wowzer77

EDIT: I MEANT KINGSTAD, NOT KARLSTAD (a town in sweden) This is my first work to be posted on the forums. I've been pretty inactive here lately because of so much going on, but I will be here frequently now, and will be posting a few chapters of this book within the next months. Tell me if you are able to predict what happens, or guess at it, because if someone guesses easily why Eric is in this predicament, I'm going to need to make it less obvious. I have almost the whole book planned out for storyline. The setting is complete fantasy, but resembles a Scandinavian area. If Kingstad is a real town already tell me. I hope for some advice, and any mistakes you see, please point out?







The mind of an animal accepts all that is put before it automatically for what it sees—a piece of meat is a piece of meat, until halfway through the meal a cage falls from above—for it cannot comprehend anything further. Eric Skyler Munin, however, was no animal. No, he was either blessed or cursed with the human mind: always curious, thinking of all possibilities, wondering, and even compassionate, albeit naturally evil. Evil was a far off thing for Eric though, and his life was almost devoid of it. There were no thieves in Kingstad, no murderers or rapists, just the friendly townsfolk, a few stray dogs, and the imperial guards who kept order in a place where order would have been kept anyways. Smoke rose out of every chimney, and bright light shone from every window. The oil lamps kept the town streets bright at night and chased off the winter chill. People were always feasting with their families and friends and talking about days gone by or yet to come. In short, it was about as close to being perfect as a town could get—and despite the almost constant winter climate, it was never truly cold in Kingstad.

Book 1. A Man in the Empty


I


Eric woke up coughing and shivering. He was dreaming, but could not remember what about. Where was he? He felt dirt under his hands and moved them to his lap. He was sitting in some sort of rock enclosure—a small cave? No, his back was resting against a solid wall and he could see and feel the gray light of morning on his face. He moved around a little and found himself very sore. Slowly he made his way out of what was now clearly a small cavity or nook in a rock face. As he looked about he noticed the tall snowcapped peaks rising about him on all sides. Where?He made an attempt to stand and, after leaning against the rock for support, succeeded and looked about him once more. Suddenly his heart jumped as he looked down and noticed he was on the narrow edge of a tall cliff. His first reaction led him to sit back down and he inched toward the edge on his knees and tried to observe what lay below. About two hundred feet down lay a vast stretch of forest that covered the base of the mountains and kept going as far as the eye could see over hills and through valleys. He was in the wilderness it seemed. But how did he get out here? Looking to his left, he decided what he would do next. The cliff-side he stood on stretched to the left and slowly descended downward, the ridgeline providing some sort of path to walk on that, though narrow, seemed a much better idea than scaling the rock downward into the trees. Although it was summer, it was unpleasantly cold at this high of an altitude and Eric was shivering inside his light clothing, which consisted only of a pair of pants, a gray tunic, and a cape with a hood—all made of thin fabric to suit the season. As the path curved with the side of the mountain and trees began to appear along it, Eric tried to remember what had befallen him. He knew his name and he knew he was from Kingstad. He could recall no more and still had no idea how he came to be where he was. Where he would go was not an issue now; he just wanted to climb down a ways and maybe circle the mountain to see what was on the other side. He knew it was very early morning, for although a thin layer of stratus covered the sky, blocking out the sun, he could sense it in everything else: the way the animals were behaving, the wetness of dew the ground, all were signs.
At one point, Eric felt dust and a few pebbles fall away from above him and he looked up, brushing the dark brown hair from his face and squinting to see what had caused the ruckus. It must have been some animal, he thought, and he continued on his way, the event fading into memory.
The trail wound along the mountainside for miles, and hours began to pass. Eric looked all around him and still all he could see were more mountains and trees. He would need a way to go once he got into the forest, he now thought. He would need a destination. He would circle the mountain as far as the side opposite where he woke and try and find a high place to see from. Walking as far took him until noon, and the pain in his muscles was growing more intense. He broke off onto a different trail and walked the remaining distance slowly, the path staying relatively level about ninety feet above the mountain’s base. For a while the forest lay hidden from view, and he was walking through a maze of boulders, trying to stay somewhat close to the edge and minding his step. Once he slipped and almost fell his length, stepping on a rock he thought would be sturdy that gave way under his weight and tipped to the side. It was only a few minutes after that he found what he was looking for. A small portion of the ridgeline path stuck out over the wilderness below, jutting out and slightly upward, a small pine tree growing crookedly at its tip. Eric would walk out and take a look at the land from this side. As he made his way, gathering his cape about him like a cloak for a little warmth, he could make out some kind of animal in the bent tree and started in surprise. It was bigger than a squirrel, and all black so he couldn’t make out its features. Did it have fur? Where were its eyes? Suddenly it moved, causing him to take an unsure step back. Maybe it had a nest and young ones and was being protective? He squinted and tried to make out features, and it leaped with incredible speed over the edge of the cliff, disappearing into the chasm below. Eric’s shock brought him quickly to the edge and he peered over, but could see nothing of the animal. Poor thing got scared and jumped, he thought to himself.
It was then that his eyes wandered upward toward the horizon and he spotted it. Kingstad. Home, he knew. And it was no more than seven miles away, the forest filling in the space between it and the cliff he stood on. More mountains rose on his right and left, and continued their path on both sides, eventually to border the east and west ends of the town. Beyond this was the sea, which could be seen glittering in the distance. Eric was relieved knowing that by whatever circumstances he was brought into the mountains, he was in familiar territory and could make it home easily before dark.
In a few minutes, he found a rough path leading into the forest below and started off. As he descended, he noticed that the woodland animals were up and about, scurrying this way and that, and that there were many birds flying among the treetops which he did not recall noticing from his former view on the high rocks. It was warmer the farther he walked, and soon some comfort was restored to him, and he forgot about his aching muscles. No wonder they are strained, he reasoned, I must have slept a good while in that horrible position among the rocks.

