Check at the Iron Door

[Shogun19]

A little story i cooked up, tell me what you think...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was more than his life, it was his home.

Caked in the mud of battle and choking on the stale air rolling over the foothills of the Tir Almagan Mountains, Herran of the 3rd Ranger’s Blade swallowed hard and began the most difficult part of battle: the wait. Peering out from under his bronze helm, he surveyed the carnage of the previous days work. The fertile wheat fields had been churned into a thick muck of mud and gore, rich black soil made slick with the addition of human blood. The corpses of the fallen Satek warriors had been removed and placed on the large military pyres, the traditional end to the heroes of the Empire. The acrid smell of ash lingered in his nostrils, driving him slowly into a fervor.
...My comrades, my people, my land…
These thoughts coated his mind like the ash coated his parched throat, tainting his every thought, creeping down his spine and filling his muscles with a black energy. His gaze strafed the battle ground, hotter than burning sulfur, seeing the rotting corpses of his fallen enemies, these barbarian invaders, these French. The very word made Herran clench his teeth and release each breath with a guttural growl. These white devils, wearing the deep rose color of their warrior demoness Joan, slaughtered the innocent of his land and left it to burn. On the day before they had been checked at the Tir Almagan Pass, the Great Iron Door into the Satek Empire, but not without a price in blood. Of the three Swords committed to the pass, the 7th Ranger’s Blade had been ravaged, the survivors combining with Herran’s 3rd Blade. The Critea, the elite mounted guard had been checked by the Frankish polearms. And the supply train had been set ablaze by Frankish archers. Today would be the key to victory…or defeat.

The people known as the Satek, moved down from the Tir Almagan Mountains 3500 years ago. A proud bronze skinned, black haired people, they established the first great city in this land, Karnok. With it’s gleaming limestone and fertile soil provided by the Er River, Karnok grew in size. The Satek people have deep faith in the Great Eagle, Shinara, God and Protector of the Chosen. The only thing that runs deeper than their faith is their warrior spirit. The hardships of the exodus from the mountains and the carving of their great city has made the Satek like iron. The valley between the Tir Almagan Mountains and the Vurtah Sea was home to many peoples. The Satek soon had to take up the sword in protection of their beloved city and the golden temple of Shinara. Soon the warring tribes of the plains and the warlords of the great bronze forests were turned back. The warriors of Satek had proven these people of iron could hold a razor sharp edge. All the land between the sea and the mountains was claimed in the name of Shinara, protected by the people of Karnok. Thus the Satek Empire was born. Many great cities followed within the borders of the Empire. Trade grew as vessels of wood transversed the Vurtah Sea and found the Iroquis, a people very similar to themselves. Yet the borders of the Satek Empire did not pass beyond the mountains, for beyond the Great Iron Door, the scouts and trackers had reported seeing men with skin like chalk with hair like sulfur. In the Satek religion this description resembled the Onimari, the demons said to inhabit the deadlands and underworld. Many peoples came to the Iron Door, the Germans, the Chinese, and finally the French. Of these only the Chinese could ever pass, as they looked nothing like the Onimari and soon the trading of ideas and goods between the two lands flourished. The Satek Empire was in a time of peace. The sciences flourished. The Imperial Army kept the borders safe. And the legendary Rangers of Satek accompanied the caravans through the deadlands of the Onimari to the lands of China. Then from the brimstone of the underworld rose Joan, the demoness of the French, who wished to reap the plunder of the caravans and watch Shinara’s golden temple burn. Of the caravan that departed last month, only a handful of Rangers ever returned. Talking of white devils carrying the rose of Joan, the Rangers described the ambush of the Franks with their polearms and axes, the chariots of the French running down the fleeing merchants, and the final insult of burying the fallen Satek in the ground of the demonic deadland. The few outposts and farms on the east side of the Mountains were soon pillaged and set afire, leaving only the Great Iron Door…

[Metaliturtle]

I'm going to say what most people would say to this, needs dialogue, but is very well written otherwise, keep it up.

[unscratchedfoot]

It's a nice story and I wanna see a big battle with lots of carnage and brutal mayhem next. Good set-up, and you should also be noted for having written the longest paragraph I've seen in my life.

