Going Home

Chapter one of my completed fantasy novel introduces us to the land of Tanisia and the main characters of The Age Of Heroes: Before The Legend

Stars sparkled down from the heavens like diamonds scattered across black velvet. While villages slept cities awakened. The village nestled sleepily at the bottom of the mountain was asleep like all the others, their fire places nothing but glowing orange coals. Above them, rising into the heavens, was the singular mountain shooting up from the ocean. The incline so steep not even shrubbery could find a place to root in. It was rumored among mercenaries and other travelers that the mountaintop was a portal to the other worlds; that it was there that the Gods had first entered the world those thousands of years ago.

        Atop the mountain the sheer cliffs leveled off onto rocky terrain where a small cabin stood. There were no trees or plants or wildlife, just an expanse of flat rocks, like wide steps moving up and down across the table like top of the mountain. A candle burned brightly in the cabin window through the frost, a flame that never died nor stuttered with the rattling wind.

Sitting against the cabin wall was a human male, lean with shaggy brown hair and tattoos on his arms. His young face was mottled with blood and his eyes were closed. His sword lay off to the side, his one arm outstretched towards it and his second arm, bent at an awkward angle, lay useless at his side. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and labored. He wore brown leather armor and a cloak of grey seal fur. Away from the cabin down a small three-foot drop a woman lay, her dark green cloak off to the side where it had been thrown off before the start of battle. She lay on her back on the rocks, her brown hair spread around her, her delicate face pale, and her bright hazel eyes wide and alive with panic. One hand lay across her chest, her hand around the wooden shaft of an arrow that had lodged itself deeply into her chest. She choked and sputtered as her chest moved up and down. Inside her leather armor she was soaked in blood and with every pump of her heart more seeped from the wound. She coughed and a mist of blood sprayed into the air, she was too weak to even moan as a spasm of pain shot across her chest. With her last bit of effort she looked up towards the cabin, tilting her head backwards searching for one last look at her love, the mottled man lying against the cabin but the drop was too high and instead she saw only dark grey rock. A single tear fell from her eyes and hesitantly trickled down her cheeks until she could taste the salt mix with the blood at the corner of her mouth.

        A lone survivor stood atop the mountain, his dark blue cloak fluttering in the breeze. He gripped a great sword in one hand but held it loosely at his side. His head drooped towards the ground, staring at the rocks at his feet. His thoughts racing as he witnessed the scene before him of trusted friends and loved ones.

        A voice sounded across the mountaintop, deep and raspy, loud but only a whisper.

        “No Darthaniel. It is forbidden.”

Before the voice had finished a white light descended from the sky towards the mountaintop. The world seemed to slow, almost freeze completely, as the white light grew in size before finally enveloping the man whose face remained hidden in the dark blue cloak. The survivor, frozen in wild emotion came back to life with a gasp. Called back into action he walked with purpose towards the mottled man leaning heavily against the cabin. The survivor, now enveloped in a silver glow raised his hand to the mottled man’s head, a white light flashed and the gash in the man’s head slowly repaired itself, the two sides of flesh coming closer together to eventually form a seal. The survivor in silver did not pause to watch, he was already moving towards the woman. He dropped lightly down the rocks to her side. Reaching down he gripped the arrow. Her eyes flew to lock with his but the man standing over her was a stranger and felt no sympathy for the pain he was about to inflict. Unhesitatingly he yanked the arrow from her chest and as he did so, she gurgled in pain, blood spilling forth from her mouth.  She tried to sit, to get away but he placed a hand on her shoulder and forced her down. Holding his free hand over the wound a light shone from his palm. When he removed his hand the wound was healed and he rose to move on. The woman lay there, breathing, still suffering from the blood loss but no longer dying.

