Fall of the Magician - Writers Forum

jetzeppelin · 07-19-2006, 01:22 PM

Give it a read, if you wish. Thanks!

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It was the end of the Synod Dynasty. The Three Kings of the east lay in watery graves and the great Magician had lost his power.

Sampus Hynydt was a young man at the time, and once drew no respect from his peers. But now the Scepter of the Aergoth lay in his grasp, and the world breathed a sigh of relief.

Sampus walked into the palace of the Magician, but the wicked sorcerer was nowhere to be found. Troops that once served the Magician’s will now ran in horror at the sight of the Great Rod within the grasp of Sampus’s bloody right hand. He walked into the throne room, a great sweeping corridor in which hang ancient paintings of the eons, and in which the Throne of the Friendly King sat. Sampus walked slowly, marveling at the histories of earth, many of which were unknown to men. The Magician had reigned over Dell for thousands of years, and revealed little to the people except for his wickedness and cruelty, never imparting good, or knowledge towards others.

He made his way slowly toward the Throne. Before it he felt as if he were an ant before a lion. He did not deserve to sit upon it. He held up the Scepter and marveled at it. He knew in his heart that it was his task to take the throne, for the spirits of the Aergothynyd of the pass filled his soul, leading him towards his destiny. Slowly and humbly he turned away from the Throne and sat upon it. As he did it felt as refreshed as if he had slept a thousand nights, and as if a mighty weight was lifted from his shoulders. His mind soon turned to darkness as he recalled the events of the past days…

Chapter I: The Green Sides

The country around the City of Magic was lush and beautiful, a stark contrast to the rocky barren land than lay all around its reaches. The evil of the Magician had corrupted the earth, and only by his filthy magics was he able to retain the beauty of the countryside around his domain. One would think it would be pleasing to walk through the grass again, breath the fresh aroma of the pines, or lap water from a clean spring. The Green Sides (as it was called by the men of the south) emanated raw, palpable evil. From afar it seemed beautiful, but once one was upon it, he would become nauseous at the sight of it. It all seemed so faux, so worthless. There was no aroma, no smell at all. It was as if they were walking through a quagmire, painted by some evil demon to look as if it were some beautiful realm.

To be CONTINUED…….!

Sparx · 07-19-2006, 03:52 PM

You definently got an imagination, i can see that through this piece. Your prologue was a little boring, it was just to telly and no dialogue what so ever. Unless it plays a crucial part in the understanding of the story, i think the prologue could be scrapped The beginning of the first chapter sounds interesting if not a bit wordy. I hope you post more later so we i can get to some dialgoue and characterizations. So far its pretty alright but not much to comment on.

jetzeppelin · 07-20-2006, 06:27 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Sparx

You definently got an imagination, i can see that through this piece. Your prologue was a little boring, it was just to telly and no dialogue what so ever. Unless it plays a crucial part in the understanding of the story, i think the prologue could be scrapped The beginning of the first chapter sounds interesting if not a bit wordy. I hope you post more later so we i can get to some dialgoue and characterizations. So far its pretty alright but not much to comment on.

Thanks for the crit.

jetzeppelin · 07-20-2006, 08:48 AM

Hynydt Sampus was but a Lieutenant in the Chieftain’s Army at the time, slightly above the serfs and peasants, but not quite a knight. Although there were no recorded genealogies, Sampus could remember his mother singing songs of the World Before, when the earth was free of the reign of the Magician. She was a midwife, and highly respected, though most regarded her as a madwoman. She would often tell of her lineage, and how she descended from the half-god Dynasty of the Friendly Home, the Destu Clan. She remained at peace, and unharmed, for none had such knowledge of medicines and herbs as she in the entire region. Sampus loved and cherished his mother, and grieved dearly at her death, but he had not the faith to believe what she told him. She told him that he would be king, in the line of Oriasol Destu himself.

Thoughts of his mother filled his head as he led his company through the sickening Green Sides. His mind was troubled, not by war, but by his mother’s words.

He led roughly a hundred men, most of which were poor farmers, blacksmiths or other destitute tradesmen. Although he was an officer, he held no less respect for the men who happily chose the path of death, than he did for Chieftain Tryon himself. He had found a fond partner in the likes of Chelrey Dyynhar, a poor blacksmith, and made him Sergeant of his company, second in command only to Sampus Himself.

“The going is easy still,” piped Dyynhar from behind, “yet this sickly yellow sun brings me much anguish.”

“Tell me that which I do not know,” Sampus replied, turning to smile back at his close friend.

“Another five leagues and we will be upon the walls of the Magic City itself,” Dyynhar said, with a deathly chill tone in his voice.

“And another day from now we will be feasting upon mutton and drinking beer while we sit upon the corpses of the Fiend King’s (as the Magician was also called) men.”

“I hope your words prove true sire, I certainly do. My deepest heart is troubled though sire, and this silence, this place, seems an evil portent in itself.”

“All that lies within the grasp of the Magician is evil,” replied Sampus, “Think fondly of the green fields, and pine forests of home, that which is real, and dear to us. Remember the place that still remains untouched by the Magician’s hand, and hold it close to your heart. That is why we go to die.”

