Ok, here at long last is a post from me. Sorry it's been so long. This finishes up my world-building short story. Here are my questions:
1) What do you think of Danel?
2) How about the voidspawn? I had trouble putting my mental images of the creature down on paper. What worked and didn't work?
3) How about the "gateway"? For those of you who read my earlier story "What May have Been" the doorway is a passage into the other world explained in that story. I don't think I'll stick with this version of the gateway, but let me know what you think.
4) How was the action sequence? I feel like action is really hard to write.
5) General Impressions
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“Gholem prefer high places . . . cliff faces, dead trees and the like.” Danel said. “Gholem usually follow Soulless packs, feasting on the dead, but they too serve the whim of the Blood Lords. They are spies and assassins, winged and cunning. But these webs”—swinging the lantern high he gestured to the ghostly bits of thread snapping fitfully in the wind—”these were spun by a different creature all together. They’ve been called many things through the ages: great-roaches or dread-spiders, the Black Swarm or simply the Hive. Myself, I’ve always preferred the druan name chaq’huar’ttiq. It means ‘all-consuming nest’.”
“They’re . . . bugs?” Jarrod managed, unable to take his eyes off the undulating strands. Webs! Faith, some of those threads were as thick as his wrist!
“Bugs, yes,” Danel said and he shuttered the lantern again, plunging the wall back into shadow. “Though not like anything you can imagine.”
“What do they look like?”
“There are more breeds than I care to recite,” Danel said and he motioned for Jarrod to follow him. “Each bred for a single purpose.”
The old man crunched over the gravel that dusted the pitted surface of the wide gray flagstones that surrounded the tower on all sides and Jarrod hurried to follow, juggling the strange waterskin to his other arm and shaking the numbness out of his now-free hand—the skin on his arm pimpled in the cold night air.
“In the swarm there are creatures that might remind you of spiders, others that seem more like wasps or yellow-coats. Some toil out their lives working like ants and others hunt living prey from dawn till dark. All of them, small as bees or large as houses, are slaves, bound to the will of the Mattron. Many centuries have passed since that black queen stirred from her deep catacombs in the far south, many centuries since her spawn spread death and pestilence from Treimonte to Laradesh. In those days she called herself the Dark Mother. Who know’s what name she fancies now.”
“She’s still alive?” Jarrod asked. “After all those years?”
“Never mistake the Dark Mother for a mere mortal, she is as much insect as any of her children. But an older blood flows in her veins. Much older. Her cunning is deep and her wisdom the cold calculations of a thousand thousand years. And, like the Blood Lords, she is bound blood and marrow to the Ancient Enemy.”
Rounding the tower they passed into the harsh moonlight that cast deep shadows and bleached the tumbled stone and ruined walls bone-white. The old man wound his way through the maze of shattered rock and the dark roots that hoved up out of the earth without pausing, as if he passed this way every morning, and it was only by dancing from foot to foot like a hay-struck fool that Jarrod managed to keep pace.
The wall beyond the tower had crumbled away in the distant past, and the gap provided a stunning panorama of the mountains beyond, their blocky forms cast in sharp relief by the moon that was setting beyond them. Overhead, the diamond-dust band of the Wardwall glittered like silver, a broad band of stars that split the deep black sky in two.
Framed by moonlight and standing directly in the center of the broken gap in the wall was a square block of somesort, its long shadow stretching across the uneven courtyard to brush at Jarrod’s toes. From twenty strides away the block—it was stone, wasn’t it?—was featureless, as black as the sky above. But staring at it, Jarrod couldn’t help but feel that something was stirring just within the block’s inky shadow.
Skin prickling with a thrill of fear, Jarrod licked his lips and asked, “There wouldn’t be any darkspawn still lurking about, would there?”
“Hmmm?” The old man shook himself as if coming out of a trance, and tore his gaze away from the dark stone block long enough to frown at Jarrod. “Don’t be a fool boy. Didn’t I tell you the signs were all old? Now, hand me the bag.”
Only when he’d pulled the waterskin from beneath his cloak did Jarrod realize that the thing warm. Faith, whatever was in the ‘skin was warmer than soup fresh from the pot! And still glowing like the sun at noon!
The bulging ‘skin was halfway to Danel’s hands when Jarrod pulled up short, the light spilling from the seams of the bag throwing back the shadows around them and casting the old man’s face in harsh relief. For a moment, Danel only looked at the ‘skin, confusion wrinkling his brow, then with a grunt of displeasure he grabbed the bag and gave it a sharp tug. It barely moved.
“Give the bag over, boy!”
Jarrod held on tight, amazed at how weak the old man suddenly seemed.
“You said the Soulles killed my da.” Narrowing his eyes, he gave the bag a hard jerk, pulling Danel closer. “How’d you know that?”
Grunting, straining to pull the bag back, Danel hissed through gritted teeth, “I read the signs, you fool! They’re plain enough. Now give the bag over. I’m running out of time!”