        Near the edge of the mountaintop another woman lay. Her body was sprawled, thrown by some great force. She suffered many broken bones and bruises from the blunt force of her landing. Her straight black hair lay straggled over her face. Her skin was a pure white and her lips a dark grey. Her sightless eyes lay staring upwards at the stars, the irises a glowing grey. The man slowly rolled her onto her back. He crouched down beside her and placed two fingers to her neck. He could feel no pulse of liquid through her veins and her skin was cold to the touch.

 

        Again the deep commanding voice boomed across the mountaintop.

        “It is not our place nor is it your duty Darthaniel.”

 

Darthaniel ignored the voice. He removed his cloak and his shirt and stood bare-chested at the edge of the mountain. Closing his eyes in concentration Darthaniel began to focus his energy. At first the light appeared on his hands, then slowly, in veins of silver it ran across his skin towards his heart and slowly gathered, growing in size and intensity until eventually his hands began to fade as the veins receded towards the glowing ball at his heart. Taking his hand he touched it to the glowing silver ball and pulled it away. It came through his skin like a thousand strands of webbing, forming a ball again that hovered atop his open palm. His whole body shook violently, his eyes flying open. He had only moments. Dropping to his knees he placed the glow to the woman’s heart before collapsing onto his side. A few violent shudders and a silver mist gathered above his body and dissipated on the wind.

The silver ball hovered above the woman’s heart for several seconds before beginning to run in glowing trails along her skin. The webbing unwinding and slithering along her skin, working its way outwards it snaked along her arms to her hands and down her legs, a thick stream heading upwards to her face where color began to appear. Her dark grey lips turned a shade of blood red, her white skin browned into a flush tan and her grey eyes lightened into a sea foam green.

        With a violent shudder and gasp Arcadia returned to the world of the living, the memories from the land of the dead gone in an instant. Slowly she rose, testing her muscles and looking around to figure out where she was. Noticing the man lying passed out on the rock beside her she slowly sat up.

        The man awakened to find himself lying on the hard rock of the mountaintop. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw a familiar face staring back at him.

        Arcadia rose slowly to her feet, “Syvan. It’s been a while.”

 

 

 

 

Waves crashed against the ship as it fought its way southwards. The coast was in sight, the lighthouse fire burning bright against the storm. Lightning lit up the sky and thunder boomed across the ship. The wind whipped at the sails and the sailors fought tooth and nail for every quarter mile. Below deck the group of adventurers huddled in their hammocks as they swung back and forth with the waves. The floor below them was covered in six inches of water that sloshed around and carried away shoes and socks that had been left below. Arcadia lay curled up in her hammock, gripping her blanket tightly around her to fight off the damp and the cold. She focused her energies on fighting off the urge to puke, thankful that the storm at least offered her a respite from talking. Ever since Syvan had saved her on the mountaintop he had done nothing but demand answers. But Arcadia had never asked to be rescued, nor had she asked Syvan to devote the last five years to tracking her down. The things that she had seen and done were far too dark to bring to light, least of all to her older brother. She was doing her best to placate him but she also refused to allow two different worlds to collide together. Her life before, with Syvan, had been one of reckless adventure. The last five years without him had been a life of horror and brutality, of fulfillment followed by devastation. Arcadia squeezed her eyes together, fighting both a wave of nausea and also the memories from the past that were beginning to float to the surface.

 

Syvan stepped out onto the wharf, the sun beaming down on him. It was hard to believe that it had done nothing but storm the last five days but at last the weather was decent and, even better, he had both feet on dry land again. He slung his pack over his shoulder and waited for his sisters to follow. Arianna and Tomhes came down the plank, laughing about something and Syvan was happy to see the stress from the battle and the stormy voyage had already worn off. All that remained for them was the triangular shaped scar of the arrowhead near Arianna’s heart and the mottled skin on the left side of Tomhes’s face. Syvan didn’t remember much of the battle. The start was clear but then the rest got foggy. After years of searching he had finally gotten a good lead on his sister and had followed it to the Northern Isle, his other sister and her fiancée accompanying him. The trek up the mountain had taken days, full of dead ends and no protection from the raging wind. Finally they had found her, Syvan didn’t know the rumors of the mountaintop and didn’t know why the wizard Beltaire had taken his sister there but when they arrived they found themselves not only fighting a powerful wizard but his sister as well. Whatever spell Arcadia had been under it had been too powerful for her to resist. She fought hard for Beltaire, her shot to Arianna’s heart had proved just how deadly she had become. It was shortly after both Arianna and Tomhes had been dispatched that Syvan had lost control of his body. Somehow he had thrown Beltaire from the mountaintop and almost Arcadia as well. Only the Gods know how she managed to slide to a stop just before the precipice. She had been dead, that much Syvan had known. Then, she was awake and he was lying on the ground with her looking over him, smiling a sort of faint, distant smile.

