JDP
Never told a lie. Ever.
This is a short piece of (possibly flash - is it short enough?) fantasy I wrote called AT OAKS FORD. Thoughts on the style and tone are welcome, as are spelling/grammar corrections.
As much as anything, it was an exercise to practise putting in back story without infodumping. Have I succeeded? Do you feel like you know what's not been said? Do you feel like you're being spoon-fed?
All comments greatly appreciated!
It's a little bit gory, so if you don't like life on the bleeding edge, maybe stop here
.
<< BEEP - please turn the page >>
It was the smell told Rhowen he was dead.
It rolled down his gullet, thick and viscous; blood, steel, s#!t and bile. There was a strange sweetness to it, this smell of death, though he gagged upon it; a musty, earthy scent as familiar as home. He found himself comforted.
A sharp cough and the stench was gone, replaced by the iron-salt tang of the blood filling his mouth. He spat feebly, a thin, pale pinkness that ran down his chin. A soft whimper drew his gaze.
Briendyr lay ruined on the far side of the hollow; a jagged gash across his shoulder wept bright red torrents and bone had sheared through the flesh of a hind leg. He whinnied again, his eyes rolling wildly with agony and terror. The saddle hung askew, digging into the muddy earth where the gelding had struggled to rise.
Rhowen tried to move. It was a mistake; pain flooded through him, blurring his vision and setting his teeth to grinding. He peered down at himself, lightheaded.
The head of the pike that had scored his horse's flank had broken off in Rhowen's gut, knocking him from the saddle even as his mount fell over the lip of the hollow. He had not even seen the face of the man who did it; the crash of steel and scream of flesh had made it all a bloody blur.
The dark metal of the pikehead stood proudly in a pool of crimson, flanked by layer upon layer of soft blue viscera, cooling as his lifeblood failed him. He wondered if Rhainyr had made it to the ford.
His mother had begged him not to go, and Genna, and little Bryst. But his brother had simply stared at him from the door; the expectation in his eyes brooked no argument. Their father had watched them with that tight expression that always haunted him when Rhainyr visited. He had been cutting wood all morning, though they had enough to last three winters; his stroke had ceased only when they mounted to leave. He said not a word.
Rhainyr had taken him first to Holbrook, to meet with his companions and the outrider Willard Gryff. Gryff had taken Rhainyr aside at once, talking agitatedly a discreet distance from the other men.
Rhowen had taken the opportunity to visit with Lyn and fare her well.
The pikehead seemed to twist inside him, pain shocking through him like fire in his veins. Just two more summers and he would have been old enough to wed. He was sure Lyn’s father would have said yes; she was some years older than he, to be sure, almost of an age with Rhainyr. But she had kissed his cheek once, in one of old Falder's fields. The summer sun had made her eyes twin sapphires and her hair black gold; she had run home giggling. Mother had often remarked that Lyn Dauntree would always ask after her boys when she went into Holbrook.
When he told Lyn that they were going, her face grew deathly pale and she had begged him to convince Rhainyr to stay. He had grinned at that; Rhainyr's will was folded steel and the only man more stubborn was their father. Lyn had wept as they rode out, running with them as far as the bridge. She still hoped to convince his brother, sobbing his name as they crossed to the far bank. Rhowen knew she would have said yes, same as her father; Lyn had wept for his safety, and followed him out to the bridge.
A dark shadow fell across the hollow; a man stood at the lip, sword in hand. The sun was behind him, making him a black spectre against the morning light, but he was tall and wide of shoulder, that much Rhowen could tell.
"Rhainyr?" Rhowen managed.
The figure descended, sheathing his blade. Drawing a dirk from his belt, he knelt beside Briendyr and with a short, sharp motion, opened his throat. The gelding’s eyes rolled once more, his good legs kicking feebly. After a moment the horse lay still.
"Rhainyr?" Rhowen repeated, his vision still blurred with tears and pain.
The man rose and stalked towards him.
"The Dark Rain goes to face Lord Odern's justice," croaked the stranger, bending low over Rhowen. "You'll not have to wait so long for yours."
The blade was bright and fast and mercifully sharp. It slid easily through the loose ringmail Rhowen wore, and flesh and bone beneath. Once more the scent of blood and death filled Rhowen's senses. He drew comfort from it.
"She would have said yes," Rhowen whispered.