“You and your bag can rot beyond the Ward for all I care. How’d you know? Were you there? Did you watch my da die?”
A low rumble moaned across the sky behind Jarrod—the last of the retreating storm no doubt—and Danel paled in the golden light from the ‘skin. For a long moment his wide jaw worked silently, then, passing his free hand over his brow, the old man said, “I would have done something had I known the ruqai were waiting. A moment sooner . . . I might have been some help. You must believe me. I never wished such a fate on Matinew.”
Jarrod went limp and only Danel’s quick fingers kept the waterkin from falling. He barely noticed. The sight of his da’s broken body tumbled through his mind over and over, the terrible way his throat had been slashed open, the gaping hole where his stomach had been. The men who’d brought the body in had tried to hide it from Jarrod, but he’d broken free and torn away the bloody canvas they’d thrown over his da.
His da.
Oh Faith, his da.
Then what Danel had said finally sunk in, and all other thoughts fled. He looked up, and Danel took an involuntary step back, towards the black stone between the broken wall.
“How do you know my da’s name?” The words came out as cold as a corpse three days dead.
Thunder groaned again, closer this time, defying the clearing sky.
“Now listen to me, Jarrod,” Danel said, holding up a hand to ward him off. The old man was breathing hard now, eyes wide. “Your father came with me willingly. He understood the importance of my work. I’ve no time to explain now, but if—”
“Shut up!”
Lunging at the man, Jarrod grabbed the waterskin, feet skittering over loose stone when Danel fought back. For a moment neither man moved, arms locked around the glowing ‘skin, faces nearly touching, chests heaving and breath fogging in the cold. Jarrod’s whole body was trembling, screaming to unleash the rage and fear that he’d kept bottled up for so long. Here was the one responsible for his da’s death. Here was the monster who’d taken everything from him.
Without warning, Danel’s leg snaked around Jarrod’s and pulled hard, sending him tumbling to the ground. Faster than thought the old man was on him, striking over and over with impossible speed. A clenched fist struck Jarrod hard just beneath his chest, driving the wind from him, and then in rapid succession the old man landed blows on his neck, stomach and back with blizzard of stiffened fingers, elbows and the heel of his foot.
Fast as quicksilver it was over: Jarrod doubled over on himself, scrabbling weakly at the muddy stones, Danel standing over him, the waterskin in one hand, the other held helf-out, like part of him wanted to help Jarrod up. The old man’s face was a mask of anguish, but finally his free hand dropped and he turned away from Jarrod, back towards the dark block.
“I won’t ask you to forgive me for what I’ve done, boy.”
Pushing himself to his feet was like lifting a haywagon with only one good arm, but Jarrod managed it and only swayed a little when he finally stood upright. His head was pounding like the all the drums in every army of every nation in the world and his chest screamed with every breath. Who’d have thought the old man had such an arm. Spitting blood, Jarrod drew his sleeve across his chin then followed after Danel, who was now standing directly beneath the dark block.
“I’m going to kill you, Danel Terram.” The words sounded strange in Jarrod’s ears; somehow, he’d never imagined himself the murdering type. But what shocked him more was that he meant it. Of course, after the hiding he’d just taken, he doubted he could actually carry through with the threat. He stopped two strides short of where Danel stood and doubled up his fists. “You hear me old man? I’m going to kill you!”
Again thunder crashed, and this time the earth beneath Jarrod’s feet actually trembled. Faith, it felt like the whole hill was shaking!
Danel turned around slowly, face still twisted in a mask of pain. “Oh Jarrod,” he said, and his voice was lower than a whisper. “How I wish you could.”
In a single, smooth motion the old man ripped away the drawstrings that secured the waterskin. Light—golden, pure and fresh as dawn—burned from the bag, rippling like the air on a hot summer day as it curled in a million tentacles up into the dark air. Jarrod stumbled backwards, hands shielding his eyes, crying outloud at the sudden brilliance. Grabbing the bottom of the ‘skin with one hand, Danel spun on his heel, spraying the shining contents of the bag in a blinding, arcing wave towards the black face of the huge block. For an instant the face of the block was revealed, a blank stone face, purest black and streaked with thin veins of silver and pearl that glittered like stars. Then the wave of light—was it really liquid?—slammed into the stone. Jarrod’s hands fell from his face and his jaw dropped as he watched the light sink into the rock, like drops of water sinking into a pot of oil. The blinding light faded as the wave sank deeper into the stone, growing dimmer and dimmer until the unnatural day that had burned in the ruined courtyard was gone, and night reined again amongst the ruins.
For a long moment silence reined, except for the blood pounding in Jarrod’s ears.
“Danel. . . What by the Faith and Ward was that?”
Before the old man could reply, the sky was rent with a massive groan, like a thousand peals of thunder striking at once. The ground lurched and swayed like a drunkard, throwing Jarrod and Danel from their feet. One arm curled protectively around his head, Jarrod lunged toward the dark stone block, careless of trampling the other man, the stones beneath his feet bucking like a horse new to the saddle. Pressing his back against the cold stone, he looked up over the far wall just in time to see the next hill crack in two.
