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- Jun 28, 2007
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Hi All,
This is a very short piece(possibly too short for a proper critique). Any feedback on how the thoughts of the characters work or do I have too many povs in such a short piece?
On a historical note I know of no Blackwater(Dubhglas) river in the part of England the story is set in. I plead writer's licence on this.
With red, raw eyes, Eoppa stared at the mild waters of the Dubhglas river. Those waters, scene of their recent victory and staging point into the invasion of the Briton lands around Sorvidunum now seemed to mock him with their placid flow. Silently he cursed Alle and his grandiose plans. Yes, they had gained a fortune in plunder, but at a price. Countless slaughtered warriors littered the roads beyond the river. He had led a thousand spearmen over the Dubhglas and now he had only half that number. Eoppa looked up at the darkening sky. A storm was approaching.
Not far from where Eoppa stood Aelle fretted over the disaster of the last number of days. He should have listened to Eoppa. The man knew this Arthur and what he was capable of. Aelle had believed it all myth and legend. The way the Jutes spoke of the Briton leader had at times made him want to vomit. Now he knew better. The earlier victory which at first had looked so overwhelming now seemed to have being a ruse played upon them. A trick to lull them into believing the joined warhosts of the Jutes and Saxons were victorious. How easily they had fallen for it and spread their warbands out across the land. That is when Arthur struck with his horsemen. Such havoc they had wielded using both javelin and arrows to cut them down. Not once did the Britons close with them. They rode close enough to taunt and cast their weapons and then rode away to be replaced with another band of riders. This was not the way of a warrior!
“They are here,” a voice called out.
Aelle focused on the far bank of the river and saw riders appear on the lightly wooded slopes leading down to the water. The few became dozens and then hundreds. Spearmen followed shouting and banging the hafts of their weapons against their shields. It was an old trick. It made them sound more than they actually were. The trick worked.
“We're ******!” Aelle heard a warrior close to him mutter. Not quite, thought the warleader.
Further down the river Withgar was thinking very much along the lines of the vast majority of the Saxon warhost. He was no coward, but he saw no sense in dying in a futile fight when there was every chance of them getting away into the safety of the lands of the South Saxons or the Jute kingdom of Kent. This was the line, this river. The Britons rarely crossed it these days. Withgar could not see the point of tempting them by giving Arthur a victory here. Decision made he made his way to find Eoppa.
This is a very short piece(possibly too short for a proper critique). Any feedback on how the thoughts of the characters work or do I have too many povs in such a short piece?
On a historical note I know of no Blackwater(Dubhglas) river in the part of England the story is set in. I plead writer's licence on this.
With red, raw eyes, Eoppa stared at the mild waters of the Dubhglas river. Those waters, scene of their recent victory and staging point into the invasion of the Briton lands around Sorvidunum now seemed to mock him with their placid flow. Silently he cursed Alle and his grandiose plans. Yes, they had gained a fortune in plunder, but at a price. Countless slaughtered warriors littered the roads beyond the river. He had led a thousand spearmen over the Dubhglas and now he had only half that number. Eoppa looked up at the darkening sky. A storm was approaching.
Not far from where Eoppa stood Aelle fretted over the disaster of the last number of days. He should have listened to Eoppa. The man knew this Arthur and what he was capable of. Aelle had believed it all myth and legend. The way the Jutes spoke of the Briton leader had at times made him want to vomit. Now he knew better. The earlier victory which at first had looked so overwhelming now seemed to have being a ruse played upon them. A trick to lull them into believing the joined warhosts of the Jutes and Saxons were victorious. How easily they had fallen for it and spread their warbands out across the land. That is when Arthur struck with his horsemen. Such havoc they had wielded using both javelin and arrows to cut them down. Not once did the Britons close with them. They rode close enough to taunt and cast their weapons and then rode away to be replaced with another band of riders. This was not the way of a warrior!
“They are here,” a voice called out.
Aelle focused on the far bank of the river and saw riders appear on the lightly wooded slopes leading down to the water. The few became dozens and then hundreds. Spearmen followed shouting and banging the hafts of their weapons against their shields. It was an old trick. It made them sound more than they actually were. The trick worked.
“We're ******!” Aelle heard a warrior close to him mutter. Not quite, thought the warleader.
Further down the river Withgar was thinking very much along the lines of the vast majority of the Saxon warhost. He was no coward, but he saw no sense in dying in a futile fight when there was every chance of them getting away into the safety of the lands of the South Saxons or the Jute kingdom of Kent. This was the line, this river. The Britons rarely crossed it these days. Withgar could not see the point of tempting them by giving Arthur a victory here. Decision made he made his way to find Eoppa.