[Shogun19]

Next installment, tried to get more dialogue. Soon I'll write a technical side to the story, to keep up with the strange usages of words i tend to use.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Day turned to dusk as Herran held his position in the earthen works thrown up by the engineers. Soon it became apparent that the French would not march over the horizon today. Slowly, orders came down the line for first shift to return to the palisade wall of the camp. Herran stayed as part of the night watch for several hours, peering into the ever flowing shadows cast by the huge torches of the defensive line. The night was quiet and cloudless. Every shadow and every sound sent the tingling pang of awareness down Herran’s spine. Gripping the hilt of his sword, the sound of his leather gloves crackling sounded like the grinding of great stones. Herran felt a part of the living entity, the defensive wall that was the last barrier between the deadlands and the heartland of Satek. He was a pair of eyes amongst thousands, linked by unseen rope. Each man knew the thoughts of the others. Each pair of eyes strained, willing the thousands of eyes to burn through the darkness and reveal the enemy. Herran would rather see the Onimari march over the grass then illuminate the darkness and find nothing. A warrior can always fight the enemy, but cannot fight time.
Soon Herran’s shift at watch was over. He gladly broke rank and returned to camp. He felt the awareness drain from him as he trudged from the earthen works. Feeling exhausted and lightened at the same time, Herran could feel the pressure of the vigil lift from his shoulders. Being a proud Ranger trained at the Academy of the Golden Blade, Herran did not easily run from duty, but he also knew he was no good fighting both sleep and the enemy, and he looked forward to the rest and a good meal that awaited him. He was glad to see his comrades already gathered around the fire nearest the mess tent. His friend Rens often said,”Let the commanders eat on their gilded platters and warm themselves with brandy. Me, I’d rather sit here next to the mess tent, because I am the safest of all of you. My enemy will throw down his sword and praise my bravery after getting one smell of my food!”
Herran smiled to himself as he drew closer to the fire and could already hear Rens retelling the story about the librarian in Farea,
”…so after I explained that the tattoo on my arm signified I was a Ranger, she professed her love to me and said how brave I was. Her parting plea was that I always wear my helmet, because she couldn’t bare to see such a handsome face become scarred.”
As Rens sat beaming to everyone, Herran started to pick at the food his comrades had given him and said without looking up,
“If I remember clearly it was you who professed her love for you. And then she used a quite heavy first edition to demonstrate why you should wear a helmet.”
As the laughter died down, Rens asked slyly “ So, you’re not dead yet? I thought for sure that melon of yours would have been a perfect target. Besides, you have heard all my stories, so what else is there to live for?”
“After putting up with all your exaggerating and ego stroking, defeating an army seems like no trouble at all.”
“I kid you Herran, I am glad to hear your voice correcting my stories. Almost as glad as I am to hear my own voice telling them.”
Unstrapping his iron breastplate, Herran smiled. Rens was his good friend. After meeting at the Academy, they had been assigned to the same Ranger unit, where they had met the other men who now say around the fire. Temu ate his food with gusto, adding his own views into the conversation complete with half chewed cornbread. Vil, an archer they had met here in camp let the ever present half-smile on his face beam a little brighter as the Rangers discussed the volley that had broken the chariot charge the day before. Vil was leaner than the Rangers, as most archers were. With his long hair drawn back in a tight ponytail, he stood out amongst the traditional shaved heads of the Rangers. Vil was a good friend, but the training differences between the two groups would see to it that the bond between the Rangers would not be felt between Vil and his comrades. Shying away from more roudy soldiers around the fire by sheer instinct, Vil felt no dishonor in avoiding close combat, but only so he could pace back and let loose an arrow at your heart with accuracy that bordered on precognition.
Beside Rens was an empty spot, where the glimmer of fire light seemed to fail to penetrate. Gorben, a Ranger of the 7th Blade, would normally be seen here. Yet no one dared to be caught staring at that place around the fire, because Gorben would not be coming to talk with them again. Each man thought of their friend in turn, but would not let the loss crack their will. Gorben was gone, and nothing could change that. One had to push on, dwelling on death was the only sure way to join it. Herran knew this, but still he could not drive the thought from his mind. Gorben is gone. He had always been quiet, almost reserved. Not partaking in the jabbing banter of his fellow Rangers, Rens had often said he was an archer with a weight problem. But Gorben had come from a long line of Rangers, it was in his blood. You could see it in his eyes, the fire that burned to serve his country. When Gorben talked, he usually left the group in silent awe, amazed at the piece in the Imperial Puzzle that was the Rangers. No greater devotion had ever been seen in a soldier, and Herran especially valued his friendship. But he was gone…
Interrupting Rens in mid-joke, Herran said half to himself, “Are they devils?”
Taken aback Rens quickly said, ”Who?”
“The French, are they the Onimari? They act as we do. They do not wear brimstone and spew fire, they talk in that funny babble and dress like peacocks. Surely these cannot be the undoers of Shinara?”
“The French are the Onimari. Since we first met them, their single goal has always been to enter Satek. They burn and loot, not only other peoples but also their own kind. Remember the German village we passed that the French found “in the way”. Shinara help any living thing that would die in such ways as the French saw fit. They are demons. Besides what proof do you have that they are not?”
“This proof,” spat Herran as he unsheathed his sword. Rens nearly fell backwards in surprise, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. Reflexively, the other Rangers reached for their own weapons, as Vil half stared at his feet where his bow and quiver lay. Before anyone could move Herran quieted them with a gesture of his hand and held the point over the fire. “See there, blood. These French spill blood. Human blood. No great demon would be killed in so easy a manner. These French are like us, they live to see their families again and live under the law of their land. Why must we spill more blood on both sides when it is all human?”
“Human or not, any people that would destroy the innocent and seek to undo all order! Gorben…”
With that name the whole group fell silent. The only word heavier than stone had been thrown forward for all to see, and fight its meaning was like trying to melt granite.
“You are right, the French, whomever they may be, must pay.”
As these words hung over the fire, a gleaming figure towered over them. “I see you sandal wearers started without me.” Omrus sat down with a clank of the polished armor he wore. Omrus was a Critean Rider, the elite mounted guard of the Empire. Trained in the jungles of the North the Criteans were the most feared riders on the continent. Wearing gleaming plate from head to toe, they rode into battle with heavy shield and weighted battleax, cleaving and crushing any who stood before them.
“Omrus, what news of the French.”
“How should I know anything?” Criteans had a tendancy to lord over the other warriors and place themselves as superior to all others, a trend Omrus showed every once in a while.
Rens jabbed, ”Well your highness, since you stable-brains just love to sit around an gossip, you’ve probably already talked to the mounted scouts sent out this morning.”
“Well, it just so happens I have talked to them, but I promised not to share anything with you ground pounders, you are simply too far down the chain of command to understand such things.”
“Last time you said something like that, you found fodder in your soup…”
“Alright, alright. Word has is it that the French have withdrawn almost a full days march from here.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day.” , remarked Herran.
”They must have heard I was waiting here for them, they not dare show their faces around the Great Frank-Hurter!” , Rens jested as he flexed his muscles comically.
Omrus wasn’t laughing. “There’s more, the scouts were pushed back from around the Northern Woods. French strength there seems to show that the army is protecting the woods. But no scouts could slip through to find out why. Something is there, a new division, a general, maybe even Joan herself.”
Herran stared blanky into the fire. “What could the French be hiding?”

