Colossus Macabre.

[tyrant Lizard]

Hi all, I've attached the first chapter of a fantasy novel I'm writing at the moment. I'd love to hear what people think of it, if anyone gets a chance to read it. I've also attached a short story I wrote, which is about the time before a battle.

 

[Moraven]

a zip file? shady...any chance of an rtf?

 

[jenna]

Agreed. Not that I can open WPS files on my comp anyway.. You should just post the text into the body of your post, as is the common practice..

 

[Moraven]

I like that idea even better, jenna.

 

[tyrant Lizard]

Sorry about that. I'm new to this sort of thing. Didn't realise you could paste things on. I'll put the short story on here...

ON THIS HALLOWED EARTH.​

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The scout breasted the scorched rise, and drew himself to his full height, seeing for the first time the object of his master’s conquest.
They called it the Gateway to Doom, the Sundered Passage, and it was the only route through which an army could pass into the fertile richlands of the west. The scout caught his breath as he surveyed the rearing cliffs before him. Mountains loomed ominously, stretching north and south for as far as the eye could see, a natural barrier of solid granite that soared over a thousand feet high. And there, where two of the tallest mountains met, causing a crease to run down the face of the barrier, the Gateway nestled.
It was a sinister portal, carved from the rock face itself into thousands of screaming gargoyles. The gate proper was set into a deep recess, and stood twelve feet tall, ten feet wide, and six feet deep. Beyond that gate waited the Causeway Legions. They were the defenders of this passage, and were the reason that in its four thousand year history, the Gateway to Doom had never been breached.
The scout looked behind him, and saw the colossal dust cloud that was raised by the boots of his master’s host.
Tomorrow it would fall.
Nothing could stand against the master, or the hordes that he commanded.
The scout heard a sharp twang, and spun back towards the gate, fearing the worst. It had sounded like the snap of an arrow being loosed from a bow, but when he again saw the distance between him and said gate, he relaxed. It was over a mile away, and no arrow could make that dist-
He saw it an instant too late. The speeding shaft arced out of the sky like a bolt of lightning, and tore through his breastplate, knocking him to the ground. He had a moment to appreciate the distance that the arrow had travelled, and then an instant to awe at the sheer accuracy that such a shot portended, and then he breathed a rattling breath that was to be his last.


