chopper
Steven Poore - Epic Fantasist & SFSF Socialist
Here's a piece that got pulled together late last night (well, early this morning, i suppose). Cassia is exploring the border fort from the previous excerpt, searching for firewood. i know what i'm wanting to achieve with this part, but I ain't that sure i'm getting there.
Comments are, therefore, duly invited....
The room below was empty but for a large, heavy looking table that sat in the middle of the floor. Sheltered from the elements these past centuries, it was in much better condition than anything else she had found so far. She circled it slowly, testing the wood with the point of her knife. It had suffered from damp, there was no question of that, and woodworm had infested it over time, but she didn’t think it would come apart too easily. Perhaps Craw would be able to dismantle it, she thought.
As barren as it was, this chamber had an almost noble air to it. Arrow slits pierced the thick walls in several places, the largest of them facing out towards the head of the valley. The flagstones were smooth and laid out in a geometric pattern that looked puzzlingly familiar to Cassia’s eye. The old table - the garrison commander’s table, she decided - sat in the middle of this pattern, with the stones radiating out from it. There must once have been a chair too, she thought, searching the floor for a sign of where it had stood, but it must have been looted once the fort was abandoned. It surely would have been much easier to move than that than the table.
Partway around the circumference of the room, past an empty hearth, another stone stair wound down further into the tower’s depths. This time it descended into pitch blackness and Cassia shuddered as she considered it. There were clearly no arrow slits down there to let in light, and without a torch or a lantern she had no option but to return by the way she had entered.
It was no bad thing, she decided gratefully: if there were indeed cells under the commander’s tower she had no wish to discover what they might still hold.
She wandered back to the larger arrow slit and gazed out, trying to imagine how this chamber would have looked in the High King’s time. The hearth would have roared with a large fire to keep the room warm, and maybe the commander would have slept on a pallet nearby. Great soldiers of noble bearing would have gathered at the table, discussing plans and intelligence brought to them…
Her reverie trailed off uncertainly as she felt warmth prickle against her side. Flickering firelight gave her arm a rosy glow. Caught in sudden tension, she turned slowly back into the room, hardly daring to breathe in.
This was, she realised immediately, more than mere imagination. A group of soldiers stood around the table, dark presences silhouetted by the blazing hearth, studying maps and scrolls. These were not the handsome and virtuous men Cassia had pictured in her mind; they were stern-faced and scarred, responsibility and duty weighing heavy upon their shoulders, their eyes shadowed and haunted. They moved carved markers across the maps, their voices indistinct murmurs at the far reaches of her hearing.
In their midst stood a tall man who rested with his hands splayed across the tabletop, his head bowed as though already defeated. He did not seem to be a part of the discussions around him, brooding instead on something that only he could see.
Cassia held her breath, frozen in place. This was Malessar’s magic, she realised, the thought bubbling up through her growing fear. The protective spells he had cast around the fort had brought these wraiths to fleeting life - ghostly echoes from the long-dead past, blurred and fuzzed at the edges.
They can’t hurt me - they’re not really here, she told herself firmly, almost believing it. They can’t hurt me.
As if he had heard her the man at the centre of the gathering slowly raised his head and stared across the table at her. Firelight flickered over his features, highlighting the distinctive long nose that sat between eyes filled with haunted despair.
Cassia’s heart thumped and she threw her hands up over her face, unable to bear the harsh sorrow that lashed her senses. She slumped to the floor, heaving voiceless sobs as the wraith’s emotions battered her.
When she could piece her thoughts together once more, and her crying had subsided into ragged sniffles, she peeked fearfully through her fingers at the table, dreading what she might see.
The apparitions had vanished, leaving no trace behind, and the chamber was dark once more, the hearth as dead and cold as it had ever been. Cassia struggled to her feet, blinking away her tears, her breath fast and shallow. The watchtower felt oppressive and dangerous now, the air stale and choking. This was no place for the living.
She staggered to the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall to keep herself upright, desperate to regain the safety of daylight and fresh air. All thoughts of dismantling the table were forgotten. She wished she had never left Keskor, that she had never come to this forsaken place, that she had never ventured into the watchtower at all.
