| Subject: Here's a part of my story i'm working on....If people like it, I can continue it...Comments would be nice too, I like improving my work...Thanks for looking. |
Author:
Sekin Brightfall
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Date Posted: 21:30:30 10/13/03 Mon
That stomach wrenching feeling of pure terror, that twists the gut inside out, that makes the heart beat with a renewed ferocity, would have engulfed any other person when their eyes caught sight of the fearsome spectacle in front. Their pulse would have quickened, like the pounding of an interior drum, the blood would have rushed to their ears and roared like a raging river, and their palms would have been coated with a sheen of sweat, that glistened in the sun like so many bright jewels. But Fyrth wasn’t any other person and not a flicker of emotion crossed his face as he stared ahead of him, his eyes unnaturally distant and vague.
Any other person would have dropped to their knees and grovel in the red dust for mercy, their tears leaking out to splatter the road like drops of rain. No one, would have ever thought to draw a weapon, an open gesture of defiance would have sent you crashing to the earth dead, before you could blink. But Fyrth wasn’t intimidated. Standing there, as casually as if he was talking to a friend, his black cloak whipping around him in the wind, Fyrth drew from his waist, a single long dagger. From inside that feared ring of black clad horsemen, he waited, the blade held loosely in his hand, almost as if he didn’t really need it.
But the strangest thing of all was that there came no sudden flash of fire, no twanging of crossbow strings. Just silence. The sun beat down on the intimidating sight. Sixteen black clad horsemen, on their black steeds, sitting as still as the mountain behind them, surrounding a single man in a wall of darkness. Their fearsome gauntleted hands that clasped the reins tightly, the black hoods drawn up over their faces, their shiny, dark eyes blazing like coals in the black furnaces of their faces. They stood so still; they could have been mistaken as statues to some dark god, even their black horses didn’t shift even the slightest inch under the heavy saddles or the cruel bits tugging at their mouths.
The scene was so unusual, so fearsomely intimidating that had anyone been traveling down that dusty road, with the sun on their face like a great eye, they would have been riveted to the spot as well, another unmoving statue to the collection.
Fyrth made no move to sheathe his blade, yet the way he stood, weapon held loosely in lifeless fingers, eyes hooded and unfixed, and a black boot, kicking at the dust on the ground, showed that he was relaxed and at ease in the presence of these dark horsemen. Fyrth wasn’t an ordinary person.
Suddenly, through the thick waves of heat and silence came a sound that sent birds flying from the withered trees, by the road’s side. The dull, muffled pounding of a horse’s hooves. And still neither Fyrth or the sixteen present horsemen moved a muscle. A stream of dust became visible through the shining, dancing heat waves, like the wings of some monstrous bird, spreading out to graze the sky. At its head rode another dark man, the legs of his steed reaching out in front to bite at the earth, then coming swiftly underneath it propelling it on. The man on top of the high black saddle sat immobile, one hand clutching the reins in tight, unyielding fingers, the other hand at his side, clasping something in his belt. On his head was a black circle of steel which caught the light of the sun on it’s jagged points, dulling it, as it played on the metal. The fearsome, twisted crown caught the light and tainted it dark, letting it dance through the width of the circle, making it glow like some sickly wheel of fire.
The muscles of the horse stretched and bunched under the black coat, glistening with a sheen of sweat. Its nostrils flared wide, showing the bright red, and its eyes were gleaming with the light of the sun. Its teeth bared against the bit, its mane streaming out like a wave of black, the horse carried its impressive rider forward with unrivaled speed, which sent the dust surging up like the jaws of some giant beast, snapping at the dark horseman.
Fyrth’s distant eyes flicked to the approaching rider and for a second, they gleamed like an earthbound star, as if a shutter behind his face had opened and light and emotion danced in his eyes. But only for a second. Then they clouded over once again, dull and lifeless, like a dead creature. The shutters had swung close once more.
The horseman raced towards the circle of its fellow riders, his un-hooded face reflecting the light wavering up and down his black steed’s shining coat. When he approached the circle of immobile riders, he reined his snorting horse to a halt so suddenly that the creature’s haunches came under it and its forelegs pawed at the air fiercely.
It managed to come to a halt and the rider, unfazed calmly let go of the reins and slowly, swing down out of the saddle, his black cape whipping around him in the wind. His black booted feet hit the ground simultaneously with a sudden thud, which cut through the restored silence like the blade of a knife.
For the first time, the hooded riders who surrounded Fyrth moved. Everyone one of them flinched suddenly when the thud cut through the air. Fyrth didn’t bat an eyelid. His gaze was fixed on the new horseman, but his eyes were once again hooded and dull, and not a flicker of emotion crossed his empty face.
The horseman turned from his horse and suddenly locked eyes with Fyrth and immediately, there was a tension in the air, stronger than any felt so far. It was as if two storms were about to come together in a clash of thunder and lightning. Without unlocking his eyes from Fyrth, the crowned man strode forwards, placing first one black boot in front of him, then the other with a dreadful purpose and menace.
He was unnaturally tall and he carried himself in such a way that there was a hidden danger that cloaked itself around him, a hint of unchallenged wrath and deadly menace. He strode slowly forwards, his dark eyes digging deep into Fyrth’s with a furious energy that would have caused any other person to writhe on their stomachs in the dirt, begging for forgiveness. But Fyrth was different, straightening up, he clasped his dagger just a little tighter, entwining his fingers around the blade as if it was part of him and his boot stopped kicking at the dirt.
The crowned man came to a halt in front of Fyrth, not more than two feet away and his left hand which had been at his side the entire time, clasping some hidden object, suddenly drew from its sheath, a long, keen sword. The light glimmered off the point and ran up and down its length like bright little rivers and Fyrth’s eyes suddenly darted to it, as if drawn by the wonderful dancing, leaping patterns of light. The crowned figure’s eyes never left Fyrth’s face as he spoke. His voice was soft and hardly more than a whisper, but everyone in the circle, all the dark horsemen and Fyrth could hear every single word. And there was an edge of malice that tinged and fouled each word that came out of his mouth, as if they were unclean and soiled just from him speaking them.
“Look who we have here!” Fyrth’s eyes shot back to the crowned man in front and his only sign of emotion, was to narrow them in hate. The man laughed quietly and sickly, his body shaking slightly. “Ah, Fyrth. Ran out of places to hide have we? Or are you just getting rusty? Either way, we’ve finally got you Fyrth. Dama'zark shall be pleased.”
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