‘Remove that kerchief from your face,’ Bellushan grunted from across the chamber, his bearded face stern. ‘The plague that blighted this place has long since passed, and you are getting on my nerves.’
Kernon narrowed his eyes at the old sergeant major, but knew better than to rile him. He took the cloth away from his mouth and breathed in the fetid odour of the Chamber Behind the Gate. Here there had been a massacre, ten thousand Causeway Legionnaires slain as they awaited the armies of the Vampire King. Leaving no one to protect the western world from the raving horde save for the four men that remained.
Mind Rot had done to the Gateway what a thousand armies had failed to achieve. The dreaded plague had wormed its way into hold, and there it had spread like wild fire, laying low the great defenders before they had the chance to flee.
The corpses were there still, decomposing in their armour, scattered in every direction. The stench was most awful.
Kernon pocketed the old rag, and looked once more at Sergeant Major Bellushan. Here was the sole survivor of that cursed scourge. He lived on by stubbornness alone, and had refused to yield to the ferocious decease.
Bellushan must have felt his gaze, for he turned Kernon’s way, his blue eyes alight. ‘You plan on running now, boy?’ he asked.
Kernon met his gaze evenly. He wasn’t afraid of the grizzled soldier… he wasn’t afraid of anybody. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I expected a warmer welcome than this. But my orders still stand. I am to assist the defence of the Sundered Passage, and I will do that, Sergeant Major.’
‘We face the might of Argentantor,’ Bellushan said, an eyebrow raised. ‘You know what he brings at his heel?’
‘I am well aware. Now look me in the eye, and tell me if you see fear?’
Bellushan smiled, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. ‘No fear there, no. And no foolishness either. That makes you one of two things; a hero or a lunatic. Which is it?’
Kernon returned the smile. ‘I’ve been called both.’
The Sergeant Major nodded, and then hefted his axe and walked deeper into the cavern.
At that moment Barb came back through the open portal that led to the east. He held his ridiculously long bow in one hand, his white hair whipping passed his face. ‘They have arrived,’ he said simply.
‘You’ve seen them?’ Kernon asked.
‘I saw a scout,’ Barb replied, tapping the hundreds of arrows that wreathed his waist like a kilt. ‘He speaks with Grimm now. The host will not be far behind.’
Bellushan came back into the main cavern. ‘How many are they?’
Barb shrugged. ‘As I said, I never saw them, but I put ear to ground, and I tell you this; they are many. Over a hundred thousand.’
‘So, will you go back to your kingdom and tell them that the Vampire King has conquered the Gateway to Doom?’
‘He hasn’t conquered it yet, Bellushan. And while I live and breathe, conquer it, he will not.’
Kernon felt a thrill pass through him. There was a stalwartness to the cut of Barb’s figure that made the young man almost think that the legendary archer could actually make a difference.
‘Then we three will stand, at least,’ the Sergeant Major said.
‘Four. Four of us will stand against the tide.’
Bellushan, Barb, and Kernon all turned to look at the remaining figure in the cavern. He sat by the far wall, his forearms resting on his knees, his head down. When he looked up, it was not fear that showed on his brutal face, but impassiveness.
‘So you will abide with us, eh?’ Bellushan asked.
‘Yon two braves have been sent here to stand,’ the figure said, his voice impossibly deep. ‘And your duty is to do just so. I have also sworn to keep Argentantor on this side of the mountains. And I will do that. Ten thousand men would have aided in the struggle to come, but I will hold this passage alone if I must.’
Kernon looked at the seated figure. His name was Warmount Slaughterhand. He was the hybrid son of a Demon Prince and a Queen of Gods. If anyone could boast such a declaration and mean it, it was him.
Warmount rose to his feet, towering above the other three. His skin was red, his muscles mightier, and more defined, than those of any man. ‘They will sound for the parley soon. I will respond to their summons.’
‘Why you?’ asked Barb.
‘Because all men have heard of me. And all men fear me. My fury will be unleashed all the sooner if they break parley. In short, I will survive the meeting… you three will not.’
Kernon couldn’t fault the reasoning there. And he had no great desire to speak with the foe anyway.
Suddenly the cavern trembled as the blast of a mighty horn rocked the mountainside. It must have come through an instrument bigger than a barn - one toed in by a score of horses. It was a long, drawn-out noise, deep and painful.
The four looked at each other.
‘The Horn of Dal’Erazzar, Harbinger of Destruction.’ Barb’s grey eyes were thoughtful. ‘The revenant drags it at the fore of his invaders always. It is a pretext to gloom and tyranny, and has seen folk quake and despair.’
‘I see no quaking here, bowman,’ Bellushan said. ‘Yet it does signify his arrival. He is knocking on our door, so to speak.’
‘The let us go to greet him.’ Warmount strode towards the distant doorway, his blood red skin rippling. Kernon and the others followed.
The godling-demonspawn filled the arched hall, the great bat wings on his back almost touching the ceiling. As Kernon walked he surveyed his brethren; those men who had chosen to die here with him.
Barb - or Barbille de Bront, the Thunder Arrow, to use his full name - stood tall and proud, his back straight. He was of middling years, and was whip lean, with a thoughtful face and wiry limbs. Barb was the Supreme Champion of the Serane Empire, and had been sent here by the Borderland Ambassador to fulfil that capacity.
Sergeant Major Bellushan ambled toward the door with a slight limp. He was short, powerful, and extremely gruff. No one knew how old the soldier was, but it was reputed that he had commanded the Causeway Legions for over fifty years, and that gave rise to some people saying that he was one of the Undying. Kernon could well believe it… after all, no one else had prevailed through the Mind Rot, had they? The old man had survived countless assaults on his person, and was an unstoppable axe man, and a peerless leader. He wore heavy armour, and carried a hand axe at each hip, and a large battle axe in his gauntleted hands.
Kernon himself was sent here to assist with the defence of the Gateway. He was the Arch Warrior of the Kingdom of Hashanach, and wielded the Curse of Gah; one of the most powerful swords in all the land. He was experienced beyond his twenty five years, and had soul-shared with over a dozen of his predecessors, giving him insight and drive.
He had expected to find an army at his side here, but the Causeway Legion was finished, yet to let the host of the vampire through would mean to leave his own kingdom, and the lands of the whole Accord, open to assault from a devastating enemy.
Warmount strode from the Gateway, and soon enough Kernon followed him out into the fresh air. The sky was mauve, darkening towards dusk, and the four allies stood abreast of each other, beneath that glorious dome. Kernon was glad to be free of the stench of decay.
A thousand paces out, on Lookout Rise, stood the Vampire King’s Herald. And around that boar-headed monster stood a retinue of warriors and advisors. Thirty men there were, alongside the gigantic horn, all of them re-animated by their lord. The rest of the invading army was still hidden from view behind the rise, but the four defenders knew they were there.
‘There stands Savante Galagh the Gruesome,’ Barb said, his eyes narrow. ‘He is a peerless warrior, and knows no fear. Argentantor has sent him to buckle the resolve of the Legion.’
‘You seem to know much about the Vampire King and his army,’ Kernon ventured.
‘I have studied him somewhat. My people have lived in his shadow long enough to fear him.’
‘How will he attack us?’
Barb looked at Kernon a moment, then at Bellushan, then back to Kernon. ‘You have stood here before, young man. At the siege of the Frostlings, I heard, where you earned much repute. And again at the battle of the Blue Flag. So you should know almost as well as the Sergeant Major; there is only one way to attack the Sundered Passage. Argentantor’s war machines will count for nothing here. The Gateway is indestructible.’
‘They will come in a rush,’ Bellushan affirmed. ‘A rush that will continue until their spirit is broken, or the defenders have fallen. The Passage will funnel them to us. A bottleneck that will neutralize their numbers, and where we four will stand in their path.’
‘Yes,’ Kernon agreed. ‘If they breech the gate itself.’
‘They will,’ the old man said. ‘The gate was never designed to hold an army. The Gateway represents the bait for any general wishing to invade the West. If it wasn’t here, or if the Gateway was so powerful that nothing could destroy it, then another way would have to be found. With the Gateway here, and the gate vulnerable, it acts as a beacon for anyone seeking to cross the mountains.’
‘So we will face them man to man…’ Barb’s words hung in the breeze for a while.
‘I am not a man,’ Warmount needlessly decreed. ‘And neither is yon herald who calls us out. With him I will go and barter. He’ll give me terms for surrender, no doubt, and I will spit at his hoofed feet. I may tarnish my blades on the hillock, but I want you three to remain here. The enemy is nothing if not wise, and he may seek to storm the gate while it lies open.’
‘Are you going to fight Savante Galagh?’ Barb asked.
The giant hybrid shook his horned head. ‘No, I am not going to fight him. But on this day, an hour from now, he will lie dead at my feet if he angers me.’
‘He is fearsome,’ Barb warned.
Warmount looked down at him. ‘Even so.’
‘I can cover you from here if you like.’
‘No. Remain and witness. All of you witness.’
And with that, Warmount Slaughterhand began his slow walk towards the enemy herald.
Up on Lookout Rise the retinue had hoisted up their banners - grim designs of bones and shredded human skin - and sounded once more the Horn of Dal’Erazzar. The noise blasted across the landscape, causing Kernon and his two companions to cover their ears, but Warmount continued unfazed, striding slowly into the teeth of the horrendous bellow. The invaders seethed on the hill, fanning out as they saw the demon-god coming.
‘If he falls out there, we’ve lost our greatest asset,’ Bellushan rumbled. ‘Be ready to set into the Passage. We’ll bar the door and wedge it shut with our own dead. They’ll be tired when they reach us.’
‘I agree,’ Barb said. ‘Even Slaughterhand may struggle against the adversary he has set himself. And those in that retinue are no mere humans, either. And he doesn’t have any way to face them one at a time.’
‘We can only do as he has asked,’ Kernon said.
They watched as he marched slowly up the hill - painfully slowly. Each stride was measured and slow, each yard taken seemingly done with some sort of ritual care. Halfway up the hill Warmount withdrew his ancient weapon from its clasp on his broad back beneath his wings. It was called Shattenfane. A hell-made trident of chaos-steel, fifteen foot long.
‘Do you think he knows fear?’ Bellushan asked.
Barb shook his head. ‘His mother is Gracen. Fear is not in his blood. Anyhow, fear does none of us any good now. We will either live or die, it is as simple as that.’
They lapsed into silence and watched for half an hour as their comrade made his torturously slow way up the hill.


Savante Galagh also watched the towering form ascend the hill. He sat at ease on his podium, rock still, his eyes the only part of his body moving. His gaze traced the demon-god’s walk, and he growled deep in his chest. Some had said that Slaughterhand would stand with the Causeway Legions.
They had been correct.
But one man - demon-born or otherwise - would not make a difference to the final outcome. The Gateway to Doom would, for the first time, fall.
‘Spread out a little,’ Savante said, his voice a guttural snarl. ‘Give space for the abomination and myself to converse. He will hear our master’s terms of surrender, and if he refuses to yield the gate… we will destroy him.’
The men fanned out, spreading in a staggered manner so that they might all launch an attack on the infamous godling. They were hardy followers, these. Bloodsuckers, one and all. If Slaughterhand tried to impose his will on this hillock, he would fall like a mighty oak.
The red skinned warrior finally reached the rise, and there he stood, feet planted wide, mighty trident resting over one shoulder. His yellow eyes found only Savante, and they locked there, unmoving, and unmoved.
‘Have you come to parley?’ he asked. His voice was deeper, even, than Savante’s own.
The retinue bubbled around him, jostling, their hands on their ruinous weapons.
Savante inclined his head. ‘To offer my master’s terms of surrender. They are simple. You will make way for the Forces of Argentantor, rendering the Sundered Passage open to us. You know that a mere ten thousand men cannot resist our power - for there is nothing on this Globe that can - and if you do not yield, then you will be slain to a man… and reanimated as revenants. The choice is yours.’
Slaughterhand did not move. ‘Your calculations for world domination are incorrect,’ he said. ‘The Causeway Legion is no more. It has been wiped out by plague.’ He hiked a black-nailed thumb over his huge shoulder. ‘Yonder now stand only three champions. And with me, they stand alone. The Causeway Commandant, the Supreme Champion of the Serane Empire, and the Arch Warrior of the Kingdom of Hashanach. Stark resolve you will find in those three; they are certainly not men to whom surrender is commonplace. And I yield to no being. So if it is the Gateway to Doom that you desire, then by force it must be that you take it.’
Savante grinned, showing his tusks. ‘Four defenders? Four defenders against an army that has sacked cities, rained genocide down on a people, brought down empires? Four defenders, you say?’
‘Four.’
‘That is if I allow you to rejoin their ranks. There is no banner of truce snapping here.’ Savante stood to his full height, the podium creaking under him. ‘My retinue alone could take the Passage.’
Slaughterhand’s eyes narrowed to slits, and through clenched teeth he hissed, ‘Nay. By this declaration you have just doomed them all.’


