StarDestroyer.Net BBS

This is my first serious try at a fantasy... let me know how it goeth... thank y'all muchly!

Credit goes to Dartzap for the Eldest Brother's manservant....

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Rain drizzled down from the sky, blanketing the valley in a layer of silence. It pattered off the tightly stretched canvas of neat rows of tents in the bottom of the valley, lined up before the walls of a burning town. As the towers of the keep crumbled down, flames gushing forth, two horses bearing cloaked riders pulled up to a halt before the largest tent in the camp.

A massive, bear-like man, in a brown monk’s habit, looked up irritably from the map he was studying. Thick moustache bristling, he growled, “In Ia’s name, what have you come here for, Ragvnar? I have a campaign to conduct here. I cannot talk of your books and scholarly frippery!”

The thin, short rider threw back his soaked hood, revealing a gaunt, ascetic visage; a small pair of heavy-lensed glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose, intense gray eyes shining through. Ragvnar quietly stated,
“Greetings in the name of holy Father Lars, Ihvon, Eldest Brother. Request permission to enter your camp and your tent?”

At Ihvon’s grudging nod, Ragvnar calmly took a seat upon one of the folding chairs, near a standing candleholder. He nodded to the taller, athletic cloaked figure that had escorted him--”Mahtaram, you may take your hood off; we are welcome here. Brother Ihvon seems but to be temporarily busy; you may take your ease. Ah-- thank you, Mohrid.”

Mohrid, Ihvon’s mute but deadly manservant, nodded and offered the other warmed drink upon the tray to Mahtaram. The younger Covenant brother declined, and squatted upon his haunches, carefully placing his twin swords upon the floor and then looking up intently at Ihvon, who had finally stood straight.

The elder Covenant, his head nearly brushing the seven-foot-high ceiling of the tent, looked around coldly. He nodded to Mahtaram, who bent his head respectfully, and then at Ragvnar, who gave him a clear look back. Finally, Ihvon took a seat in the large, well-padded folding armchair that sat atop a slightly elevated dais in the tent, and grunted disagreeably; Mohrid appeared, the candlelight casting peculiar shadows across his scarred face, and proffered a goblet to his master.

Ragvnar, sensing an opportunity, spoke. “Eldest Brother, I have come to tell you of certain… events regarding our sister. She has been looking through the library-- searching through certain sections which I believe our holy Father forbade--”

Ihvon cut him off; growling in his deep bass tones, “The forbidden sections? Curse you and your heresy in teaching our sister to read! I have told you before, and I shall tell you again, Second Brother--”

“Eldest Brother! I am not going to allow you to destroy the library! You will recall that we found the plans for your army’s crossbows in the library? There may yet be more useful things in there. We have not yet completed Father’s great task. But we diverge from the subject. Youngest Brother?”

The youngest Covenant brother stood up, and keeping his head respectfully bent, spoke in subdued tones. “Eldest Brother, may I speak?”

Ihvon, speaking deliberately and scornfully, replied, “You may… Mahtaram.”

Mahtaram, flushing at his brother’s pointed lack of respect, continued in strained tones. “Sister Maratham has done nothing wrong. She was unwise in venturing so far in the library, but she was merely honestly curious. She is desperate to learn; she is stultified, for lack of entertainment in her quarters at the Deep. She has no female companionship-- all she has ever known in her life are the brothers of Covenant’s Deep. Is it so wrong, then, that she desired to read? To do something with her life, isolated as it has been? I do not believe that this is what Father would have wanted for his daughter--”

Flicking his hand dismissively, Ihvon turned to Ragvnar and, ignoring Mahtaram, asked “What has our… sister done?”

Ragvnar, giving Mahtaram an apologetic look, slowly spoke, “It seems she has been dabbling in the old arts… the Art of legend, what the villagers call the ‘sorcery’. She means nothing by it-- she is but curious as to what may happen when she draws the patterns on the floor, chants the incantions, lights the candles, dances about in patterns…”

He shrugged, spread his hands, and asked, “Nothing has happened, so are we to punish her? For simple curiosity? Then you would have to punish me-- and Youngest Brother as well-- for likewise being curious about the library, about the tomes within. Without this curiosity, we cannot discover more--”

A messenger darted within the tent, not bothering to shake the water off his cape, and quickly knelt before Ihvon. “Sir! The fire-towers have spoken-- the Brothers are requested to return to Covenant’s Deep, pray as soon as possible, for the lady Maratham has disappeared.”

Incidentally, this tale is my first serious try at fantasy. I'm half thinking about a series of short stories, elaborating upon the different characters, developing them in more depth. This is just the start, to see if I can make them work, develop the world more believably.

Do let me know what y'all think, as I asked before...

I've liked it so far. I think one of the spells may have worked afterall.

Very well done Heru, im glad to be of some service in generating manservants...

Seriosley, its been well done so far

*applauds and hands Heru a cookie* Lovely

And a new section..... description of the land and Covenant's Deep itself.

As always, opinions appreciated...