For the space of a heartbeat Jarrod’s mind grappled with what he was seeing. The far knoll was shaking itself apart, rivers of dirt and loose stone sliding down its shuddering flanks, the larger rocks beneath cracking and grinding as they were torn apart and sent crashing down as well. Even as its sides collapsed the crown of the hill pushed higher with spasmadic jerks, almost as if something were pushing from below . . .
Hands were pulling at Jarrod’s shoulders, tugging him to his feet, and someone was shouting in his ear, but he barely noticed.
From somewhere deep within the crumbling hill a fire flared and grew. Clouds of smoke and black vapor gushed from the rending rock, churning and spitting fire and ash. Higher the hilltop rose, the fire at its base growing, spreading and splitting into twin orbs of crimson flame. Finally the last of the hill’s crown shattered and fell, some boulders crashing through the maelstrom of swirling ash and smoke, others melting in the heat of the twin fires that raged in the heart of the storm.
Something struck Jarrod on the back, hard, and reality crashed home. Danel was pushing him from behind and frantically shouting, “Run boy! Run!” in a voice shrill with terror.
They both managed two steps before the buckling ground threw them down again. Rolling onto his back, Jarrod cried out as the two burning fires moved through the swirling smoke towards them. Wind lashed their hilltop, stinging Jarrod’s face with grit and dust, but clearing the smoke and ash above just enough for him to glimpse a darker shape moving through the storm, crowned by the twin fires.
Suddenly Jarrod realized what he was seeing. There was a creature up there, as tall as a mountain and moving through the billowing plumes of vapor. Moving towards them. Those fires were eyes—eyes larger than a house and fixed on them.
A warm wetness spread from between his legs, and Jarrod realized he’d wet himself. They were dead men.
“What is that?” he shrieked, fighting at the panic that had frozen his innards.
“Voidspawn!” Danel shouted into his ear as he roughly dragged Jarrod to his feet and with a mightly last shove sent him stumbling towards the tower. “Go lad! Run!”
Jarrod ran, chest still aching, eyes burning from the ash and smoke and sulprous fumes. All around him the ruins were collapsing, shaking to dust with each massive step that the creature—the voidspawn—took. He reached the tower and flung himself against the ancient stone, unable to hold himself upright any longer.
Above him a firey chasm opened in the darkness beneath the voidspawn’s eyes, a mouth like a gaping pit large enough to swallow the manor whole--Faith, it was lage enough to swallow a dozen manors whole. Ash and smoke funneled into glowing maw as it yawned wider still, only to explode out seconds later when the beast roared. The blast struck the ruins like a hammer, tumbling the section of the outer wall nearest the voidspawn, what few stones that were still standing loose, and pressing Jarrod flat against the tower wall. Hands cupped around his ears, Jarrod risked a look back towards the black stone; back towards Danel.
The old man stood alone, feet apart, hands clenched at his side, cloak flairing in the hot blast from the beast’s mouth, head held high in defiance. Behind him, the block of black stone was—Jarrod’s battered mind struggled to understand what he was seeing—the stone was splitting open, revealing a brilliant white doorway that silhouetted the old man’s scarecrow frame. Slowly, calmly, Danel reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a shining vial—a small star brighter even then white fire of the opening gate, clenched in the man’s fist.
The voidspawn took another step closer—Jarrod could feel the tower crack and tremble against his back—and spread arms that seemed to span from horizon to horizon wide, as if it mean to embrace the entire hill.
Using his teeth, Danel uncorked the vial and downed its shining contents in a single pull.
The ground bucked again and the tower lurched. Loose stones showered from on high and pummelled Jarrod down.
He looked up, ears ringing, blood leaking from his ears—and gasped. Danel was gone. In his place stood another man—at least, Jarrod thought it was another man; some hero out of legend, maybe—taller than anyone he had ever met and half again as wide. The man turned from the voidspawn and met Jarrod’s gaze.
The man spoke, the words barely a whisper, and Jarrod reeled backward in shock. The face was new, but the voice . . . the voice belonged to Danel.
“I’m sorry, boy.”
With a roar that matched the voidspawn’s howl, Danel spun back towards the beast and brought one arm up, fingers together, palm out.
Fire split the darkness, light like a thousand suns lancing from palm to voidspawn faster than thought. Where the beam struck the darkspawn it exploded outward, burning back the smoke and ash to reveal a vast pile of hard scales and twisted spines, darker than midnight that lunged towards Danel, pushing back the pulsing fire.
Then the darkness closed in again, obscuring the nightmare. Danel stumbled backwards, arm falling, the light about him fading. The voidspawn’s huge paw slammed down on the hilltop and the tower above Jarrod shattered. He had one last glimpse of the old man running towards the glowing gateway, ash and smoke raining from above.
Then the falling stone struck home, and he knew no more.
