Oxman
Thread Killer
Hello everybody,
Here's around the first 800 words of my prologue for the first in a series of fantasy novels that have been rattling around in my head for the last couple of years. I usually write in a much more contemporary (and familiar) setting, so any feedback on the style and substance would be massively appreciated. I hope the excerpt is not too large.
Thanks in advance!
Arrows rained down out of the sky. Elric remained perfectly still, even when one whistled by a little too close for comfort, the barbed, bronze head embedding in the mud less than a stride away from him. The group of mercenaries exchanged glances, a mixture of confusion and incredulity, before loosening off a second volley. Seeing that two or three were likely to find their mark this time, Elric bared his teeth and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He waited - just for a heartbeat - then swung, the gleaming blade cutting a swathe through the air, snapping the shafts of the projectiles and knocking them scattering. He returned his gaze to his adversaries and flashed them a smile, mustering up the wickedest grin he could manage.
It was enough to discourage the majority of his foes. They turned their mounts and spurred them on, galloping a hasty retreat, leaving their leader alone to face Elric. Clad partly in worn plate armour, partly in chainmail, the mercenary sat astride a grey stallion, gently kneading the reins to keep the mount still and calm. Judging by his armour and well-fed horse, Elric supposed the man had been a knight once, who had perhaps since disgraced himself somehow or fallen upon hard times. It mattered little.
Slowly, the knight drew a lengthy blade from a decorative scabbard and urged his steed in Elric’s direction, armour clanking and rattling as the horse gathered momentum.
Elric was at a disadvantage. His sword would not reach his mounted enemy before he had been cut to ribbons. Reluctantly sheathing it, he moved his hands around to his back, his fingers working swiftly to unbuckle the strap that held a weighty halberd in place. He planted his feet into the muddy ground and gripped the halberd with both hands, reassured by the jagged point at its tip. He awaited the knight’s charge.
The stallion was upon him sooner than he expected. Elric pulled to the side at the last possible moment, close enough to feel a warm gust of horse breath flow across his face and to catch the faint scent of damp straw. The sweeping arc of the knight’s blade missed his head by inches. In response, Elric drove the halberd up with all his strength. The point found its way under the arm of the knight and, without the protection offered by plate armour, continued to move upward, parting the more vulnerable rings of chainmail before coming to a sudden stop in the man’s shoulder socket with a crack and a wet squelch.
An anguished cry echoed from the helm of the knight. He was held in place while his stallion continued to gallop forward. Tumbling from the saddle, all that stopped him crashing to the ground was one stirrup, which stubbornly twisted around the knight’s foot and held him there, hanging. The leather footrest creaked and groaned, trying to bear weight that was not intended for it and, with the squirming of the flailing man contributing to the strain, the stirrup gave way, snapping in two and sending the knight sprawling onto his back.
Weighed down by his armour, the knight found it impossible to get to his feet, though he tried, first by pushing to the left, then to the right, then by trying to sit straight up. The battle scarred plates of metal forged to protect their wearer now hindered him in the cruellest of ways. In the fall, the knight’s breast plate had become unbuckled and hung loosely to the side, revealing a burgundy tunic of what once must have been the finest silk until it had became sullied and torn. The grounded man stopped squirming when he felt the cold point of Elric’s halberd pressed against his exposed chest.
“Yield,” said Elric, his voice quite steady and calm. The knight lifted a hand to his helm, raised it and struggled against his cumbersome apparel in an attempt to lean close to Elric. His eyes were dark, his cheeks were muddy and he sported a bushy, black beard. The knight spat, a great gob full of stringy phlegm aimed for Elric. Instead, it caught on the bristles of his beard and splattered onto the Knight’s own stomach. Elric sighed and pushed his weapon into the soft flesh of his fallen foe.
“Crookedmouth!”
Elric Stayle snapped out of his dreamworld. His mail hauberk was replaced by the humble, muddy attire of a twelve year old stableboy. The halberd he had been wielding so expertly had been switched for a simple pitchfork and on the pointy end, where he had imagined the still beating heart of his enemy to be, there sat a near perfectly spherical ball of horse ****.