        Arcadia came down the plank now. Her black leather shoes, thin and flexible, made no sound on the wooden boards unlike Syvan, Arianna and Tomhes’s, whose thick boots clunked loudly along towards the shore. She had covered herself in a light black cloak but beneath she wore a loose tunic that fell down to her thighs, leather gauntlets over top and loose black pants that ended in leather protecting her calves and ankles. Syvan watched her out of the corner of his eye as they made their way casually through the city, as though he expected her to disappear at any moment. He noticed that even Arianna and Tomhes were wary of her. She was walking differently, more upright, her piercing green eyes taking in everything around her. Her swagger was gone, instead she walked with balance and efficiency; her hands held loosely at her side, always close to the hilt of her short sword.

        Syvan fell back slightly to let Arcadia lead, observing her further. The little sister he had lost five years ago had been a hell raiser, relishing in creating conflict, pushing people to the edge just to see their reactions and full of confidence. This woman was something else, not a brandished sword like the old Arcadia, waving all over the place, daring people to challenge her. This Arcadia was subtle, shadowed, like a hidden blade.

The city was busy as usual. It was Waresday and all the farmers were standing beside their wagons full of fresh vegetables and herbs, calling out prices and competing. The city folk crowded the streets as they meandered through the wagons searching out the best produce for the best price. As they left the crowded markets behind they approached the outskirts of the city. Arcadia outdistanced the other three and Syvan didn’t know if it was on purpose or simply that gear and heavy clothing didn’t weigh her down. The streets narrowed and turned this way and that but their feet had travelled this path so many times that no one in the group had to focus on the way ahead.

        Arcadia’s feet took her forward, her eyes ahead of her. As she passed a familiar inn, The King of Hearts, her thoughts began to drift.

 

Thunder shook the sky; rain poured thick and constant, creating small rivers in the empty streets. The city became a ghost town as everyone sought shelter in their homes or in the pubs. Arcadia found herself passing the time by making her way steadily through a jug of ale. It was a two hour walk home and she was hoping the storm would pass before she ended up paying for a room for the night.

Inside the pub it was merry and warm, packed and noisy. Most patrons found themselves standing, elbowing each other as they attempted to lift their drinks to their flushed faces. A group of particularly boisterous men were all hugging and singing, their faces red with drink. The private room in the back had been claimed by a few lower barons and lords who were, by the looks of the waitress going in and out, emptying bottle after bottle of expensive red wine. Arcadia recognized one of the voices yelling loudly just before the door swung shut. Her eyes narrowed and she rose from her seat. Checking that no one was looking she pushed the door open and walked in.

        All eyes were on her, only one of them narrowed in anger and recognition.

“I see our entertainment has arrived.” One of them said, nudging his neighbor.

        “Actually I was hoping to join you.” Arcadia replied, her face lighting up in her signature half grin as she loosed the strings from her pouch and dropped it on the table. It clinked loudly with coins and a few spilled out onto the table.

“I’m terribly sorry miss, but this game is for highborns only. I would feel terrible taking all your money.”

        “Well then I would have to inform you that you are wrong on both counts. Something tells me I will be the one walking away with all your money and as for my birth, I’m sure that man there can attest to my birthright, seeing as he is my half-brother.” The highborns all turned to look back at Lord Orsis Brindhorn, whose face reddened with anger as his fists clenched.

