Scraps

 

Gnarthok sat in the small hidden library, deep within the castle. The walls of books surrounding him filled the room with a smell tinged with mold and decay. The dimly lit area was barely large enough to fit the long wooden table and ragged chair at the center. He was focusing his thought on the book in front of him, the one referring to the scroll.

 

Farran drank his wheatwine and thought of what was happening to the kingdom. The king he remembered, cared for his people, and now he was ignoring even the simplest of requests. A few men who had asked for things that were trivial, were imprisoned and executed.

 

Carakas wondered what Drathir was hiding from him. He tried to pry his knowledge from Elota, but she always turned him away. Here they were, traveling to Blackwyn, and he had no idea why. It was a long journey and they had taken few stops. After having seen Goldpine’s destruction, Carakas had become suspicious that this wasn’t just in pursuit of the king’s warriors. Something had urged the Murdans to slaughter the coastal village. These warriors were violent, but always with purpose.

 

“But, my Lord!” Farran pleaded with the enraged king. “I assure you, it is true!”

Malvarius wanted not to listen to such treacherous words. “I trust my advisor more than I trust you, Farran!” He stood above the kneeling warrior. “He has never led me astray before, why would he start now, as I am coming to my end?”

 

Elota cut open a fish they had caught in the nearby river, and began gutting it. They had nothing better to do than lie in wait, collecting news from Neralla of the Layrik army’s pursuit. Hopefully Sarithe wouldn’t make it this far, the army should be reaching the Murdans soon. She slapped the clean fish onto the hot coals and glanced over at Carakas. He had been quiet since they returned, and a few times he slipped into the town thinking no one had seen him. She assumed he had been getting his fill of vice, always returning with a bottle of strong ale and at least one pouch of delirium dust.

 

Sarithe stood before his men, his face distorted into a smile. “This Thalan knows the scrolls location.”

She knelt before the horde of Murdan, staring down at the grass beneath her.

 

The Murdan army came to a halt as they saw the scout come over the ridge. At first he had seemed to be fine. But on closer inspection, they noticed the helm strapped to his shoulders was hollow. Sarithe motioned to a man beside him and the man galloped to meet the headless scout. He caught the horse by the reigns and ushered it towards Sarithe.

No note had been attached to the scout’s chest as most did in situations like this. Instead, there was a strange symbol painted on the shield strapped to the scout’s back. It was the Layrik army’s insignia.

 

Farran walked along the darkened road, heading west out of Linbourne. Eyes followed him as he passed grimy-covered peasants. After years of comfort among his fellow Murdans, he found himself leaving Linbourne for the first time in years. The thought of being alone sent a wave of misery through him. Despite how horrible his cohorts had been, they still kept him company. He had thought of himself as alone then, but this was much deeper. He thought of his long passed wife and how they would talk through the night. It sent him even deeper into the sadness enveloping him. Get a grip on yourself, Farran!  He though and shook the thoughts from his mind, trying to envision the positive of his situation.

He had no destination now and, for the first time, was elated at the though. He could finally be his own man and not a blind follower. No more tactics to devise that drained his mind or rigorous training that drained his body. He could relax for the first time in decades.

 

 

 

Author's Note

These are scraps that I really like from before I scrapped The King. They are in the order they would have appeared in the book.