From the Gateway, Kernon watched the proceedings with growing trepidation. He could see the shuffling of the thirty soldiers that surrounded Warmount, and knew enough about combat to see that they were itching to attack.
‘They’re going to jump him,’ Bellushan said, confirming Kernon’s fears.
Suddenly, with a bellow that was almost a match for the dreaded horn that had blighted the landscape, Warmount launched into an attack. He darted forth, his skin suddenly changing colour, going from deep red, to luminous white. As he sped for Savante the Gruesome, his skin took on the affect of the surface of the moon, and he cast shadows about him. In less than a second, the Herald of the Vampire King was hurled from his podium, smashed by a fearsome two-handed attack by the demon-god.
At once the vampiric retinue leaped to attack him, some of them arcing more than thirty feet through the air, weapons coming free from scabbards mid-air. Warmount’s trident was a blur as he spun, blocking and swiping. Five soldiers fell, coarse screams reaching the Gateway. The soldiers penned in around the giant figure, coming at him from all sides, but Warmount was unstoppable. He stormed through them like a scythe through wheat, Shattenfane hammering to and fro, hither and yon. In moments they were reduced to ten. And then, when those brave ten attacked, to three.
‘Never seen the likes of that,’ Sergeant Major Bellushan said.
Barb was shaking his head. ‘I neither. Each of those retinue soldiers is worth five normal men.’
Kernon could see that. He could see it from their stances, from their lack of fear, and from the speed and ferocity with which they attacked. But even the greatest champion would fall, if he stood facing a tidal wave. And so it was that these great warriors tumbled.
The last three attacked together, and died together. The first had his head swiped from his shoulders by the edged trident, the second was kicked to the ground, his head then crushed to mush beneath the mighty weight of the demon-god’s foot, and the third was skewered on the three-pronged spear, and lifted high until he was over twenty feet from the ground.
Warmount roared like a bear, shaking the trident with its still squirming captive. He looked over the rise, and could no doubt see the oncoming horde. He slammed Shattenfane to ground, and scraped the body from the end of the weapon.
A figure rose from the littering of corpses, in size a match for Warmount Slaughterhand.
‘Savante,’ Kernon said.
Suddenly Warmount took to wing, launching himself at the Herald in a blistering attack. So fast did he swoop, and so bright was his skin, that he looked like nothing so much as a falling star sweeping across the land. To his credit, Savante leapt at Warmount as he came, but he was caught on the end of that cursed weapon, and borne into the air. Up and up he went, a trail of whiteness behind him. Warmount kept climbing, higher and higher into the sky, until he was a mere dot in the emptiness above.
A bellow began, from far away, but it grew in volume by the second, getting louder and louder, and more desperate. In time it became a shriek, and then the hulking body of Savante Galagh hammered down onto Lookout Rise, crumpling the colossal bell of the Horn beneath his weight. His body splattered on the impact, and rolled of the destroyed bell more as slime than substance.
And then, as if from nowhere, Warmount alighted before them, his skin red once more. From him arose a pungent stench of brimstone. He was wounded by many cuts, but they seemed to faze him not at all.
‘How went the negotiations?’ Barb asked with a grin.
‘I think I got my point across,’ Warmount replied.
He looked each of them in the eye. ‘They are here, men. On the other side of the rise, an army bigger than any I have seen before. They bring beasts and machines, and creatures of wing and hoof. Their banners blot out the landscape behind them like a forest of human design. But take courage, for they must breach this tiny gate, and all their might and fury will be weakened. When they cross the rise into sight of us, let out the battle cries of your forefathers, and release the berserk fury in your hearts. They will not pass us. Today, on this hallowed earth, we will find out what happens when the irresistible force finally collides with the immoveable object.’
Kernon nodded his head, a stalwart stubbornness worming its way into his heart. ‘At our back now stands Grimm,’ he said. ‘Let’s give him his fill.’
Then, to the sound of a hundred marching drums, the first of the banners breasted the rise. It was a tall totem, T-shaped and sporting the corpses of many rotten men. As the defenders watched it was joined by another, and then another, and then another. The oncoming host loomed over the hill, spreading like a black stain across the horizon, thousands of standards flapping in the breeze. There were giants with them, and great lizards, and rocs the size of horses. The army kept coming, oozing down the hill like a river of slime. It reached a mile out to either side, curving around the Gateway, closing in the defenders.
And there on the hill, on a black steed twenty five hands tall, stood King Argentantor. His eyes locked on the Gate, and Warmount saw him. He roared his defiance, holding the trident aloft in one hand.
Kernon roared with him, and he saw Bellushan shaking his axes, spittle flying from his mouth as he cursed the invader. Barb notched an arrow, his eyes gleaming maniacally.
Up on the hill, Argentantor held up his sword, and the drum beat stopped.
With a rumble like thunder, the siege began.

 

[tyrant Lizard]

Here's the first chapter.

Colossus Macabre.​

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CHAPTER ONE.​

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Shallatan Pass, the Shelts, 3005 T.P.​