        “Indeed. This woman is my half-sister though I only met her a few weeks ago. She seems to continuously turn up at the most convenient of times.” He spat. His attempt to make everyone aware that her presence was unwanted was noticed by all however most seemed not to care, in fact most smiled and quickly welcomed her, making space. She plopped down and the game began. She took note of the figure half hidden in the corner, the sword at his belt. She recognized her brother’s right hand man, Pierre Fleche, in charge of his personal guard as well as in performing more sinister tasks. She was surprised that the highborns did not each have their own guard in the room. The cards were dealt and Arcadia turned her focus to the game ahead.

        Whatever bravado and confidence the men had had at the beginning of the game quickly began to fade as the pile of coins in front of Arcadia steadily increased. Their jovial laughter and small talk eventually subsided to looks of concern.

        At first Arcadia reveled in the sour looks and grumbling of the highborns but eventually it began to get old and she moved on to new forms of entertainment.

        “Since I have you here, brother, I should remember to mention I think that I have something of yours.”

        “What could you possibly have of mine?” He asked, anger oozing from between his white teeth.

        “Just a letter your messenger was kind enough to let me deliver but I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy and haven’t had a chance.” She pulled the letter out from her hidden pocket; the wax seal, an upside down triangle inside a circle, was broken. Orsis’s face blanched. To her surprise so did the faces of the rest of the men. Realization hit her like the club of an orc.

        The triangle and circle was not her brother’s personal seal. She had stolen the letter from her brother’s messenger after inviting herself to his manor and finding herself promptly kicked out. Curious and bored she had waited and watched until a she saw a young boy sneaking from the manor, a letter clutched in his hand. He was far too easy to overwhelm and quickly gave the letter up. Holding on to it for several days before finally becoming bored enough to break the seal. Expecting to find an unimportant letter to a friend or perhaps a mistress, her initial expectations of stealing the letter had been to be more of an annoyance than anything. Upon reading the letter she discovered just how stooped in treason and betrayal her brother was. Why she bandied it about before him now she didn’t know, most likely just to see the look on his face. She never had any inclination to turn him in to the king, her brother seemed far too unorganized to ever be a real threat. It was the looks she received from all the rest of the men in the room that triggered an understanding.

        That night at the manor she knew her brother had had company but had thought nothing of it. Obviously her brother was not alone in his treasonous thoughts and plots and looking around at the men in the room she realized that this had, at the start of the evening, been a meeting. Her mind recalled all the drunken men in the bar passing the storm. She counted through all the different people, the swords they carried at their waists. She counted them and then she counted the highborns in the room. The numbers added up; a guard for each. She cursed under her breath, rising quickly.

        “Forgive me gentlemen. It appears I have forgotten that I was supposed to meet my other brother over an hour ago.”

It was too late. They all slowly rose to her feet and she could see light glinting off the steel of Fleche’s blade. She thanked Lady Luck for being on her side and giving her the chair closest to the door as she quickly stepped backwards, flinging it open and attempting to disappear among the crowd.

        She was almost to the door when the yell came to seize her. The wind caught the door as she opened it and slammed it against the exterior wall. She rushed out into the night fighting the wind and the pelting rain.

        She ran down alleys and cut across roadways until she was sure she had lost them, protecting the letter in her cloak she feared that it was already ruined. She slowed to a walk, bent her head to the wind and pushed on, gritting her teeth. Her shoes filled with mud and all around all she could hear was the rain beating on the rooftops and the walls. The only good thing was that the wind seemed to have died down for the moment. Believing she had lost them she looped around to begin the long trek home.

        Arcadia sensed danger but knew there was no running from a confrontation. Somewhere behind her stood the stark figure of Pierre Fleche. His greasy hair and beard were soaked, his brown leather jacket stained and ruined and mud soaked up to the knees of his breeches. Her eyes narrowed, she slowed her breathing. Fleche wasn’t enough of a coward to kill her when her back was turned so she took a moment to collect herself.          