Here's around the first 800 words of my prologue for the first in a series of fantasy novels that have been rattling around in my head for the last couple of years. I usually write in a much more contemporary (and familiar) setting, so any feedback on the style and substance would be massively appreciated. I hope the excerpt is not too large.
Thanks in advance!
Prologue
Arrows rained down out of the sky. Elric remained perfectly still, even when one whistled by a little too close for comfort, the barbed, bronze head embedding in the mud less than a stride away from him. The group of mercenaries exchanged glances, a mixture of confusion and incredulity, before loosening off a second volley. Seeing that two or three were likely to find their mark this time, Elric bared his teeth and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He waited - just for a heartbeat - then swung, the gleaming blade cutting a swathe through the air, snapping the shafts of the projectiles and knocking them scattering. He returned his gaze to his adversaries and flashed them a smile, mustering up the wickedest grin he could manage.
It was enough to discourage the majority of his foes. They turned their mounts and spurred them on, galloping a hasty retreat, leaving their leader alone to face Elric. Clad partly in worn plate armour, partly in chainmail, the mercenary sat astride a grey stallion, gently kneading the reins to keep the mount still and calm. Judging by his armour and well-fed horse, Elric supposed the man had been a knight once, who had perhaps since disgraced himself somehow or fallen upon hard times. It mattered little.
Slowly, the knight drew a lengthy blade from a decorative scabbard and urged his steed in Elric’s direction, armour clanking and rattling as the horse gathered momentum.
Elric was at a disadvantage. His sword would not reach his mounted enemy before he had been cut to ribbons. Reluctantly sheathing it, he moved his hands around to his back, his fingers working swiftly to unbuckle the strap that held a weighty halberd in place. He planted his feet into the muddy ground and gripped the halberd with both hands, reassured by the jagged point at its tip. He awaited the knight’s charge.
The stallion was upon him sooner than he expected. Elric pulled to the side at the last possible moment, close enough to feel a warm gust of horse breath flow across his face and to catch the faint scent of damp straw. The sweeping arc of the knight’s blade missed his head by inches. In response, Elric drove the halberd up with all his strength. The point found its way under the arm of the knight and, without the protection offered by plate armour, continued to move upward, parting the more vulnerable rings of chainmail before coming to a sudden stop in the man’s shoulder socket with a crack and a wet squelch.
An anguished cry echoed from the helm of the knight. He was held in place while his stallion continued to gallop forward. Tumbling from the saddle, all that stopped him crashing to the ground was one stirrup, which stubbornly twisted around the knight’s foot and held him there, hanging. The leather footrest creaked and groaned, trying to bear weight that was not intended for it and, with the squirming of the flailing man contributing to the strain, the stirrup gave way, snapping in two and sending the knight sprawling onto his back.
Weighed down by his armour, the knight found it impossible to get to his feet, though he tried, first by pushing to the left, then to the right, then by trying to sit straight up. The battle scarred plates of metal forged to protect their wearer now hindered him in the cruellest of ways. In the fall, the knight’s breast plate had become unbuckled and hung loosely to the side, revealing a burgundy tunic of what once must have been the finest silk until it had became sullied and torn. The grounded man stopped squirming when he felt the cold point of Elric’s halberd pressed against his exposed chest.
“Yield,” said Elric, his voice quite steady and calm. The knight lifted a hand to his helm, raised it and struggled against his cumbersome apparel in an attempt to lean close to Elric. His eyes were dark, his cheeks were muddy and he sported a bushy, black beard. The knight spat, a great gob full of stringy phlegm aimed for Elric. Instead, it caught on the bristles of his beard and splattered onto the Knight’s own stomach. Elric sighed and pushed his weapon into the soft flesh of his fallen foe.
“Crookedmouth!”
Elric Stayle snapped out of his dreamworld. His mail hauberk was replaced by the humble, muddy attire of a twelve year old stableboy. The halberd he had been wielding so expertly had been switched for a simple pitchfork and on the pointy end, where he had imagined the still beating heart of his enemy to be, there sat a near perfectly spherical ball of horse ****.