Time passed, and Eric started to feel uneasy. One or two times he glanced behind him thinking to find someone there and found nothing. As he neared town, he started to sweat and feel nervous; he did not know the reason for his feeling this way, yet the unnerving sensation that he was walking, indeed not toward home, but toward a long hated enemy persisted. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his tunic and tried to regain his composure. When he got back, he assured himself, he would cook a meal and sleep, hoping to regain some memory of what had befallen him the night before, and all would be well.
A few hours and the trees broke before Eric, revealing to him the familiar sight of the cobblestone road emerging out of the Kingstad Gate and branching left, to the east. Between he and the road lay a dozen or so yards of cleared forest, and he walked through this toward the gate briskly. Strange as it was, he could recall no specific citizen of Kingstad. He had faint memories of talking to people in town, and knew where his house was, yet no certain friend or neighbor came to mind. By now it was afternoon, the clouds brooding heavily above promising rain or hail. Eric felt that he was about to walk into a dungeon he would never be able to escape, yet knew—or thought—that it was all in his mind and he must get home. Besides, he needed to get inside before the storm started.
As a drought only hastens the already starving man to his already foreseen, but now apparently sooner than originally predicted death, so this storm quickened the already quick pace of Eric into Kingstad and whatever lay beyond. He felt as though he was a man with the fever being nudged coincidentally by a random harsh wind that extra few feet over the edge of a cliff.
The great gates stood, one of the huge doors barely ajar. A sense of emptiness filled Eric, who was puzzled, a man usually having to identify himself or be recognized by one of the gate guards—there were none—before entering town. He hesitantly opened the door an extra few feet using all his strength, which he didn’t have much left of, and walked slowly through.
Like a husband who walks from his job back home, anxious to see his family and all that he has worked for and earned, arrives to see the windows all shattered and the door open, and later the dead bodies of his family lying bloody in the living room, Eric was suddenly taken into a place of dread. Immediately, without any examination or observation of the area he stepped into, which happened to be a portion of the main street set in the residential district of Kingstad, he knew something—nay, everything—was wrong. Everything lay wrapped in silent darkness. Not a torch was lit, not a fire burning, not a child playing in the road, not a town crier shouting, not a woman gossiping. Everything was a dull gray or brown. Even the greenery and flowers on the porches seemed somber and ugly. Suddenly a sharp gust of wind came whistling from a nearby back alley, causing him to gather his cape about him in a futile attempt to stop from shivering. Freezing. The air was colder than in the mountains, he noted. The distant flag atop the capitol was whipping, contorting the imperial symbol of two white horses causing them to appear as though they were galloping, trying to escape their small cloth cage.
Eyes wandering directly down from the distant flag and onto the street in front of him, he noticed something else. How had he not seen it before? He was slightly startled, but his first instincts told him to stay still. About twelve yards away, growling and foaming at the mouth, standing tense and looking as though it was about to strike at any moment, was a large jet-black dog.

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The Cold in Kingstad--Ch.1-2-3

jrudder

Ooh, very nice! Bravo. I enjoyed this piece. Nice descriptions, and good foreshadowing of the end of the chapter with the various allusions to stuff like enemies and dread. Very good. Nice similies and metaphors as well. I did notice, however, that some of your sentences seemed too drawn-out. I'm a big fan of compound-complex sentences, but yours seem maybe a bit too long. Shorten some of them down, not most, just a few.

As to your request, I'd like to say that I have absolutely no idea why he's in this predicament, and you did a good job of concealing whatever is going to happen. Looking forward to the next part.

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Rudder

If I review yours, it'd be great if you review mine:

Death and Glory

wowzer77

Wow, to tell you the truth I wasn't expecting such good feedback. Thank you very much!
I see what you mean about the sentences; reading over it proved a few of them difficult to understand. Again thanks.
Chapter two is in the works, but it is very long.

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The Cold in Kingstad--Ch.1-2-3