        In one swift movement Arcadia removed the bow from her back with one hand while drawing an arrow with the other. As she spun around she nocked the arrow and drew back, tensing her back muscles. Her eyes made contact with the shadowy figure in the distance, she calculated the distance in her head as she drew her hand to her chin and took aim, all within a single second.

        She was too late; she had overestimated the amount of honor Fleche held for himself. Something sharp and small buried itself in her neck and Fleche lowered his arm from the tube he held to his mouth. Arcadia loosed the arrow, unbeknownst to her as she crashed to the ground, and it sailed through the rain, cutting through his leather jacket and burying itself deep into his shoulder.

        White hot pain flashed through his arm and across his chest and Pierre stumbled backwards. He managed to maintain his balance while his right hand attempted to stem the blood flow. Blood and mud mixed together on his jacket but the wound wasn’t life threatening. He would survive. Gritting his teeth against the pain he pushed forward towards the figure slumped on the ground, leaving the arrow to protrude from his shoulder. A healer would be needed to take it out without damaging his shoulder further. Two guards came running up behind them and without even looking back to see who it was he barked out, “Go fetch my master and my horse.” The two disappeared again. He stood over the woman on the ground and rolled her roughly onto her back. He removed the dart tipped with an exotic drug before too much of it could flow into her veins and slipped it into its place in a square leather box amongst the others. A gift from a dear friend, the sleeping darts had come in handy on more than one occasion though all four were used up now. He made a mental note to replenish them.

        Kneeling down in the mud he ripped open the woman’s cloak and began to search, finally he came up with the letter. The letter was soaking and he doubted it was even legible anymore, not that Fleche could tell, as illiterate as he was, but knowing his master’s fears and anxiety he took the letter and tore it to pieces before scattering it amongst the muddy road, taking special care to destroy the wax seal with the secret seal imprinted onto it. The urgency dealt with Pierre surveyed his victim, her long black hair lay splayed around the mud, her small plump red lips and her pristinely pale skin. Her angular chin that was often raised in a haughtiness he found unbearable was slumped against her shoulder now. He smiled at her vulnerability, wishing she could watch her own helplessness as he knelt over her. He was just beginning to unlace her leather corset, the huntress tunic she wore beneath had ridden up her thighs as she fell. With the adrenaline of the hunt pumping through his veins and the image before him it was too tantalizing to not take advantage of. Just as the corset loosened and he was beginning to yank the neckline of the tunic down with his good arm he heard the clopping of horses feet behind him and he rose. His master stood before him, looking down in disgust at the female form below him. If he noticed the ruffled neckline and the undone laces he said nothing.

        “Get her up on the horse. We have an appointment at the docks we don’t want to be late for.” He gave her a rough kick to the ribs and there was a wicked gleam on Orsis’ face and Pierre matched it with his own sinister grin before grabbing the woman roughly by the tunic and hauling her upwards. She was surprisingly light for one so fierce and even with his bad arm he was able to easily drag her to the horse. Once at the horse’s side however he required the assistance of the other two guards to throw her roughly over the saddle. Hopping up behind her the group began their way through the muddy streets, shadows against the dark.

        Arcadia was vaguely aware of the world around her. Voices sounded as if they were resonating through a large empty hall, echoing back and forth against the walls, the sounds all fighting against each other and muffling each other out. Her eyes were open but she could only make out shapes as she swung back and forth with the horse. She was thankful that at least she could feel no pain. That was the one sober thought she managed to cling to as her body was hauled off through the quiet city. That and the fact that her brother would be so bold as to parade a barely conscious woman through the streets as she dangled over the side of a horse. Slowly Arcadia’s grasp on reality began to wane and she lost track of time and space.

