Capricorn42
Well-Known Member
Hi, I set myself the challenge of writing a fantasy story in less than 1000 words and here it is, any feedback would be gratefully received.
I'm not sure about the opening line; I added it as a sort of forward but perhaps it doesn't fit? Perhaps this info should be in the main body?
It is said, especially by wizards who have many demons, that the worth of a wizard may be measured in the number of his demons.
Philias watched the boat chug away across the sluggish blue-grey sea. It would return later, he’d paid a lot to make sure of it.
It was early and the island was thick with shadows, but already he felt the sun’s heat on his neck. He touched the locket at his throat and a breeze swept its hands across him.
She came over the crest of the dunes, her head to one side, watching him.
“Philias?,” she asked, and he nodded.
“You must be Toria,” he said. “Perhaps you could show me the temple of King Lebas?”
The breeze plucked at his shirt.
He followed her over stones and scrub, wheezing and coughing. He had to stop several times to catch his breath.
“You’re very old,” Toria observed.
“I know.”
“Why do you want to see the temple?”
“I like seeing things even older than me.”
Philias sat down on a rock and took some water from his flask.
Toria pointed up the slope and said, “Look there.”
Walls of grimy stone poked up from the scrub. Philias squinted, trying to see order amongst the rubble. He glanced back at Toria, silhouetted and shimmering against the pale sky.
“Are you a wizard?” She asked.
He smiled, despite his weariness. “Yes. A very old one.”
“You can make spells?”
“No. I control demons who work magic for me. Like this.” He touched the locket and focussed.
Beside him, a dust devil spun into life, whirling in a chaos of glittering sand and stones. A second later it was gone, collapsed back into the dirt.
Toria was like a child watching fireworks.
“In here,” Philias said, wheezing slightly, “is a demon named Petrarchus.” He touched the locket once again. “He is both sullen and spiteful, but obedient. His hobby is planning how he will drag me down to hell when I die.”
“Does that not scare you?”
“Not a bit. I have no intention of dying. Anyway, hell does not exist.”
“But if you are a mighty wizard, why do you need me to guide you?”
“Magic requires effort, and I am old and lazy. Letting you guide me is easy.”
Like a child, Toria accepted this. “Now you are here, what do you want?”
“To catch a demon.”
She started. “No.”
Philias stopped her. Her face was a speck of pale, wide-eyed fear. “Toria, I would like you to summon the one who haunts this place. His name is Eparygon.” He waved his hand, his eyes closed and face set hard.
Toria became a frozen moment in time as the breeze gathered strength and a shape began to coalesce before him. A writhing, rolling shape that spilled into the air, tendrils snaking.
Philias opened his eyes to see, among the temple ruins, a hunched figure.
He wore ragged clothes and had an old man’s face, then not. Her face was that of a young, wistful girl, then not. A lizard's snout with tongue fat and red, licking obscenely over its own scales. Shadows fled into the eyes of a fat grinning child with broken and rotting teeth, who blurred into an an old man whose head drooped to one side as a smile crept across the ravaged face. His lips parted, rotten and bleak with death. But now a face dignified, even regal. His head straightened up and he stared calmly at Philias. He wore a crown of gold, the crown of Lebas. His eyes shone, then clouded as if with tears and suddenly became the eyes of a man stricken with appalling terror, pleading silently for help. His mouth sagged open, further and further. A tongue, parched and cracked, flopped out and writhed.
Philias held up a shard of glass and met the gaze of the demon Eparygon who snarled in an ancient language, his words ripe with contempt and lust.
Sunlight splintered on the glass fragment.
The old man's face twisted into anger, then rage. His lips moved but the words were trapped.
Sunlight filtered through the glass and became a solid slab of radiance which crept over the body of the old man, then up to the face of a young girl that was the face of a fat child that was a lizard with black eyes that was an old man, head thrown back and screaming in silent rage.
The figure disappeared without a sound, leaving dust to swirl drearily in the air.
The glass shard fell from lifeless fingers as Philias collapsed to his knees.
The sky was a deeper blue than he remembered. He blinked as pain throbbed like a sullen child.
“Philias? Can you hear me?” A face came into his view. Toria.
Philias sank down onto his rock and drank water while Toria watched him.
“I could not summon Eparygon. I knew that you could, so I used you. And this.” He held up the glass fragment. “It was fired many thousands of years ago by bigger men than me. It’s a prison cell for demons.”
He squinted up at the sun. “You’ve been here long enough, you can go now. It’s time.”
Her eyes wavered. “It’s cold. There.”
“Toria…”
“No one is there. I have to talk to shadows.”
“They’re not shadows. They’re people, like you.”
“You promise?”
He nodded.
He touched the locket at his throat and the breeze swelled, tugging at his clothes and lifting dust on its back.
