Homecoming (Fantasy)

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Well, after reading some of the excellent pieces kindly posted by other members, I feel compelled to share a short story that I recently wrote. This isn't a finished piece as there are some parts I'm not totally happy with yet, but it should be readable.

Any and all comments are appreciated, especially suggestions for sections that you don't feel work very well (especially the middle section and sorting out a proper ending).

Aran Dethro hunched slightly lower into the thick bush he was crouching in as the riders thundered past, their horses kicking up clods of dirt and dust into the air. The horsemen were obviously girded for a fight- short composite bows hung beside sheathed scimitars on worn leather belts, while white goose-feather arrows lay holstered on cracked saddles. The faces Aran could make out were, under a layer of weeks-old grime, shining with the barely controlled lust for violence that was all too commonly seen on fighting men these days. The inspection almost brought a wry chuckle from the concealed man as he considered his own visage.

His shoulder length hair that had once held the lustre of bronze now clung to his neck like the tendrils of seaweed that ornamented those few ships that still came into port. Eyes that had once crinkled with amusement and the easy-going attitude that was characteristic of the minor nobility now lay permanently dulled by days of little sleep and even less peace. He had sported a small, well-trimmed goatee previously, but it had vanished beneath the onslaught of newer, uncut hair until the shape of his chin was virtually indistinguishable. As Aran scratched his new style uncomfortably, his mood sobered as his mind once again replayed the circumstances that had brought this upon him.

It had been nigh on two years previously that the messenger had arrived at his manor home, bearing dire news: the time had come for Lord Aran Dethro to fulfil his oath of allegiance to the crown. The lands of Arcini lay along the western border of Euphinis and had been in direct competition for the fertile farmland that lay on the banks of the river Escus for as long as either country could recall. Naturally, the Arcinians were evil goat-raping monsters who were plotting to conquer Euphinis and were held only at bay through the noble efforts of the glorious Euphinion army. Or so he had been told at any rate. Regardless of whether the Arcinian military really had any taste for the blood of innocent babes or whether their women offered their bodies to demons in return for infernal power, traveller’s tales all agreed on one point- they outnumbered the Euphinion army with ease.

However, Lord Dethro was nothing if not honourable and swiftly assembled his household warriors to march to the King’s side. Unfortunately, the Lady Krysten- his beautiful wife- did not approve of his decision to march to war. Indeed, she had disapproved very loudly and had refused to see him off with the other women of the manor. Aran winced at the memory. At the time he had ridden on, filled with confidence that despite being of the gentle sex, Krysten would get over her anger and look forward to his safe return. Everyone knew women were, after all, weaker and unsuited to the demands of war- although they all loved a hero. Little had he known that his return was not to be quite in the manner he had envisioned.

The armies of Arcini and Euphinis had clashed along the few crossings of the Escus like weary bears; each determined not to be the first to overextend and leave themselves open to having their supply lines cut off. While the Arcinian army was indeed the larger by far, Euphinis was led by the prodigious skill of Sirion, a master tactician. Sirion brought the war to a conclusion at the largest crossing of the great river- he planned for the right flank to feign panic, tempting the Arcinian reserves forward so that hidden cavalry could strike the vulnerable open flank of the enemy force, while the left flank and centre acted as an anvil to hold the opposing forces.

The right flank broke formation as planned, pulling the enemy army forward in their wake. Unfortunately, the right side’s flight was so convincing that the mercenaries holding the left suddenly remembered urgent reasons to be elsewhere and began to fall back. Cut off and separated from the cavalry, the forces that held the centre with Lord Dethro were cut down and Sirion’s head decorated the end of a lance.

Aran held the centre for as long as he could, before realising that all was lost and joining the fleeing masses. With the Euphinion army shattered, the various lords that had lent their blades to the nation’s defence retreated to their own lands- most with the intention of arranging for peace terms to be drawn up. With most of his men slain and the remainder missing, Aran made the long trek back home alone, heart longing to see Krysten once more.

Upon returning to his estates, Aran was shocked to his core a second time; many of the surrounding towns lay in ruins and the peasants that worked the harsh land appeared to be living in worse poverty than when he had left. Disguised as he was by the dirt of his travels, Aran had little trouble prising an explanation of what had occurred from those he met. About a year after he had left, a large group of bandits had ridden in, cut down the few remaining guards and taken control of the lands. Their rule was strict and even those that bent the knee and survived struggled to cope as trade dwindled. Most blamed him for what had occurred- in his haste to join the King’s forces, he had neglected to leave sufficient protection for his people. However, there was one spark of hope- it was said the Lady still lived in the manor that the raiders now called their own.

Aran shook his head to clear his thoughts as the last of the horsemen passed deeper into the trees. The servants’ door lay a stone’s throw from where he lay and likely offered an unwatched route into his ancestral home. Taking a deep breath and loosening the sword at his belt, Aran sprinted the last few metres to the sanctuary of the plain wooden side door. Tentatively nudging it open, he carefully stuck his head inside. The room was empty.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Aran crept across the plain chamber that served as a meeting area for the servants. The wooden table in the room’s centre was reassuringly covered with a slight film of dust. He had suspected this section of the house would be unused- both the kitchens and the guest rooms were located on the other side, while the Great Hall and the master bedroom could be accessed more readily from the main door. Moving as silently as he could, Aran moved slowly up the spiral staircase that led to the upper floor.