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The traveller looked to the face of his aggressor, judging him to be a threat instantaneously, and the mountain man stared back, his dark eyes bottomless. That he had somehow managed to get a drop on the traveller was a testimony to his skills at stalking in these climes. Blacklatty Fellstride was unused to being snuck up on. In fact, if he thought about it hard enough, he would realise that it had never happened to him before.
The mountain man stood his ground, his hard, grim face down-turned, his lank, stringy black hair hanging down past his shoulders. He cut some figure, that man. Tall and imposing, wrapped in thick furs and leathers, and brandishing a longbow with arrow notched. His blocky face spoke of brooking no argument - as far as he was concerned, this intruder would backtrack, and follow his own trail down the mountain, or he would be killed where he stood. But Blacklatty would not backtrack. He had an errand to run, and that errand took him through the Shallatan Pass. Going back would cost him weeks of soul destroying footwork.
‘I travel in peace,’ said Blacklatty, holding his gloved hands out to show that they were empty. His walking staff was already lying in the snow, the first demand of this northerner.
The mountain man didn’t move. ‘You have heard my say, lowlander,’ he said, his breath clouding, ‘and you have heard it well enough. Be off, or I’ll stick you like a hog.’
Blacklatty chanced a look around him. To either side snow-covered slopes reached up for the white sky, merging with the cloud line and mist. On the slope to the right sparse coniferous woodland broke the whiteout. Large lumps of snow fell, floating lazily around. The atmosphere was quiet, filled with the smell of snow and pine, and no wind rushed through that valley. There were just the two of them; a wanderer and a Sheltish hunter, surrounded by the peaks of Fullon Crag, Diashure Crag, and the Ridge of Viacso. They stood in the Valley of the Shallatan Heights, their only company sporadic batches of diehard evergreens - and it was from behind these snow-enshrouded trees that Blacklatty’s challenger had sprung.
The mountain men were a hardy breed, but this one was even tougher looking than most. And to go with his handsome yew bow, a sword of some girth was slung in a fur-covered sheath on his hip. Blacklatty would sooner not fight with this man. If he could word his way out of it, he most certainly would.
‘My business here is quite important, and I’d rather not make a foeman of you, sir. But I have to pass through… I have come to see the High Earth Mage. I have a package for him.’
The mountain man narrowed one eye, but his hands - bare, despite the snow and cold - never moved an inch. The arrow remained under the tension of the bow, ready to fly at an instant. And Blacklatty felt the barbed point of that arrow with his mind. Although they were some twenty paces from each other, he felt as if the arrow was pushing against his clothing. But he was not a man given to panic, and so panic he did not.
‘Would you yield your arrow? It is making me extremely nervous.’
The mountain man shook his grizzly head. ‘I would not. You trespass, lowlander. You may not pass this way. Such a thing is forbidden. Those of the cities bring nothing with them but trouble.’
‘But I am not of the cities. I am a traveller.’
‘You are of the cities,’ the bowman replied. ‘If you were as adverse in travelling as you claim, and are seeking an audience with Besselaw, you would have gone east, to the Pass Under the Glacier, or the Crimshank Pass. Those routes would have taken you to his tower… not this one.’
‘I have just come from the east,’ Blacklatty said. ‘And a hard trudge from there to here it was. Crimshank is partially blocked, as you well know. To risk traversing it now with the overhangs so precarious would be foolish. And I will not go beneath the glacier, sir. I thought to travel the extra leagues rather than chance that.’
‘Why? Are you afraid of the dark?’
Blacklatty smiled. He had expected such a remark. ‘I am afraid of nothing. But I know when it is best to trust one’s instincts. A couple of weeks ago I came across a trapper heading south for the winter. He was at the Crimshank Pass when the avalanches came and barely made it through with his life. When he turned west to take up the trail south, he found huge tracks in the snow. Being a trapper he followed said tracks, and they led him to the opening of the Pass Under the Glacier. And it was by that opening, he says, that he saw a Groll. He says the Groll went into the pass. He may have been right, he may have been wrong, but when I came to the opening, I had a dread feeling.’
‘There are no Grolls in these mountains.’
‘Supposedly there are none anywhere. But if they do still live, maybe this is something you should be speaking with your elders about.’
The mountain man screwed his face up, his beard bristling. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, lowlander. I wouldn’t worry my betters on the say so of some drunk trapper, or some lost travelling man.’
‘I am no more lost than he was drunk. I defied him when he told me, and you know what he did? He drew the symbol of the Wheel in the snow, stood in it, and then swore upon the Sacrifice of the Visionary that he spoke in truths. I do not take such oaths lightly.’
‘The Visionary means little to me. Groll or no Groll, you may not continue on your current course. There is a pass to the west that you can use… it runs out of our territory, and I care not who uses it.’
Blacklatty barked a laugh. ‘I’m sure you’d like for me to use that one. I’m sure of that indeed. But like I said to you before, I am far from lost, and know these mountains perhaps as well as you do. The pass you speak of is under the control of the Dark Folk, and although it is common knowledge that they have marched south, I would no sooner risk that than I would the glacial tube. They may have left men behind to keep their turf. And those buggers wouldn’t ask questions or make demands like you have, they’d just let fly and have done with it.’
‘Well if you don’t start your reversal, I will let fly. I mean it, this is your last chance.’
Blacklatty sighed. He couldn’t go back. The High Mage needed what he carried urgently. ‘I must push on, highlander,’ he said. ‘You have made your demands of me, and I hereby make mine of you. Step from my path, and let me alone. I will take this pass whether or not you like it. If you mean to shoot me, then try your luck, for I am a hard man to kill.’
‘I was going to take you in the heart, but now I think I’ll do for your stomach and leave you to freeze to death.’
‘I would shoot to kill if I were you,’ said Blacklatty, his eyes locked onto his captor’s. ‘Wing me or wound me, and I’ll still make it to you. And then you’ve got a problem. A big problem.’
He saw the mountain man’s eyes wander for the first time, taking in the intruder’s stance, his posture, his equipment, and his weapons. Blacklatty knew what he saw. A man armed with two swords, an array of knives, and a bow of his very own. And while Blacklatty Fellstride was not as tall as the mountain man, he was far from short, and he was of sturdy build. And now the mountain man saw not a target, but a opponent. And in that moment, he decided that there had been enough talk, and Blacklatty knew that he would either loose the shaft, or walk away.
A simple flaring of the nostrils told the traveller that he had chosen the former.
The bow twanged as the string thrummed forward, whipping against the mountain man’s wrist and shooting the arrow out in the blink of an eye. In the instant the bowman’s fingers straightened, Blacklatty folded to the left, his body propelled by his legs.
The arrow glanced from his shoulder before he’d hit the snow, and Blacklatty’s hands were already working. By the time his shoulder smashed into the ground, compressing the ankle-deep snow, he had already removed his gloves. He rolled to his knee, his right hand dropping to his side. He noticed bright blood staining the pure snow to his right, but didn’t spare it a second’s thought. The mountain man pulled another arrow from a quiver on his back, and notched it with galling efficiency, and as he was pulling the string back to his cheek again, Blacklatty whipped his hand forward, grunting with the effort of his throw.
The aim was true, and his throwing knife clattered into the bow. The tension the wood was under made it that much more delicate, and when the heavy blade hit it, the yew split down its length, snapping clean in half and causing the bowman to punch himself in the face. He grunted, looking down at the sundered bow in his hand in disbelief.
Blacklatty had chosen wood and not flesh as his target on instinct, for he reasoned that the mountain man would have still got his shot off no matter how badly he was wounded. The traveller was on his feet before his throwing arm had even returned to his body, powering forward through the spiralling snow, his hand going once more to his side. When he journeyed the wilds he had three knives belted at his right hip; one of those lay buried in the snow by the mountain man, and another was a survival knife used for skinning, filleting, and making fires. The last was what he reached for now. It was a dirk, and was good for only one thing - killing fellow men.
The mountain man saw him come, and with a flaying of his hair he tossed the ruined bow aside, and reached across with his left hand to grab the handle of his sword. Blacklatty shouted to distract him, hoping he could cover the ground between them and finish the fight before his enemy could even draw his weapon. These mountain men preferred to use axes, he knew, and were not great workers of steel, so when one saw a man in possession of a sword - especially a claymore like this - they knew that the wielder must be a man of standing. Blacklatty didn’t want to get into a drawn out fight with him. He wanted it over.