“I would give a thousand lives in the richest of abodes to see one second of grief in the Fiend King’s eye,” spat the blacksmith.

“And I have no doubt you will fight with the lives of a thousand men. Peace, my brother, there shall be enough battle in the coming days to bloody a thousand lifetimes.”

Amid the silence a shrill bird call was heard. Immediately Sampus raised his right hand and called the company to a halt. He held out his right hand, palm facing the ground, to signal his men to stay low, and keep covered.

“What the devil?” snapped Dyynhar.

“The silence pervades this land, sergeant,” said Sampus, wisely, “I doubt that such a welcome sound is of the enemy.”

The call rang out again. It was a shrill high call, not unlike that of the hawks of the south. It seemed as music among the silence of the Green Sides, like a brightly lit lighthouse along a storm beaten and craggy coastline.

“We should be among ourselves sire,” said Dyynhar, “The army is not amassing for at least another two leagues.”

“Shhhhhh!,” snapped Sampus, “Silence is golden. Remain low and ready your swords.”

“What are you conspiring?”

“The sound comes from the north, and the walled city lies to the east. I must investigate.”

“No sire! Do not go alone!” begged the blacksmith, “Send me, or a squad of the peasants! We cannot afford to grieve over you!”

Sampus drew his long sword and gave Dyynhar a calm, peaceful glance, “My heart does not lie, and my heart tells me that this is no call of the enemy. Remain here with the men, I will return shortly. You have my word,” and with that he turned and ran northward, away from the path.

He had been running silently for some five minutes toward the direction of the bird call. His heart seemed lifted and his spirit seemed freed of his dark thoughts, for the moment at least.

His run was stopped by a low thhhwwwwt. He stopped, fortunately, just inches short of an arrow that lay impaled upon the ground. He knew it was no fortune that saved him, that the shot was only a warning.

“Identify yourself, South-man,” came a deep, thickly accented voice.

Sampus lay his sword on the ground and raised his hands to show that he, also, was no enemy.

“Lieutenant Hynydt Sampus, of the Chieftain’s Army,” he said loudly.

“Then you say to us that you are no enemy to the free peoples?” came the voice again.

“I say to you that I would rather lie dead in the grave than to turn away from a chance to destroy the Magician.”

Silently, almost magically, men started appearing from the surrounding forest. They were men of small stature, it seemed the tallest was a head shorter than Sampus himself. They were dressed in thick leather armor and wore hooded green mantles that drug along the ground.

“Then you are a friend,” came the voice from behind Sampus.

He turned to see one of them, his hood removed revealing a handsome face, marked by a sculpted jaw, high cheekbones and dark green eyes. His skin was fair, and his hair as dark as night.

“I am Tolon,” said the man, “My king, Autheliyus Tinimus the Second, heard word that the men of the South were to march bravely against the City of the Magician. He took no time in readying the Men of the Mountains. The King himself marches westward towards the city, with half our numbers, some forty-thousand.”

Sampus could hardly contain himself, “An army of eighty-thousand allies? This is welcome news indeed!”

Tolon nodded and smiled, “Yes forty-thousand come from the east, twenty-thousand from the south, and twenty-thousand from the west, following our path.”

“Perhaps the Magician will fall today after all,” said Sampus, “but I must ask. Who are you, Men of the Mountains, I dare not say heirs to the Aergothynyd?”

“Don’t be daft young one! The lineage of the Friendly Home is lost. Only when the Great Rod is acquired by the free peoples, will the House of Destu be restored. We are descendants of Tynuel, brother in law of Oriasol, a mere man who married his sister Tilina Destu. That is why we rightly call ourselves the Tyne, heirs of servant hood to the Clan Destu, and it is our reason for breathing, our purpose in this world, to see our Master’s house restored.”

The Tyne, Sampus was no stranger to the word. It was a common myth, a fairy tale one could say, that men of the mountains still dwelt freely above the influence of the Magician, some strange peoples who held allegiance to the Friendly Home.

“Tell me Tolon,” Sampus said, taking a deep breath, “Does Elothwun, the Friendly Home still stand upon Elias?”

Tolon’s countenance became grim with the mention of Elothwun.

“It grieves my heart to say, that it was destroyed the moment the Magician’s vile fingers grasped the Scepter of the Aergoth.”

Sampus frowned and turned his face toward the ground.

“Listen South-man,” said Tolon again, “it is not the time for grievances, but the time for battle. As long as the Great Rod remains on this earth, the lineage of Oriasol will not be destroyed, it is foretold by the Whistler, the messenger of the gods. Go now, return to your men, and tell them that they are not alone, that the mighty Tyne of the Mountains stand with them against the enemy of freedom.”

Sampus said nothing, too much was on his mind, and turned back southward, to give his men this joyous news.

TO BE CONTINUED.......!

jetzeppelin · 07-20-2006, 08:50 AM

Updated! Check It Out!

jetzeppelin · 07-21-2006, 08:47 AM

bump!

jetzeppelin · 03-20-2007, 11:41 AM

Onto the story:

"Before you leave South man," said Tolon from behind, "Remember this, that the Green Sides of the Magician are not devoid of life. You may yet face a worser enemy than the men of the Magician before you reach the walls."