There was neither hate nor pity in the stranger's eyes as he withdrew the blade, but his voice was softer than it had been.
"P'raps she would, lad. P'raps she would."
As much as anything, it was an exercise to practise putting in back story without infodumping. Have I succeeded? Do you feel like you know what's not been said? Do you feel like you're being spoon-fed?
All comments greatly appreciated!
It's a little bit gory, so if you don't like life on the bleeding edge, maybe stop here
.<< BEEP - please turn the page >>
It was the smell told Rhowen he was dead.
It rolled down his gullet, thick and viscous; blood, steel, s#!t and bile. There was a strange sweetness to it, this smell of death, though he gagged upon it; a musty, earthy scent as familiar as home. He found himself comforted.
A sharp cough and the stench was gone, replaced by the iron-salt tang of the blood filling his mouth. He spat feebly, a thin, pale pinkness that ran down his chin. A soft whimper drew his gaze.
Briendyr lay ruined on the far side of the hollow; a jagged gash across his shoulder wept bright red torrents and bone had sheared through the flesh of a hind leg. He whinnied again, his eyes rolling wildly with agony and terror. The saddle hung askew, digging into the muddy earth where the gelding had struggled to rise.
Rhowen tried to move. It was a mistake; pain flooded through him, blurring his vision and setting his teeth to grinding. He peered down at himself, lightheaded.
The head of the pike that had scored his horse's flank had broken off in Rhowen's gut, knocking him from the saddle even as his mount fell over the lip of the hollow. He had not even seen the face of the man who did it; the crash of steel and scream of flesh had made it all a bloody blur.
The dark metal of the pikehead stood proudly in a pool of crimson, flanked by layer upon layer of soft blue viscera, cooling as his lifeblood failed him. He wondered if Rhainyr had made it to the ford.
His mother had begged him not to go, and Genna, and little Bryst. But his brother had simply stared at him from the door; the expectation in his eyes brooked no argument. Their father had watched them with that tight expression that always haunted him when Rhainyr visited. He had been cutting wood all morning, though they had enough to last three winters; his stroke had ceased only when they mounted to leave. He said not a word.
Rhainyr had taken him first to Holbrook, to meet with his companions and the outrider Willard Gryff. Gryff had taken Rhainyr aside at once, talking agitatedly a discreet distance from the other men.
Rhowen had taken the opportunity to visit with Lyn and fare her well.
The pikehead seemed to twist inside him, pain shocking through him like fire in his veins. Just two more summers and he would have been old enough to wed. He was sure Lyn’s father would have said yes; she was some years older than he, to be sure, almost of an age with Rhainyr. But she had kissed his cheek once, in one of old Falder's fields. The summer sun had made her eyes twin sapphires and her hair black gold; she had run home giggling. Mother had often remarked that Lyn Dauntree would always ask after her boys when she went into Holbrook.
When he told Lyn that they were going, her face grew deathly pale and she had begged him to convince Rhainyr to stay. He had grinned at that; Rhainyr's will was folded steel and the only man more stubborn was their father. Lyn had wept as they rode out, running with them as far as the bridge. She still hoped to convince his brother, sobbing his name as they crossed to the far bank. Rhowen knew she would have said yes, same as her father; Lyn had wept for his safety, and followed him out to the bridge.
A dark shadow fell across the hollow; a man stood at the lip, sword in hand. The sun was behind him, making him a black spectre against the morning light, but he was tall and wide of shoulder, that much Rhowen could tell.
"Rhainyr?" Rhowen managed.
The figure descended, sheathing his blade. Drawing a dirk from his belt, he knelt beside Briendyr and with a short, sharp motion, opened his throat. The gelding’s eyes rolled once more, his good legs kicking feebly. After a moment the horse lay still.
"Rhainyr?" Rhowen repeated, his vision still blurred with tears and pain.
The man rose and stalked towards him.
"The Dark Rain goes to face Lord Odern's justice," croaked the stranger, bending low over Rhowen. "You'll not have to wait so long for yours."
The blade was bright and fast and mercifully sharp. It slid easily through the loose ringmail Rhowen wore, and flesh and bone beneath. Once more the scent of blood and death filled Rhowen's senses. He drew comfort from it.
"She would have said yes," Rhowen whispered.
There was neither hate nor pity in the stranger's eyes as he withdrew the blade, but his voice was softer than it had been.
"P'raps she would, lad. P'raps she would."