As he crashed through the snow, Blacklatty noticed the mountain man’s dark eyes widen in despair. He tugged at his sword but the whole scabbard shifted on his hip, jerking his body around. His head snapped up, taking in the form of the trespasser. Blacklatty’s heavy pack slid from his back, slamming into the snow, and his cloak lifted up behind him as he sprinted all the more.
He knew that the man’s hilt had frozen to the scabbard rim, and judged that a lack of swordsmanship on his foe’s part might well see him dead before any crossing of blades. The mountain man gripped the scabbard with his right hand and tugged the handle with his left, but as he closed, Blacklatty could see a layer of ice blending the hilt to the blade’s sheath. He pulled the dirk back, ready for the killing thrust.
They were almost together then, separated by mere feet, and Blacklatty felt that the mountain man would merely tug against the bonding of ice and frost until a killing strike brought him down. But at the last moment he turned, bringing his hands out in front of him and snarling like a bear. Blacklatty’s idea never faltered. He would just keep running and plunge the blade deep.
As he closed the gap, the mountain man stood his ground, neither advancing nor retreating, and Blacklatty made himself ready to avoid a left handed punch that he surmised would be the Sheltishman’s final defence. But still he didn’t move, and Blacklatty made it all the way to his target. He planted his left foot and rammed the dirk towards the fur-covered chest. Just as he thought he weapon was all the way home, he felt his wrist strike something hard, and then suddenly it was clamped.
The mountain man had made an X with his forearms and blocked the blow, and then he grabbed Blacklatty’s wrist with one hand and reached out with the other, twisting a bundle of clothes by the traveller’s throat. This close Blacklatty could smell the stench of animal fat that the mountain man used for insulation, and when he looked to the man’s face he saw a maniacal gleam in his eye. Blacklatty couldn’t move his knife hand, his foe was far too strong for any of that.
The traveller took pains to attempt a head butt, but before he managed to drive himself forward, the mountain man spun him about, hurling his body through the air like a sack of grain. He landed feet first, but the momentum of the throw caused him to barrel forward and he was forced to roll over on his shoulder. He came up at once and spun, flicking snow from his hair.
The mountain man was standing tall, side on to Blacklatty. Without taking his eyes from the quarry, the northerner thumped his fist down against the scabbard. Ice and snow exploded from the sheath and his leg, clouding around him like wood smoke. And then he drew forth the sword, angling it before him and aiming the point at his rival.
Blacklatty sized him up, watching as the lazy snowflakes fell about them. He was tall and rangy, and thus prone to a low attack. However, he had an extensive reach advantage. But at least now their pegs were level. There was no bow in this equation.
‘And so it comes to this, does it?’ Blacklatty said. ‘One of us is to perish in this valley, away from the eyes of all who know us?’
The mountain man nodded his head. ‘Aye. We dual to the death now, you and I. I will be satisfied will naught else.’
Blacklatty returned the nod. ‘So be it.’
He didn’t want to die in such a forlorn place, but it seemed combat was the only option available to him. He would not go back, and Blacklatty Fellstride did not beg. He reached his right hand up to grasp the hilt of his own claymore, which was strapped to his back. He had two swords, each to be used on separate occasions. At his hip was a short sword, a weapon he used in skirmishes involving a situation where he had fellows to consider. The sword was light and manoeuvrable, and could be manipulated with ease. It was a priceless weapon, having once belonged to the long dead warrior of the Time of Heroes, Anarchy Falls. But here Blacklatty chose not to use it. For although faster, it would not be a match for the power of the highlander’s cleaver, and it could be that if they went into combat thus, that both men would be killed; the mountain man by the thrust, and Blacklatty by the swing that he had gone inside.
So it was that he selected his own two-handed sword. It was slightly smaller than the Sheltishman’s, but the blade was made with the finest Sentorian steel, and was virtually unbreakable. The hilt of his sword angled forward making a large V around the bottom of his blade - if he could, he would use that V to trap the highlander’s blade. He gripped the sword by its leather-bound handle with two hands, taking note of the blood that was seeping through the many layers of clothing he wore on his right arm. The arrow had sliced deep, but not deep enough to disable.
Blacklatty drew in a deep breath, expending it in blast of cloudy steam, and then charged at the mountain man. No war cries came as the combatants met, the only sound was the crunching of snow and the sudden sharp clash of steel on steel. He knew the mountain man might prove troublesome, because he was a lefty, but Blacklatty had enough experience of swordsmanship to be able to deal with that. He had been a soldier in his youth, a mercenary after that, and a strongarm from time to time since then. He was no stranger to the fighting game.
They clashed blades five or six times and then Blacklatty went low, ducking a vicious swipe at his face. He hacked his claymore from right to left, and took the mountain man in the leg about halfway up the blade. The leverage wasn’t there to decapitate, but he felt something brake beneath his blade, and the mountain man cried out as his leg gave way on him. He toppled sideways, dropping his sword.
Blacklatty leapt across him, scooped up the sword and hurled it as far away as he could. And then he turned back, his eyes finding the stricken Sheltishman. The mountain man tried to rise, but his leg failed him again, and he slumped back, a grimace of pain on his face. Beneath him the snow was turning red, a steadily growing stain that was spreading outwards.
‘You’ve had your dual,’ Blacklatty said, bringing his sword down to point at the prone form.
‘Aye,’ replied the mountain man, still looking at his leg and holding it in both hands. ‘And I’ve been bested.’
‘Yes, you have. And I will carry on as I would have done had you not came along. You have slain yourself… why wouldn’t you just give me the road?’
‘I am sworn to defend it, lowlander. That is why I could not.’
Blacklatty reached up and sheathed the claymore on his back. He then walked back through the snow and found his dirk. When he made to walk back to the mountain man, he found the other looking at him with a certain acceptance. Around the wounded man’s neck was a large curved horn on a cord. With that horn, the traveller surmised, he could have hailed help, but had chosen to make this stand alone.
‘I would have your name, sir,’ Blacklatty said as he stood over the mountain man. ‘And, if you have one, I’d also have the reason for me to spare you.’
The mountain man spat on the floor. ‘I would ask for no sparing from you! Kill me if you choose. If not, then go.’ He gestured around the bleak valley. ‘A wounded man has his time limited up here.’
‘That horn you carry. Will it bring help?’
He snatched the horn and hid it beneath his body. ‘It would at that. But I’d rather blow you than it! If you come near me with that dagger, I’ll take you with me. If you leave me here, then watch your back trail.’
Blacklatty smiled. ‘You aren’t leaving me many options.’
‘How is it that you think I have an array of choices before me?’
‘Who are you?’ asked Blacklatty.
‘What difference does it make?’
‘I would sincerely hate to kill a man I didn’t know. It bodes ill for one’s soul.’
‘I am Kron, third grandson of the Elder of Franifious. Now get ye on with yon decision, because if you are waiting for lamentations from me, you will wait forever.’
The traveller nodded, and after a long look at the slowly paling face of his defeated antagonist, he put the dirk away, and turned about, slowly retraced his steps across the dredged up snow, collecting his throwing knife, his backpack, and his walking staff. When he came back to the wounded man, he found that the blood had spread wide indeed.
‘I have a tourniquet in my pack,’ he said, feeling some compassion for the man he had condemned to death. Kron was showing no small amount of courage.
‘And I have one in mine,’ he retorted. ‘But I will not squirm and writhe before the likes of you. If you wish me dead, then have the guts to do the deed like a man. If you wish me life… away. Away, and I will see to my wounds myself.’
Blacklatty nodded and slung his pack onto his back. He planted his stout pole in the snow, and favoured the mountain man with an appraising look. ‘I did not wish this for you,’ he said, pulling his hood up over his head. ‘It looks like you have a severed artery there. I can only wish you luck in your battle.’
Kron looked back at him with baleful eyes. ‘Men make their own luck.’
‘I think you are right.’ With that Blacklatty turned away, eager to be out of the pass before more mountain men came; it wouldn’t do to have him repeat the whole damn thing again. Besides, he had his own wound to see to, and he risked infection or worse if he didn’t have it looked at. He marched for a time, his staff leading him into the thickening snowfall. After about a quarter of a mile he turned back, peering through the myriad flakes, but of the mountain man he could see nothing. Behind him was just whiteness.