And most of all she wished she had not looked into the garrison commander’s eyes.
The warlock’s eyes.
Comments are, therefore, duly invited....
The room below was empty but for a large, heavy looking table that sat in the middle of the floor. Sheltered from the elements these past centuries, it was in much better condition than anything else she had found so far. She circled it slowly, testing the wood with the point of her knife. It had suffered from damp, there was no question of that, and woodworm had infested it over time, but she didn’t think it would come apart too easily. Perhaps Craw would be able to dismantle it, she thought.
As barren as it was, this chamber had an almost noble air to it. Arrow slits pierced the thick walls in several places, the largest of them facing out towards the head of the valley. The flagstones were smooth and laid out in a geometric pattern that looked puzzlingly familiar to Cassia’s eye. The old table - the garrison commander’s table, she decided - sat in the middle of this pattern, with the stones radiating out from it. There must once have been a chair too, she thought, searching the floor for a sign of where it had stood, but it must have been looted once the fort was abandoned. It surely would have been much easier to move than that than the table.
Partway around the circumference of the room, past an empty hearth, another stone stair wound down further into the tower’s depths. This time it descended into pitch blackness and Cassia shuddered as she considered it. There were clearly no arrow slits down there to let in light, and without a torch or a lantern she had no option but to return by the way she had entered.
It was no bad thing, she decided gratefully: if there were indeed cells under the commander’s tower she had no wish to discover what they might still hold.
She wandered back to the larger arrow slit and gazed out, trying to imagine how this chamber would have looked in the High King’s time. The hearth would have roared with a large fire to keep the room warm, and maybe the commander would have slept on a pallet nearby. Great soldiers of noble bearing would have gathered at the table, discussing plans and intelligence brought to them…
Her reverie trailed off uncertainly as she felt warmth prickle against her side. Flickering firelight gave her arm a rosy glow. Caught in sudden tension, she turned slowly back into the room, hardly daring to breathe in.
This was, she realised immediately, more than mere imagination. A group of soldiers stood around the table, dark presences silhouetted by the blazing hearth, studying maps and scrolls. These were not the handsome and virtuous men Cassia had pictured in her mind; they were stern-faced and scarred, responsibility and duty weighing heavy upon their shoulders, their eyes shadowed and haunted. They moved carved markers across the maps, their voices indistinct murmurs at the far reaches of her hearing.
In their midst stood a tall man who rested with his hands splayed across the tabletop, his head bowed as though already defeated. He did not seem to be a part of the discussions around him, brooding instead on something that only he could see.
Cassia held her breath, frozen in place. This was Malessar’s magic, she realised, the thought bubbling up through her growing fear. The protective spells he had cast around the fort had brought these wraiths to fleeting life - ghostly echoes from the long-dead past, blurred and fuzzed at the edges.
They can’t hurt me - they’re not really here, she told herself firmly, almost believing it. They can’t hurt me.
As if he had heard her the man at the centre of the gathering slowly raised his head and stared across the table at her. Firelight flickered over his features, highlighting the distinctive long nose that sat between eyes filled with haunted despair.
Cassia’s heart thumped and she threw her hands up over her face, unable to bear the harsh sorrow that lashed her senses. She slumped to the floor, heaving voiceless sobs as the wraith’s emotions battered her.
When she could piece her thoughts together once more, and her crying had subsided into ragged sniffles, she peeked fearfully through her fingers at the table, dreading what she might see.
The apparitions had vanished, leaving no trace behind, and the chamber was dark once more, the hearth as dead and cold as it had ever been. Cassia struggled to her feet, blinking away her tears, her breath fast and shallow. The watchtower felt oppressive and dangerous now, the air stale and choking. This was no place for the living.
She staggered to the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall to keep herself upright, desperate to regain the safety of daylight and fresh air. All thoughts of dismantling the table were forgotten. She wished she had never left Keskor, that she had never come to this forsaken place, that she had never ventured into the watchtower at all.
And most of all she wished she had not looked into the garrison commander’s eyes.
The warlock’s eyes.
.