The stairwell opened out into a wide hallway lined with portraits of his stern-faced ancestors, the frown lines on their faces augmented by the flickering light pulsating from an open doorway several metres away. Aran knew from childhood escapades that the decomposing brown carpet lining the stone floor would muffle his footsteps, granting him additional safety despite the light.

His leather boots left a slight trail of dirt that almost matched the carpet perfectly as he slowly stepped along the corridor, ears straining for any hint of an approaching guard. The passage was clear and he reached the doorway from which light fled without incident. Cautiously peeking through the crack in the door hinges, Aran caught sight of two muscle-bound men wrapped up in a game of dice. An assortment of edged weapons lay beside the table, quite obviously within arms reach of the unwashed pair. Even from a glance Aran knew he could ill-afford to catch their attention- while he was no mean swordsman himself, in his exhausted state he simply had neither the strength or the energy to defeat either opponent.

An eternity passed in a few minutes as he watched the two men gamble, waiting for an opportunity to pass the door. Salvation came when one of the dice bounced off the edge of the table, both men turning to watch its path. Before the die had finished spinning, Aran was past the opening, softly releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. An ornately decorated door which Aran recognised as leading to his previous bedroom awaited him at the end of the corridor.

The door swung open easily at a slight touch and Aran slipped inside, praying that he was correct in thinking his wife would have been left in her previous accommodation. A golden chandelier hung low from the ceiling, positioned to illuminate the ornate decorations that edged the majority of the room’s furniture. A deep blue lay across the floor, pausing only at a large, curtained double bed and at the edge of the small marbled fireplace that hunched within one of the cream walls. Yet, to Aran’s eyes, this splendour paled in comparison to the lady that sat near the comparatively plain window, moving a wooden brush through her long golden hair.

As the door closed with a soft click, she turned and stifled a gasp at the sight of him. Where he was tall and tanned from months in the outdoors, she was petite and had the skin tone of a noble who had never experienced a hard day’s work under the sun. The contrast between their clothing was even greater- his travel-worn and mud-stained, hers frilled and weaved of fine white silk. Yet it was her eyes Aran noticed most; eyes that had widened with shock, recognition and, disturbingly, horror.

“Krysten!” he managed, silently cursing his tongue for its lack of eloquence. As she remained silent he felt he should somehow elaborate. “I have missed you as the sun longs for the moon!” Aran declared.

After a long period of tense silence his wife replied, “Ah.”

“Come my love, oh keeper of my heart, let us away from this place,” he continued, slightly unnerved by Krysten’s lacklustre response. “The way out is clear, ‘twould be a simple matter to make good our escape while we have the chance.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head.

“But…I…you…we,” stuttered Aran, the icily numb shock of betrayal stealing the words from his mouth. “We could escape from this and begin anew, just the pair of us and our love.”

“No Aran,” Krysten said softly, “If you had truly loved me then you would have never marched off in all your glory to fight your noble war, as your honour dictated. You left me here with the young, the old and the crippled. You left me with those you felt were unfit to accompany you, the ones who would wait for you because they had nowhere else to go. You left me.”

Aran stood stunned as the lady he had pledged his heart and soul to turned her face away from him to look out the window once more.

“It was him!” Aran hissed angrily, “that contemptible law breaker who stole my house, my lands and my wife from me! He has twisted you against me!”

“Can you not see it, Aran?” asked Krysten. “Your love for me is no more real than your feelings for the people who worked your lands. His name is Jerrod. You and he may both love the fight, but there he differs from you- he is willing to put me above all else, even that which he takes so much pleasure from.”

Krysten gracefully climbed to her feet, looking him in the eye once more. “It is time for you to leave, Aran.”

Aran shook his head, neck muscles clenched in frustration. “I owe that bastard a debt of pain and I intend to see it repaid.”

“I am sorry for what I must do, but I cannot risk you hurting Jerrod,” came his reply. A ghost of a melancholic smile touched her face for an instant. “All I ever wanted was to be loved.”

Her long white dress swished as she moved to a long cord of rope hanging from the ceiling and gave it three strong tugs. A detached part of Aran’s mind belatedly remembered it led to a small bell in the adjacent room. One for a servant, two for food and three for danger. It had not been thugs or jailors he had passed mere minutes ago, this Jerrod had assigned her personal bodyguards. The clatter of metal and thudding of footsteps behind him confirmed his suspicions as the men he had successfully evaded came running.

As the door opened, Aran looked once more at Krysten, who, to his surprise, was gazing sadly into his eyes. His head flew forward as a sharp blow from behind contacted his skull and darkness reached for him with cold tendrils. Body crumpling under him, Aran strained to identify the small imperfection that had appeared on Krysten’s left cheek. Tracing a soft path over her high cheekbone was the faint outline of a small tear.

 

The story itself was fairly predictable, but could be a good start if you start building something unique off of the cliche of 'man leaves for duty, wife leaves him, man vows revenge on new guy'. 'Man hiding from pursuers has a flashback' was particularly cliche, but then again it's done so much for a reason. Not that there weren't some interesting parts interspersed, though; I particularly liked the description of the battle. The other descriptions (bandits, Aran, the tear, etc.) were well-handled, as well, though for me it seemed like you were cramming a bit too much together at the very beginning with the descriptions of the bandits and Aran.

I look forward to finding out how Aran escaped after being taken prisoner.

 

Thanks Fel, that's what I was looking for. I was feeling a little ill when writing, so the realisation of the cliches came only after I came back to it the next day. However, I am not too unhappy with how it came out, so I'll have to think on what I can do for a sequel.