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[chrispenycate]

That was rather a large lump, wasn't it? I'd already dowloaded (and expanded) the zip file, so was not unprepared, but it's big enough that I don't dare do one of my standard line edits, and not putting extra spaces between paragraphs will scare off a number of other potentially helpful people (it just looks to big to attempt. like that of the page. So I'll concentrate on weapons(particularly since punctuation seems pretty good).

Tall and imposing, wrapped in thick furs and leathers, and brandishing a longbow with arrow notched.

You can't "brandish" a longbow with the arrow on the string – in fact, you have difficulty brandishing something a hand longer than you are anyway. And a longbow is a clumsy weapon for mountain work; it's extra power and range are hardly useful in the sort of situation we find are hardly useful, and the inconvenience of scrambling round rocks with something that cumbersome (plus the need for firm footing from which to shoot – no hiding behind rocks or loosing from concealment) would make a lighter hunting bow a more practical choice.

The aim was true, and his throwing knife clattered into the bow. The tension the wood was under made it that much more delicate, and when the heavy blade hit it, the yew split down its length, snapping clean in half and causing the bowman to punch himself in the face.

Particularly if the knife "clattered“ rather than thumping into it seems strange that the wood would split across the grain; and even more peculiar that he would have confidence that it would do so, however much strain it was under. Would not cutting the string (a difficult shot, to be sure) have much the same effect (punching oneself in face and being left with a useless weapon)?

so when one saw a man in possession of a sword - especially a claymore like this - they knew that the wielder must be a man of standing.

A claymore is a long, double handed sword that would generally be slung across the back in a baldric, or along the flanks of a horse. It would not be sheathed at the waist, as it it longer than the leg of even a tall man.

and took the mountain man in the leg about halfway up the blade. The leverage wasn’t there to decapitate, but he felt something brake beneath his blade,

To "decapitate"is to cut the head off (Latin "caput", the head) To remove the head from the knee upward seems a bit excessive. Oh and it's "break", not "brake".

 

[tyrant Lizard]

Thanks for the taking the time to read it. I stand corrected on those points you've raised, and had a couple of palm to forehead moments reading them. I will be doctoring those errors out when I come to redrafting it. thanks again!

 

[jenna]

Here's the first chapter.

Colossus Macabre.