[beno]

f*ucking wicked. After reading the first part, I was going to suggest that you don't take any notice of the advice above - leave the dialogue alone if it doesn't fit into your style - but that second part was great. You obviously rose to the challenge and I look forward to reading more. The only advice I could give is the same thats been leveled at me:

Use double returns after each paragraph to make it easier



on the eye. ;-)

[SKILORD]

Not bad at all.

Nice.

[Verto]

Double spacing your paragraphs would make for easier reading.

Excellent story.

[Metaliturtle]

This next contest will be close, too bad Civman's not around

[Shogun19]

Ready for battle?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herran was jarred awake as the world around him exploded. Staring blankly as he was peppered with splinters, the sound on clanking wood cleared his head enough to give his body a simple command…

Get to the Line

As Herran and Rens ran toward the earthen breastwork, neither seemed to notice the palisade was no longer there. It was only until the reached the trench that they saw the secret the French had kept all yesterday. Catapults. Felling the mighty trees of the northern forests, the Franks had constructed a number of large catapults and smaller mangronels to batter the defenders into submission. Just inside the horizon, several catapults fired at once. As the unnatural sound of stone whistling overhead registered, the remains of the palisade was blown apart. The cries of the men running to their post as they were impaled by wooden shards of the palisade christened the battle to come, as gore sank into the exhausted ash of the nights campfires. As the last stragglers crossed the bloody muck and sunk into the defenses, more great boulders whistled over head. The rock shattered into razor sharp obsidian shards that flew into the gaps of both plate and mail. Herran pulled a young Ranger into the trench, only to see the young man’s shin dangling by the skin of his knee. As the young man screamed through his teeth, Herran could make out a rock shard the size of a pomegranate where his knee cap should have been. Herran looked around desperately for a priest to tend to the young mans wounds, but when he saw the white upper tunic of a priest stained with the wet crimson of human blood, he knew help would be in short supply today. Movement to his left caught Herran’s eye. Rens was slumped over with his face turned away from Herran. Herran’s breath became lodged in his throat as he saw blood well at the base of Rens’ helm and start to drip. “Rens!” he croaked as he grabbed his shoulder. Standing up Rens turned to show a deep gash in his cheek that missed his eye my millimeters. Shrugging Rens added, “Looks as if there’s a librarian somewhere crying.” With unforeseen energy Rens bounded to the cusp of the trench and screamed shaking his fist, “Damn you ya bastards! You cost me my favorite story!” His outburst was punctuated by the sound of stone flying towards them. As the ground quaked then subsided, Herran was increasingly aware of the blood stained mud that was now where dry earth had been but minutes before.