        The storm was passing, a good sign for Orsis since it meant his colleague would be able to leave as silently as he had arrived. Captain Murdog was a stocky, stout fellow with thick wild hair and a dread lock beard. His skin was tan and weathered from a lifetime at sea and he was covered in all the baubles and trinkets of a superstitious sailor. The tip of his cigar that he held tight in his teeth glowed red through the haze of light rain still falling. He stood at the dock, waiting patiently. All around the dock lifeboats floated, sailors sitting patiently at the oars, one of the men gripping the large posts to stop them from floating away. Their faces were gaunt, their clothes worn by sea spray and their skin decorated with tattoos and brandings. Orsis walked quietly down the dock while his guards began to unload the wagons.

        “Good evening.” Captain Murdog said in his deep gruff baritone, a result of too much tobacco smoking.

“Good even Captain.”

        “The usual I presume?” He said, sliding a small black chest across the dock towards Orsis with his foot.

        “And a bonus.” Orsis said, waving Pierre forward. Pierre hauled Arcadia off the horse’s back and swung her over his shoulder, grunting in pain but ignoring it as he approached his master.

        Captain Murdog eyed them through his cold black pupils, “Why?” He asked.

“She got in my way. She likes to play games this one and I’m afraid this time, she lost.”

        “Very well. Throw her in.”

Arcadia was lowered over the edge of the dock to a boat down below. All around her guards were packing unconscious men, woman and children slung over their shoulders and lowering them into the boats below; though none of the peasants had been so lucky as to be drugged into a dreamless sleep. Instead they all bore the bruises, cuts and bloody faces of one who has recently had their head smashed in. The sailors grabbed them and laid them down in the small puddle of salt water and one by one the boats rowed off into the darkness.

        Only Captain Murdog remained, his own personal boat waiting for him.

“Pleasure doing business with you m’Lord.” He said, tipping his black tricorne. Orsis turned as two guards lifted up the chest and began walking back to the shores of the city as Captain Murdog climbed down into the rickety rowboat to sail for warmer waters.

 

Arcadia was brought back to the present by an arm on her shoulder. Years of honing her instincts and reflexes caused her to turn quickly, her arm rising into the air to both block an incoming attack and also instantly pin the hand of whoever her attacker was to his chest, her other hand withdrew her dagger and just as recognition set in she slowed down enough to hold the sword to Syvan’s rib cage. Their eyes met for a moment, the dangerous light in Arcadia’s eyes dimming quickly with realization just as fear began to set into Syvan’s. She quickly sheathed her dagger and stepped back, releasing Syvan’s arm.

        “I’m sorry. You startled me.” She said. Syvan could only nod in response.

“Come, Arcadia. We’re almost home. Only another couple of hours.” Arianna said, rushing in to quell whatever emotions were raging across her sibling’s minds.

        “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Arcadia said, stepping back further before whipping around and continuing off down the street only this time at an even faster pace.

“She’s been through a lot.” Arianna said, touching Syvan gingerly on the arm, taking his attention away from Arcadia and onto her.

        “Really? I wouldn’t know. She won’t tell us.” He said, his passive aggressive tone causing Arianna to flinch. He wrenched his arm from her grasp and stormed off. He knew he shouldn’t have taken it out on Arianna but after five years of searching for his youngest sister he had thought she would be grateful. Instead he found he had rescued a stranger.

Reviews

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Interesting concepts introduced, but too sparse amongst the heavy description used. Basically, I think the first chapter can be cut 30-40% and still retain all its meaning. Doing this keeps the reader's eyes on the page.

"Reaching down he gripped the arrow. Her eyes flew to lock with his but the man standing over her was a stranger and felt no sympathy for the pain he was about to inflict. Unhesitatingly he yanked the arrow from her chest and as he did so, she gurgled in pain, blood spilling forth from her mouth."

can be edited into;

"He gripped the arrow. His unfamiliar eyes were hard, showing no sympathy. He pulled, and the arrow gave, slipping from her gut. A pained cough sent bloody dribble down her chin."