CHAPTER ONE.
Shallatan Pass, the Shelts, 3005 T.P.​

The traveller looked to the face of his aggressor, judging him to be a threat instantaneously, and the mountain man stared back, his dark eyes bottomless. That he had somehow managed to get a drop on the traveller was a testimony to his skills at stalking in these climes. Blacklatty Fellstride was unused to being snuck up on. In fact, if he thought about it hard enough, he would realise that it had never happened to him before.
The mountain man stood his ground, his hard, grim face down-turned, his lank, stringy black hair hanging down past his shoulders. He cut some figure, that man. Tall and imposing, wrapped in thick furs and leathers, and brandishing a longbow with arrow notched. His blocky face spoke of brooking no argument - as far as he was concerned, this intruder would backtrack, and follow his own trail down the mountain, or he would be killed where he stood. But Blacklatty would not backtrack. He had an errand to run, and that errand took him through the Shallatan Pass. Going back would cost him weeks of soul destroying footwork.
‘I travel in peace,’ said Blacklatty, holding his gloved hands out to show that they were empty. His walking staff was already lying in the snow, the first demand of this northerner.
The mountain man didn’t move. ‘You have heard my say, lowlander,’ he said, his breath clouding, ‘and you have heard it well enough. Be off, or I’ll stick you like a hog.’
Blacklatty chanced a look around him. To either side snow-covered slopes reached up for the white sky, merging with the cloud line and mist. On the slope to the right sparse coniferous woodland broke the whiteout. Large lumps of snow fell, floating lazily around. The atmosphere was quiet, filled with the smell of snow and pine, and no wind rushed through that valley. There were just the two of them; a wanderer and a Sheltish hunter, surrounded by the peaks of Fullon Crag, Diashure Crag, and the Ridge of Viacso. They stood in the Valley of the Shallatan Heights, their only company sporadic batches of diehard evergreens - and it was from behind these snow-enshrouded trees that Blacklatty’s challenger had sprung.
The mountain men were a hardy breed, but this one was even tougher looking than most. And to go with his handsome yew bow, a sword of some girth was slung in a fur-covered sheath on his hip. Blacklatty would sooner not fight with this man. If he could word his way out of it, he most certainly would.
‘My business here is quite important, and I’d rather not make a foeman of you, sir. But I have to pass through… I have come to see the High Earth Mage. I have a package for him.’
The mountain man narrowed one eye, but his hands - bare, despite the snow and cold - never moved an inch. The arrow remained under the tension of the bow, ready to fly at an instant. And Blacklatty felt the barbed point of that arrow with his mind. Although they were some twenty paces from each other, he felt as if the arrow was pushing against his clothing. But he was not a man given to panic, and so panic he did not.
‘Would you yield your arrow? It is making me extremely nervous.’
The mountain man shook his grizzly head. ‘I would not. You trespass, lowlander. You may not pass this way. Such a thing is forbidden. Those of the cities bring nothing with them but trouble.’
‘But I am not of the cities. I am a traveller.’
‘You are of the cities,’ the bowman replied. ‘If you were as adverse in travelling as you claim, and are seeking an audience with Besselaw, you would have gone east, to the Pass Under the Glacier, or the Crimshank Pass. Those routes would have taken you to his tower… not this one.’
‘I have just come from the east,’ Blacklatty said. ‘And a hard trudge from there to here it was. Crimshank is partially blocked, as you well know. To risk traversing it now with the overhangs so precarious would be foolish. And I will not go beneath the glacier, sir. I thought to travel the extra leagues rather than chance that.’
‘Why? Are you afraid of the dark?’
Blacklatty smiled. He had expected such a remark. ‘I am afraid of nothing. But I know when it is best to trust one’s instincts. A couple of weeks ago I came across a trapper heading south for the winter. He was at the Crimshank Pass when the avalanches came and barely made it through with his life. When he turned west to take up the trail south, he found huge tracks in the snow. Being a trapper he followed said tracks, and they led him to the opening of the Pass Under the Glacier. And it was by that opening, he says, that he saw a Groll. He says the Groll went into the pass. He may have been right, he may have been wrong, but when I came to the opening, I had a dread feeling.’
‘There are no Grolls in these mountains.’
‘Supposedly there are none anywhere. But if they do still live, maybe this is something you should be speaking with your elders about.’
The mountain man screwed his face up, his beard bristling. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, lowlander. I wouldn’t worry my betters on the say so of some drunk trapper, or some lost travelling man.’
‘I am no more lost than he was drunk. I defied him when he told me, and you know what he did? He drew the symbol of the Wheel in the snow, stood in it, and then swore upon the Sacrifice of the Visionary that he spoke in truths. I do not take such oaths lightly.’
‘The Visionary means little to me. Groll or no Groll, you may not continue on your current course. There is a pass to the west that you can use… it runs out of our territory, and I care not who uses it.’
Blacklatty barked a laugh. ‘I’m sure you’d like for me to use that one. I’m sure of that indeed. But like I said to you before, I am far from lost, and know these mountains perhaps as well as you do. The pass you speak of is under the control of the Dark Folk, and although it is common knowledge that they have marched south, I would no sooner risk that than I would the glacial tube. They may have left men behind to keep their turf. And those buggers wouldn’t ask questions or make demands like you have, they’d just let fly and have done with it.’
‘Well if you don’t start your reversal, I will let fly. I mean it, this is your last chance.’
Blacklatty sighed. He couldn’t go back. The High Mage needed what he carried urgently. ‘I must push on, highlander,’ he said. ‘You have made your demands of me, and I hereby make mine of you. Step from my path, and let me alone. I will take this pass whether or not you like it. If you mean to shoot me, then try your luck, for I am a hard man to kill.’
‘I was going to take you in the heart, but now I think I’ll do for your stomach and leave you to freeze to death.’
‘I would shoot to kill if I were you,’ said Blacklatty, his eyes locked onto his captor’s. ‘Wing me or wound me, and I’ll still make it to you. And then you’ve got a problem. A big problem.’
He saw the mountain man’s eyes wander for the first time, taking in the intruder’s stance, his posture, his equipment, and his weapons. Blacklatty knew what he saw. A man armed with two swords, an array of knives, and a bow of his very own. And while Blacklatty Fellstride was not as tall as the mountain man, he was far from short, and he was of sturdy build. And now the mountain man saw not a target, but a opponent. And in that moment, he decided that there had been enough talk, and Blacklatty knew that he would either loose the shaft, or walk away.
A simple flaring of the nostrils told the traveller that he had chosen the former.
The bow twanged as the string thrummed forward, whipping against the mountain man’s wrist and shooting the arrow out in the blink of an eye. In the instant the bowman’s fingers straightened, Blacklatty folded to the left, his body propelled by his legs.
The arrow glanced from his shoulder before he’d hit the snow, and Blacklatty’s hands were already working. By the time his shoulder smashed into the ground, compressing the ankle-deep snow, he had already removed his gloves. He rolled to his knee, his right hand dropping to his side. He noticed bright blood staining the pure snow to his right, but didn’t spare it a second’s thought. The mountain man pulled another arrow from a quiver on his back, and notched it with galling efficiency, and as he was pulling the string back to his cheek again, Blacklatty whipped his hand forward, grunting with the effort of his throw.
The aim was true, and his throwing knife clattered into the bow. The tension the wood was under made it that much more delicate, and when the heavy blade hit it, the yew split down its length, snapping clean in half and causing the bowman to punch himself in the face. He grunted, looking down at the sundered bow in his hand in disbelief.
Blacklatty had chosen wood and not flesh as his target on instinct, for he reasoned that the mountain man would have still got his shot off no matter how badly he was wounded. The traveller was on his feet before his throwing arm had even returned to his body, powering forward through the spiralling snow, his hand going once more to his side. When he journeyed the wilds he had three knives belted at his right hip; one of those lay buried in the snow by the mountain man, and another was a survival knife used for skinning, filleting, and making fires. The last was what he reached for now. It was a dirk, and was good for only one thing - killing fellow men.
The mountain man saw him come, and with a flaying of his hair he tossed the ruined bow aside, and reached across with his left hand to grab the handle of his sword. Blacklatty shouted to distract him, hoping he could cover the ground between them and finish the fight before his enemy could even draw his weapon. These mountain men preferred to use axes, he knew, and were not great workers of steel, so when one saw a man in possession of a sword - especially a claymore like this - they knew that the wielder must be a man of standing. Blacklatty didn’t want to get into a drawn out fight with him. He wanted it over.
As he crashed through the snow, Blacklatty noticed the mountain man’s dark eyes widen in despair. He tugged at his sword but the whole scabbard shifted on his hip, jerking his body around. His head snapped up, taking in the form of the trespasser. Blacklatty’s heavy pack slid from his back, slamming into the snow, and his cloak lifted up behind him as he sprinted all the more.
