed as the blood lust began to take hold. A sound from one of them whispered passed his ear. He squinted his eyes ever so slightly. A corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. He was nearly into a full run when he came across them.

 

   His mind cried, there are too many!

 

   Merric began to sing the songs of slaughter as he charged into their midst. He flew into them swinging at the nearest with his saber, under cutting with the knife. The female warrior had the look of the Ælfannae about her. She managed to deflect the saber with her shield and, somehow, meet the knife with her sword. The jar of the impact nearly made Merric drop his knife. She tumbled backwards. Merric went past her to a large man with a two-handed claymore. His eyes locked with Merric's. There was no fear, no malice. He saw only raw force of character. Merric nearly stopped in his tracks. Merric lunged toward the man's throat with his saber. The man moved in a flash. At first he was standing still, holding his claymore in front as one would hold a staff. The great sword came up vertical, redirecting the force of the lunge. In a blur of motion, Merric found himself in the path of the downward sweeping sword. Using the momentum of his lunge, Merric turned into a ball, rolling under the sword and next to the large man. Merric kicked upward and out as hard as he could. The large man seemed caught off guard by the maneuver. The large man exhaled hard as he fell to one side.

 

   Something was said in a language Merric did not recognize. He spun on his haunches and leapt to his feet. He saw something flash and using the wind, he threw up his cloak to help diffuse whatever was coming his way. It only partially worked. Merric was tossed through the air like a rag doll. His cloak smelled burnt and still smoldered. He did not have time to think about it. A duarfini, a short, stocky man-like mass of muscle and hair, was bearing down on him. His white hair and beard were made into braids held together with threads of gold. He was armored in a milky white suit of scale mail. A cloak of cloth-of-gold billowed out behind him. The smile on the duarfini's face and the wild stare in his eyes told Merric this one enjoyed fighting more than most. The hammer the duarfini raised above his head began to glow red, then yellow, then white with heat. Merric rolled, vaulted, spun in the air, and struck downward with his saber. The impact of the blow struck Merric to his shoulder, causing him to fall off balanced. He fell at the feet of a man wearing the bluest silver armor he had ever seen. He wore a simple surcoat with an emblem of Tyre. The man was singing.

 

 The song was captivating. For a moment, Merric felt all was hopeless. But, just a moment. His grip tightened on his sword. Merric leapt up and slashed down toward the man's uncovered head. There was a flash of light, and the man stumbled backwards. There were three standing guard over the fallen man of Tyre. One dressed in the blackest fully plated armor Merric had ever seen. Another was dressed in chain mail. It was black, but it gave off light. A red surcoat with a symbol Merric did not recognize covered it. The third was most distinguished by his eyes. They were wild, and they hated him. He made a motion that appeared to be a wave. Nausea gripped Merric. The one in the black chain mail made a sign with his hand, and a chill hit Merric. It seemed to come up from his bones. The one in the blackest plate armor pulled out a spiked mace from behind its shield. It charged, chanting something unintelligible. Merric could not move...

 

   A loud shout woke Merric immediately. He was sitting upright in a chair. His fighting knife, again, in his left hand. The hosteller was shouting something. Put away your weapons or get out? Merric's mind raced in a cloud of sleepiness. He was downstairs about to have breakfast. He must have fallen asleep. He looked around. Everyone was staring at him. Keeping his face grim, Merric sheathed his weapons. He had somehow managed to pull out his axe as well. He nodded to the hosteller. The food and khaffe were set at his table. Merric felt every eye in the room on him. He left more coins on the table than needed for the food and drink.

 

   "I will need more khaffe."

 

   Merric did not look around but he could feel the stares. Some whispered. Some whispered not softly enough. They all thought he was crazy. Under other circumstances, that would have been good. Farmers, peasants, and pilgrims scare easily. Seasoned veterans do not. If someone is crazy, that is a sign of weakness. Weakness can be killed. He would have to leave soon, before anyone was ready to follow him and relieve him of his life and property. Merric ate as quickly and quietly as he could He strained his ears to pick up any whisper of a conspiracy against him.

 

   Merric nodded once to the hosteller, collected his things, and headed for the door. He paused with the door open. Took another look into the main room of the inn and left. He moved quickly to the stables. The stable boy saw him coming and quickly brought him his horse, fully set as agreed the previous night. Merric paid him well. Checked the rigging quickly. Leading the horse clear of the stables and fencing, he surveyed the path of a street in front of him. He took one more look toward the inn. No one was there. This could be good, he thought. He leapt into the harness and charged toward the nearest open space between the small buildings. He would ride hard as long as his horse would let him, then begin backtracking, doubling, and covering his trail. He would lose a day, but it was needed. He did not need additional eyes trying to find him.

Author's Note

There may be some editing needs here and there, but this is really only a second draft and a seed story for the future larger work. Tell me what you think.

Reviews

[J. Hampton]

Again...I must say I am so drawn in . The descriptive images are vivid so very effective.
Not unlike a Tolkien novel...I am left to complete my own finishing touches on the characters.
Oddly I never wanted to go see Lord of the rings etc...especially the cartoon ...as I wanted my Hobbit to look as I wanted him too. Hated the cartoon.

Good write Doc

Blessssssssssss

[Ryan McAuley]

Heh, again a wonderful read.


As an opinion, there are a couple things you could change with quite a bit of rewording, but honestly it would only make it read a tad better (in my opinion as I stated). During the fight you used a lot of "merric this", "Merric that", while you could find a way to change the sentences about and start with something other than a noun.

A couple things that I think should be changed are:
began to glow red, then yellow, then white with heat.
"then" is a bit repetitive, and you don't really need the first one, its just an extra word that you would be able to remove completely... my suggestion would be to make it something like "began to glow red, yellow, and then/finally white, from the heat."


Not sure if this would be the "proper" way of wording it. When I read it aloud I had a pause in there. Maybe it is just me.
He fell off balanced.
Shouldn't it be more like "He fell off balance/He fell, off balanced/..."?

A wonderful read that was very gripping, and I still want to read more (volume 2?)

[Tigerlobo]

Well-crafted. Seriously. I'm not trying to be crafty. Each moment, movement, glance, action, sentence--all of them exude care and craft and storytelling...fun for quick or deliberate reading!