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They all stared at him; even the normally implacable Mohrid’s mouth fell open in astonishment. And then they exploded into action; Mahtaram thrust his swords through his belt frogs, Ragvnar threw up his hood, and Ihvon, bellowing for horses, grabbed a cloak and sword of his own. Running out, they jumped atop fresh mounts, and as an escort fell in alongside them, they rode out of camp. Behind them, the keep finally crumbled into a pile of crushed, hot stones, a few towers standing forlornly amid the devastated town…

They rode pell-mell through the valley, across narrow mountain passes, by small villages where they hastily procured new horses whenever they stopped, past the tall fire-towers flaming forth their signals from peak to peak across the land. Finally, reaching the greatest and final pass before the coast-lands, they rode through the gates of the great Covenant Deep.

The Deep, a mighty castle resting atop Cyclopean foundation stones erected in millennia far past, stood not only far above the pass but also deep within the mountain. In bygone eras, some great ruler had quarried walls out of the living rock of the mountain in order to protect further the castle, and in doing so had revealed a great, deep hollow within, the remnant of some great volcanic cataclysm. In this hollow a great foundry and armor shop had been built; in caverns further down, the great tomb of the Covenant dynasty spread, sitting silently and majestically, the remains of the rulers of the Covenanters laying still in their decorated sarcophagi.
The castle had stood, impregnable, for two thousand years, abandoned for half that time after a great plague. It had been decaying for centuries, till the great Lars Covenant, the holy Father, took it from a bandit king who had been terrorizing the caravans coming through the pass, and built his great keep, the mighty Covenant Deep.

It was from this castle-cum-monastery that Ihvon operated his army, trying to keep the Covenanter domain from falling apart after two hundred and twenty-five years of peace; it was in the great library of the castle that Ragvnar had found learning and peace; it was in the sprawling arena inside the extinct caldera that Mahtaram had proven his worth in fighting; and it was in this isolated, male domain that Maratham had grown up, seeking a friend.

The mighty doors of the great hall of the Deep crashed open, propelled by a powerful shove from Ihvon’s mighty arms, and the brothers strode in, followed by servants fussing over them, removing their cloaks; Mahtaram, Ihvon and Mohrid retained their swords, the youngest brother keeping his hand firmly upon the handles of his twin blades.

Ihvon strode up to the seneschal in charge of the castle, grabbed him by his collar, and bellowed in his face, “Where is my sister?! Where is the lady Maratham?”

That unfortunate man paled, and stammered-- not for any impediment in his voice, but because Ihvon was shaking him thoroughly-- “I-I-I d-don’t k-k-know... F-f-forgive me, m-master… oomph!”

Rounding upon the servants after flinging the poor seneschal across the hall, Ihvon roared, “By the twenty-six dugs of Soddomath, I demand to learn what has become of my sister! Bring me her maid! Or I swear, by Ars-Lithilim, ye shall wish you had left when you had your chance!”

The maid, a wizened crone who had taken care of Maratham since she was a but a babe, and of Mahtaram till he was of age, was swiftly produced. A lengthy grilling by Ihvon, and later, a more calm questioning by Ragvnar, resulted in the same answer. She knew nothing of what her precious lady had been doing, she but thought her dear was learning new things from her books, and she would not have asked anything of her lady, and her dear, dear mother would have been so proud of her for learning her letters so well…

As the maid hobbled out of Ragvnar’s study, helped out by her sturdy grandson (who was one of the castle’s kitchen boys), he sighed, rubbed his eyes, and looked blearily up at Mahtaram. “It seems she honestly has no idea where our sister has gone.”

Mahtaram, his normally handsome, youthful face creased in worry, swept aside his cape and began pacing across the room, hands fidgeting with a dagger in his belt. Ragvnar, his eyes suddenly sharp, continued speaking-- “I would advise caution. I once found a tome containing plans of the ruins of the castle before the holy Father rebuilt it; it showed that there were certain hidden ways through the walls, and mayhap she happened upon this tome and decided to explore. As far as I know, Father closed all these passageways, but to know of them, Sister would have had to discover this book, and I have kept it locked up securely here--” he gestured to a very firmly occupied space on a sturdy, heavy wood bookcase--”and as you can see, it has remained well closed. Nay, she could not have been reading this codex. Shall we now then go and investigate the library?”

Dagger drawn and carefully balanced upon his fingertips, Mahtaram mulled over this for a time. Ragvnar remained silent, eyes sharp upon his brother. Finally, he prompted, “Mahtaram?”

With a fluid twist of his body, his arm blurred through the air; a loud snap resounded through the chamber, as the dagger shattered against a stone in the far wall which had been behind Mahtaram. He stood there, chest heaving, fists white-knuckled. Ragvnar calmly stood, and walked up behind Mahtaram, who was staring at the scar upon the wall, hands opening and closing spasmodically. He put his hand upon his younger brother’s shoulder, and spoke calmly, “Mahtaram-- we all miss her…” and then broke off, staring in amazement as the scarred stone sunk into the wall, and a section began to rotate, creaking upon an axle ungreased in millennia…

Ooooh

Nice. Reminds me a bit of Temple of Doom with the moving walls.

*claps merrily* Och! The poor Lady