He knew that the man’s hilt had frozen to the scabbard rim, and judged that a lack of swordsmanship on his foe’s part might well see him dead before any crossing of blades. The mountain man gripped the scabbard with his right hand and tugged the handle with his left, but as he closed, Blacklatty could see a layer of ice blending the hilt to the blade’s sheath. He pulled the dirk back, ready for the killing thrust.
They were almost together then, separated by mere feet, and Blacklatty felt that the mountain man would merely tug against the bonding of ice and frost until a killing strike brought him down. But at the last moment he turned, bringing his hands out in front of him and snarling like a bear. Blacklatty’s idea never faltered. He would just keep running and plunge the blade deep.
As he closed the gap, the mountain man stood his ground, neither advancing nor retreating, and Blacklatty made himself ready to avoid a left handed punch that he surmised would be the Sheltishman’s final defence. But still he didn’t move, and Blacklatty made it all the way to his target. He planted his left foot and rammed the dirk towards the fur-covered chest. Just as he thought he weapon was all the way home, he felt his wrist strike something hard, and then suddenly it was clamped.
The mountain man had made an X with his forearms and blocked the blow, and then he grabbed Blacklatty’s wrist with one hand and reached out with the other, twisting a bundle of clothes by the traveller’s throat. This close Blacklatty could smell the stench of animal fat that the mountain man used for insulation, and when he looked to the man’s face he saw a maniacal gleam in his eye. Blacklatty couldn’t move his knife hand, his foe was far too strong for any of that.
The traveller took pains to attempt a head butt, but before he managed to drive himself forward, the mountain man spun him about, hurling his body through the air like a sack of grain. He landed feet first, but the momentum of the throw caused him to barrel forward and he was forced to roll over on his shoulder. He came up at once and spun, flicking snow from his hair.
The mountain man was standing tall, side on to Blacklatty. Without taking his eyes from the quarry, the northerner thumped his fist down against the scabbard. Ice and snow exploded from the sheath and his leg, clouding around him like wood smoke. And then he drew forth the sword, angling it before him and aiming the point at his rival.
Blacklatty sized him up, watching as the lazy snowflakes fell about them. He was tall and rangy, and thus prone to a low attack. However, he had an extensive reach advantage. But at least now their pegs were level. There was no bow in this equation.
‘And so it comes to this, does it?’ Blacklatty said. ‘One of us is to perish in this valley, away from the eyes of all who know us?’
The mountain man nodded his head. ‘Aye. We dual to the death now, you and I. I will be satisfied will naught else.’
Blacklatty returned the nod. ‘So be it.’
He didn’t want to die in such a forlorn place, but it seemed combat was the only option available to him. He would not go back, and Blacklatty Fellstride did not beg. He reached his right hand up to grasp the hilt of his own claymore, which was strapped to his back. He had two swords, each to be used on separate occasions. At his hip was a short sword, a weapon he used in skirmishes involving a situation where he had fellows to consider. The sword was light and manoeuvrable, and could be manipulated with ease. It was a priceless weapon, having once belonged to the long dead warrior of the Time of Heroes, Anarchy Falls. But here Blacklatty chose not to use it. For although faster, it would not be a match for the power of the highlander’s cleaver, and it could be that if they went into combat thus, that both men would be killed; the mountain man by the thrust, and Blacklatty by the swing that he had gone inside.
So it was that he selected his own two-handed sword. It was slightly smaller than the Sheltishman’s, but the blade was made with the finest Sentorian steel, and was virtually unbreakable. The hilt of his sword angled forward making a large V around the bottom of his blade - if he could, he would use that V to trap the highlander’s blade. He gripped the sword by its leather-bound handle with two hands, taking note of the blood that was seeping through the many layers of clothing he wore on his right arm. The arrow had sliced deep, but not deep enough to disable.
Blacklatty drew in a deep breath, expending it in blast of cloudy steam, and then charged at the mountain man. No war cries came as the combatants met, the only sound was the crunching of snow and the sudden sharp clash of steel on steel. He knew the mountain man might prove troublesome, because he was a lefty, but Blacklatty had enough experience of swordsmanship to be able to deal with that. He had been a soldier in his youth, a mercenary after that, and a strongarm from time to time since then. He was no stranger to the fighting game.
They clashed blades five or six times and then Blacklatty went low, ducking a vicious swipe at his face. He hacked his claymore from right to left, and took the mountain man in the leg about halfway up the blade. The leverage wasn’t there to decapitate, but he felt something brake beneath his blade, and the mountain man cried out as his leg gave way on him. He toppled sideways, dropping his sword.
Blacklatty leapt across him, scooped up the sword and hurled it as far away as he could. And then he turned back, his eyes finding the stricken Sheltishman. The mountain man tried to rise, but his leg failed him again, and he slumped back, a grimace of pain on his face. Beneath him the snow was turning red, a steadily growing stain that was spreading outwards.
‘You’ve had your dual,’ Blacklatty said, bringing his sword down to point at the prone form.
‘Aye,’ replied the mountain man, still looking at his leg and holding it in both hands. ‘And I’ve been bested.’
‘Yes, you have. And I will carry on as I would have done had you not came along. You have slain yourself… why wouldn’t you just give me the road?’
‘I am sworn to defend it, lowlander. That is why I could not.’
Blacklatty reached up and sheathed the claymore on his back. He then walked back through the snow and found his dirk. When he made to walk back to the mountain man, he found the other looking at him with a certain acceptance. Around the wounded man’s neck was a large curved horn on a cord. With that horn, the traveller surmised, he could have hailed help, but had chosen to make this stand alone.
‘I would have your name, sir,’ Blacklatty said as he stood over the mountain man. ‘And, if you have one, I’d also have the reason for me to spare you.’
The mountain man spat on the floor. ‘I would ask for no sparing from you! Kill me if you choose. If not, then go.’ He gestured around the bleak valley. ‘A wounded man has his time limited up here.’
‘That horn you carry. Will it bring help?’
He snatched the horn and hid it beneath his body. ‘It would at that. But I’d rather blow you than it! If you come near me with that dagger, I’ll take you with me. If you leave me here, then watch your back trail.’
Blacklatty smiled. ‘You aren’t leaving me many options.’
‘How is it that you think I have an array of choices before me?’
‘Who are you?’ asked Blacklatty.
‘What difference does it make?’
‘I would sincerely hate to kill a man I didn’t know. It bodes ill for one’s soul.’
‘I am Kron, third grandson of the Elder of Franifious. Now get ye on with yon decision, because if you are waiting for lamentations from me, you will wait forever.’
The traveller nodded, and after a long look at the slowly paling face of his defeated antagonist, he put the dirk away, and turned about, slowly retraced his steps across the dredged up snow, collecting his throwing knife, his backpack, and his walking staff. When he came back to the wounded man, he found that the blood had spread wide indeed.
‘I have a tourniquet in my pack,’ he said, feeling some compassion for the man he had condemned to death. Kron was showing no small amount of courage.
‘And I have one in mine,’ he retorted. ‘But I will not squirm and writhe before the likes of you. If you wish me dead, then have the guts to do the deed like a man. If you wish me life… away. Away, and I will see to my wounds myself.’
Blacklatty nodded and slung his pack onto his back. He planted his stout pole in the snow, and favoured the mountain man with an appraising look. ‘I did not wish this for you,’ he said, pulling his hood up over his head. ‘It looks like you have a severed artery there. I can only wish you luck in your battle.’
Kron looked back at him with baleful eyes. ‘Men make their own luck.’
‘I think you are right.’ With that Blacklatty turned away, eager to be out of the pass before more mountain men came; it wouldn’t do to have him repeat the whole damn thing again. Besides, he had his own wound to see to, and he risked infection or worse if he didn’t have it looked at. He marched for a time, his staff leading him into the thickening snowfall. After about a quarter of a mile he turned back, peering through the myriad flakes, but of the mountain man he could see nothing. Behind him was just whiteness.

Ah, that's much better! I think you write very well, good prose and grammar.

However, this doesn't strike me as a first chapter as such. I think a first chapter really needs to draw the reader in, to get them interested in the main character, to start to care what happens in the plot. I found things a little confusing, and a little boring at the start. They were doing an awful lot of standing and talking, and I was thinking "just fight, already!" This is obviously just my opinion, but if I were you I would cut all of the conversation between Blacklatty and the mountain man, and just go straight to the action. The info that you need to drop can be added later, even in the next chapter. I personally prefer books that start with action and intrigue, that's what hooks me in. Like I said, it's not that it's written badly, because it's not, I just think you might want to try playing around with the flow of the chapter, to make it a bit more interesting to start off with.

Also, I would look at you first line, and make it more punchy. It seemed to run on a little long to be the opening line of the whole novel. My suggestion would be to make it into two sentences. IE "The traveller looked to the face of his aggressor. He judged him to be a threat instantaneously, and the mountain man stared back, his dark eyes bottomless."