He let it brush across him as he tucked the glass fragment into his pocket. Only when the air was still did he get to his feet and trudge down to the beach.
End
I'm not sure about the opening line; I added it as a sort of forward but perhaps it doesn't fit? Perhaps this info should be in the main body?
DEMON
It is said, especially by wizards who have many demons, that the worth of a wizard may be measured in the number of his demons.
Philias watched the boat chug away across the sluggish blue-grey sea. It would return later, he’d paid a lot to make sure of it.
It was early and the island was thick with shadows, but already he felt the sun’s heat on his neck. He touched the locket at his throat and a breeze swept its hands across him.
She came over the crest of the dunes, her head to one side, watching him.
“Philias?,” she asked, and he nodded.
“You must be Toria,” he said. “Perhaps you could show me the temple of King Lebas?”
The breeze plucked at his shirt.
He followed her over stones and scrub, wheezing and coughing. He had to stop several times to catch his breath.
“You’re very old,” Toria observed.
“I know.”
“Why do you want to see the temple?”
“I like seeing things even older than me.”
Philias sat down on a rock and took some water from his flask.
Toria pointed up the slope and said, “Look there.”
Walls of grimy stone poked up from the scrub. Philias squinted, trying to see order amongst the rubble. He glanced back at Toria, silhouetted and shimmering against the pale sky.
“Are you a wizard?” She asked.
He smiled, despite his weariness. “Yes. A very old one.”
“You can make spells?”
“No. I control demons who work magic for me. Like this.” He touched the locket and focussed.
Beside him, a dust devil spun into life, whirling in a chaos of glittering sand and stones. A second later it was gone, collapsed back into the dirt.
Toria was like a child watching fireworks.
“In here,” Philias said, wheezing slightly, “is a demon named Petrarchus.” He touched the locket once again. “He is both sullen and spiteful, but obedient. His hobby is planning how he will drag me down to hell when I die.”
“Does that not scare you?”
“Not a bit. I have no intention of dying. Anyway, hell does not exist.”
“But if you are a mighty wizard, why do you need me to guide you?”
“Magic requires effort, and I am old and lazy. Letting you guide me is easy.”
Like a child, Toria accepted this. “Now you are here, what do you want?”
“To catch a demon.”
She started. “No.”
Philias stopped her. Her face was a speck of pale, wide-eyed fear. “Toria, I would like you to summon the one who haunts this place. His name is Eparygon.” He waved his hand, his eyes closed and face set hard.
Toria became a frozen moment in time as the breeze gathered strength and a shape began to coalesce before him. A writhing, rolling shape that spilled into the air, tendrils snaking.
Philias opened his eyes to see, among the temple ruins, a hunched figure.
He wore ragged clothes and had an old man’s face, then not. Her face was that of a young, wistful girl, then not. A lizard's snout with tongue fat and red, licking obscenely over its own scales. Shadows fled into the eyes of a fat grinning child with broken and rotting teeth, who blurred into an an old man whose head drooped to one side as a smile crept across the ravaged face. His lips parted, rotten and bleak with death. But now a face dignified, even regal. His head straightened up and he stared calmly at Philias. He wore a crown of gold, the crown of Lebas. His eyes shone, then clouded as if with tears and suddenly became the eyes of a man stricken with appalling terror, pleading silently for help. His mouth sagged open, further and further. A tongue, parched and cracked, flopped out and writhed.
Philias held up a shard of glass and met the gaze of the demon Eparygon who snarled in an ancient language, his words ripe with contempt and lust.
Sunlight splintered on the glass fragment.
The old man's face twisted into anger, then rage. His lips moved but the words were trapped.
Sunlight filtered through the glass and became a solid slab of radiance which crept over the body of the old man, then up to the face of a young girl that was the face of a fat child that was a lizard with black eyes that was an old man, head thrown back and screaming in silent rage.
The figure disappeared without a sound, leaving dust to swirl drearily in the air.
The glass shard fell from lifeless fingers as Philias collapsed to his knees.
The sky was a deeper blue than he remembered. He blinked as pain throbbed like a sullen child.
“Philias? Can you hear me?” A face came into his view. Toria.
Philias sank down onto his rock and drank water while Toria watched him.
“I could not summon Eparygon. I knew that you could, so I used you. And this.” He held up the glass fragment. “It was fired many thousands of years ago by bigger men than me. It’s a prison cell for demons.”
He squinted up at the sun. “You’ve been here long enough, you can go now. It’s time.”
Her eyes wavered. “It’s cold. There.”
“Toria…”
“No one is there. I have to talk to shadows.”
“They’re not shadows. They’re people, like you.”
“You promise?”
He nodded.
He touched the locket at his throat and the breeze swelled, tugging at his clothes and lifting dust on its back.
He let it brush across him as he tucked the glass fragment into his pocket. Only when the air was still did he get to his feet and trudge down to the beach.
End
