None shall pass…

Ok… this will be in English since the design competition based upon this passage from the “Half King” short story is open to international contestants…

So what follows is the very first public excerpt from the story. Revealing it is scary because:

(a) I am but a happy amateur and
(b) this passage has caused me particular grief over the last couple of months.

Feel free to ask questions or comment on it.

————– None Shall Pass ———– Excerpt from  “The Half King” —————

An ambitious morning sun stung the saturated soil of the plain to tears.The firstborn son of the Ancient King emerged out of the resulting, drifting mist. I studied him and his men with a mixture of fear and awe. The Fist of Brno was easily two heads taller than I. His face was flat but otherwise unremarkable. Just like his worn rider’s outfit. Large chestnut eyes surveyed the surroundings from under massive eyebrows that matched great locks of darkish hair cloaking a bull-sized neck. For a moment his sweeping gazed locked on to me. I imagined it lingering just long enough for him to memorize my traits.

The Fist approached the makeshift bridge, were the four of us waited, with a sense of carelessness about him that I found unnerving. He stood in front of the largest rebellion ever to threaten his father’s domains yet hadn’t even bothered to wear something official. A sign of arrogance. Or a sign that he hadn’t come here to talk and felt it would be a shame to stain a nicer shirt.

On either side of the Fist, whose name was Vlak, rode two bearded men of the Eastern Feld. Gray furs hung casually from their shoulders. My eyes did not rest on the northern traitors for long though. Out of the veils of vapor that rose fom the ground like the smoke from a burned out pyre, strode something that almost turned my stomach.

I have found myself facing full grown mud bears on several occasions. Their drowsy gaze fixing on me with an unpredictable ferocity tough to withstand. You are not their prey. They are not yours. Yet in amongst the berry rich patches of the Mistborn Ranges, their hungered minds sometimes taste the blood of the fleeing. The rocky outcroppings of the foothills are strewn with bones from passing traders who’ve lost limbs and their lives because they lost their nerves.

I have always held my ground against the cold stare of the bears’ sunken eyes. Yet now, my body vibrated. My muscles urged me to escape from the source of the terror that seeped into my bloodstream. The malice that radiated from these creatures, these beasts that strode onto open ground on large armored paws the size of my shield, shocked my mind.

I heard myself gasp. As much from surprise as from lack of breath. I had never faced a Raun before, and as I forced myself to study the abominations, I realized that all the paintings I had seen, and all the stories that had found their way past my ears had all failed to capture the essence of the Rauns.

They were easily a full stride longer than an adult mud bear. And half a stride wider. Their bodies was more massive, but also leaner. Where mud bears fur was dusty gray, the Rauns’ were pale white. Like the color or corpses. They had shorter snouts and broader skulls that were jagged, bulky, wrong. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to them.Something oozed and dripped from their restless, fang-riddled jaws. Growls lumbered in their throats eager to grow into roars. Their legs and paws were armored with plating. Their lower backs were covered with a chain mail lattice that would take the worst of any sword blow.

But it was their eyes that made my hand instinctively go to the hilt of my sword, my body to brace and my mind to wish desperately for the sound of retreat. Through their icy blue depths of the Rauns’ irises, their tormented souls shrieked at me. Only now did I truly grasp why the legacy of the Rauns was drenched in so much blood and rage. What being forever shackled in a transmuted state that nature only intended to last during the last violent days of their lives, did to them. Their minds, born to roam free in the mountain forests of Brno, now trapped, imprisoned and plagued. Their bodies molded into servants of Brno and its wars. Their instinct to kill, maim and breed subdued. Stored. For times like this.

Beyond the icy stare of those blue eyes I felt the hatred. For me, for itself. For everyone. But most of all for its gaoler who sat in a saddle behind the hump on it’s back effortlessly controlling the reigns. Reigns made of gilded chains grown into the base of the Rauns’ necks.

“Don’t stare at them Jurij,” whispered Lajko from my left. “There is only despair to be found in the well of those souls.” He was constantly patting his restless steed. I could feel the tremors spreading under my own stirrups, and followed his example. Then I did what my friend suggested and tore my eyes away from the ghastly creatures. Instead I shifted my focus onto the two men mounted on them.

The Raun Riders wore ornate, studded leather jerkins with raised necks. They were inlaid with threads of silver and embedded with precious stones. Metal plated boots kept the riders safely in their saddles. One rider had a neatly trimmed beard, the other was utterly hairless.

“Raun riders,” Lajko proclaimed with a hint of revelation in his voice. “The pride of the High Fist’s army. “It’s rare to see them journey this far from Brno. Most succumb to the wrath of the Rauns before they reach their destination.”

The fist of Brno came to a halt on the bridge less than ten strides away. His Northern allies spread out behind him. The Rauns held their heads low against the ground as they lumbered forward and came to a joint halt at the foot of the bridge. A cloud of moisture spurted from their nostrils as they protested feebly every command. The flooded, man-made ditch underneath stretched from horizon to horizon in an unnaturally straight line.

Staffos turned towards me and grabbed hold of my shoulder. His grip made me cringe a little. I couldn’t help it. Our leader was so intense.

Jurij my friend,“ he whispered. “It falls on you to make sure the world forever remember this faithful day.”

I nodded, but Staffos wasn’t satisfied. “Today you fight not with your sword and your shield. Today you fight with your quill and your pen.”
I nodded once more and took a deep breath. Spilling blood I was getting used to, but the thought of spilling ink frightened me still.

————– None Shall Pass ———– Excerpt from  “The Half King” —————

Dela med dig:

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