“We cannot take much more.”

The commanders were now on the scene, and orders were being shouted up and down the line.

“Archers, form up! Return fire! Rangers, light those torches and prepare the arrows! Lets set those engines ablaze!”

As Herran watched the archers scramble to the cusp of the breastwork, he heard the desperate scrape of flint on steel as the torches were lit. He was interrupted as a bundle of arrows and greased rags was pushed into his chest. Coiling the rags around the arrowhead, Herran heard the archers nock their bows and prepare to volley. Lighting their arrows the archers loosed with a series of twangs down the line. The arrows arced high, plummeting to earth right on top of the French engines and engineers. One engine began to smolder and caught fire as French replacements for the fallen engineers ran towards the catapults.

“Archers, Fire at will!”

Concentrating on the four remaining catapults, the fluid dance of nocking and loosing was repeated several times per minute by thousands of trained hands. More French died and more engines were set alight. So intent were the archers on destroying the catapults that none noticed the mangronels creep into range until it was too late.

Up and down the line, archers were peppered by hundreds of rocks the size of grapefruit. The sickening sound of crushing bone was heard over and over as rocks found their mark. Crumpled forms fell back into the trenches as blood seemed to rain down on the Rangers from above. A lifeless body fell onto Herran. As he moved the ragdoll like body to the floor a pang of sorrow washed over him. It was Vil. As Vil’s eyes slowly turned to meet Herran’s there was a faint gurgiling sound. Herran looked down at the man’s neck, where a stone had landed and crushed the cartilage around his windpipe. Vil jaw started to quiver, as if trying to talk, but the only thing to pass his lips was dark blood as his body sank into the mud. It seemed to be raining stone. Archers fell all around, as the occasional Ranger fell back in after trying to pull a wounded comrade to safety. Everyone hunkered down among the bodies of their friends. Trying to help the wounded stuck in their pit, bodies shuffled around as groans were exchanged all around them. The mangronels were now firing intermittently, a reminder to keep one’s head low. Rens shuffled over to Herran.

“Is that Vil?”
“It was.”
“Poor guy, at least it was a quick death.”
“It wasn’t”
The hatred burned brightly in Herran’s eyes. They were devils after all. Herran wanted to fight. He wanted to spill blood until it flowed into the Sea like a great unearthly river. He wanted to wade through the blood of his enemies, to wash away any trance the French were ever here with their own gore.
“We can’t stay here!! We need to slit their throats!” he screamed through clenched teeth.
Rens layed his hand on his shoulder, “We need to wait this one out. We can’t crest that breastwork. It looks like the French may carry the day. If the Iron Door falls…”

Rens was cut off by the sound of stampeding hooves and neighing of great war steeds. The very earth began to shake. The Rangers stared up in awe as great shadows leaped over their heads fast as lightning. With the battle cry of “Shinara-Ron!”, the Criteans raced towards the French. Rangers down the line looked over the trench to see their comrades run down the French. As the engineers turned to run, the Criteans fell upon both them and their machines. With mighty swings of weighted axes, the support beams and tension ropes of the war machines shattered. Engineers were split down the middle as gravity aided the Criteans arms in driving blade through armor and bone. As the Criteans rode forth to pursue the French mechanics, a deafening roar came from beyond the horizon. Thousands of French men-at-arms surged over the hill towards the Criteans. Before they could form up the Criteans’ charge was mired down in a sea of human bodies. The Criteans hacked paths through the soldiers, but were quickly filled by more. The French encircled each Critean, overpowering the rider with sheer numbers and chopping downwards with mighty polearms. As Criteans began to fall from their steeds and horses were cut out from under riders, Herran leaped over the breastwork. Turning back to his comrades, he yelled,
“Rangers, avenge the fallen and save our comrades! Cut down these French devils and drive them back to the underworld! Shinara-Ron!!!”
Herran ran towards the French with sword held high as his battlecry was answered by thousands of roaring voices and the entire line surged forward into battle.

[Metaliturtle]

Well, I can't really find fault, if you want to find the story writer's union thread, a request to join on your part will be accepted.

[beno]

Shinara-Ron! ...indeed.

[johncmcleod]

tremendous! Could you please write shorter paragraphs? One of your paragraphs was like 40 lines. You could've made 6 paragraphs out of it.