Sampus nodded, and said nothing.

So much for celebrating, Sampus thought to himself, hopefully, news of the Tyne will lift the spirits of my men still.

Leaves and sticks and dirt passed swiftly beneath the feet of the lieutenant as he returned to his ranks. There Dyynhar eagerly awaited him.

"What goes lieutenant?" the sergeant asked, "Why did you leave?"

"You should trust me Dyynhar, when I speak to you," replied Sampus, "and also open your ears! If you had listened then you would know that I left in pursuit of what I thought was a welcome sound."

"A welcome sound? So a welcome sound gives you right to go tromping off through the Green Sides, leaving your column without so much as a decent squad leader!"

Sampus shook his head, "If you do not trust my judgement Sergeant, or my leadership, then you or any others out there that agree with you, have your leave, Captain Argus's company is five miles southward. He should welcome the likes of you!"

Dyynhar lowered his head, "Forgive me Sire, I forgot my place."

"Your place, free-man," Sampus said with a smile, "is not subservient. We all have our purposes, from the tiny bees that bring millions of flowers to bloom on the mountains in the spring, to the blacksmith forging blades, to the King commanding an empire. Each has there place. And no man should be above the other."

The men did not know what to think. Such behavior of a noble, much less an officer of the Chieftan's Army, was unheard of. For the most part the Dukai of the Southlands (some call it the "Duchy"), was and always had been run by land hungry warlords. For as long as anyone could remember, not since the days of the World Before, were the South-men ever truly free.

"You have our loyalty Sire," Dyynhar said as he began to kneel.

Sampus placed his hand on the blacksmiths shoulder and urged him up, "Do not kneel! And please enough with calling me sire. My name is Sampus."

For a few long seconds Sampus surveyed his column. One-hundred strong. It seemed as though they were but a drop of water in the mighty current, but in the minds of the the men, they lead the charge of a million soldiers.

"Sergeants call your ranks to attention!" Sampus cried out.

The cries of his sergeants rang out and the ranks snapped to attention.

The lieutenant looked across his ranks, catching the eyes of every man. They would, and were probably going to die, die for him.

"March!" he cried, at the top of his lungs. The men readied their shields and began to march. With that he turned away from his soldiers and laid his eyes upon the walls of the city.

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20 leagues South-east, the ranks of the Chieftain and his Warlords

War Chief Pinri looked across the frontlines of the Chieftans army. Thousands of spears gleamed in the sun. A prickly wall of iron and wood and flesh seemed to stretch out forever, east and west.

The sun was out and it was hot upon the Green Sides. The War Chief, clad in only sandals, a loincloth and a feathered Ancestral Mask, sweated none at all. If this battle could bring an end to the endless cycle of war and genocide for him, it would be sweet-release.

Pinri looked at his hands, stained with blood from years of slaughter. He often times questioned the motives of the Chieftain, but being the killer he was, Pinri was often apathetic about the politics of war these days. He was a killer. That's all he knew how to do.

"Pinri!" came a loud cry from behind.

There were grunts and clangs and many cries of "Gangway!" and "Make room!" as a behemoth of a man, entirely clad in armor from head to toe, made his way through the sea of soldiers.

Pinri turned to face the man, but gave no reply, he crossed his arms and waited.

"Pinri," the man bellowed, his voice vile and full of wickedness, "I see ye' haven't learned yer' place as of yet? Common swine!"

Pinri gave no reply, only looked at him from behind his feathered mask.
The man walked up to the War Chief, and towered over him like some darkened cloud.

"I'd love to see yer face behind that mask! I wanna' see the fear in yer' eyes, starin' a Warlord like me in the face!"

Pinri spoke none, only kept his arms crossed and waited.

"Whadderya' waitin' for swine? Speak when yer' spoken' too!"

"I will speak," Pinri said calmly, "When something of intelligence is to be spoken."

The Warlord stood silent for a few short seconds, and then with a cry of rage he drew his sword to cut the War Chief down.

There was a loud clang as the Warlord's greatsword struck other iron.

Now next to them there stood another Warlord, this one also clad in armor from head to toe, but lacking a helmet. His sword was drawn in front of Pinri's face, holding back the other warlord's sword, the blade of which sliced pieces of feathers off of the War Chief's mask.

"Craito, it wouldn't do for you to snuff out the Chieftain's number one killer would it?" said the other, a disgusting man with a weak face and boyish hair, "lucky I was here to save you eh, Chief Pinri?"

Pinri needed no help, ever.

The War Chief wavered not, and stood as if a statue in the shadow of Craito the Warlord.

"Talkus," Pinri said, turning his head slightly towards the other Warlord, "if you ever try to save me again, I will remove your head."

"But I-"

"With my hands," interrupted Pinri.

"The lit-ull man thinks he's got the stones enough to match the mighty warlords?" said Craito, drawing back his sword arm.

"Enough!" cried Talkus, "I'll not have Warlords and Warchiefs fighting over words and petty pride! Chieftain Royi wants words with all his generals, and it wouldn't do to have two of them killed before they could make it!"

TO BE CONTINUED!