Short Story Contest

[The Weimar Republic]

Tiny Dancer by Elton John is playing in the background. The music is muffled out by the rain. He’s standing there, just with his shoes deep in the mud under the derelict shack by the road.

He’s standing in the mud, trying to keep an even footing. He smells of alcohol and cheap cologne. The air was cold and dry. His lips taste of blood and all he smells is cigarette smoke. “The hell are you doing?!” An older man squirms with his left hand caught in the noose. The devil can’t pull him out.

He’s mumbling the words while his palms are bloody with the rough rope. The old man is stomping his feet, but he ignores it. There’s mud everywhere, and they slip, but the he keeps a strong set of hands on the rope. He keeps a strong set of hands when he presses the rope tighter against the old man’s neck.

Fumbling. Twitching. Jerking. Then, it stops. He’s good with his hands.

---

Young Girl is playing in his head. She places her hands around his face. Her cold palms touch his cheeks, and he jumps a bit. He loves those cold palms, and holds them tight to his face. He notices long lines on her arms, but he ignores it.

She smiles, looking up at him. He’s tall and young and powerful, with periwinkle eyes and goldenrod hair. His fingers touch hers, and within an instant, warmth cascades throughout their hands. He touches her arms and pulls her down, and she sits. She obeys. She listens and follows.

She’s used to it.

Cars drive by, and the two of them look at the legs of businessmen walk by. The blur of cars beneath rainfall becomes their mural. She looks at him, holding her hand out. It shakes a little, but she stays strong.

He’s taken aback by his smile, and he hums a few words in his mind to her. Is that a song? She asks him. He nods, and she drifts off into her own world listening to his humming. Nobody pays attention to them.

---

His castle is only a few meters by a few meters. It’s lined with cobwebs and wires and smells of rainfall. It has a single mattress, with four caving wooden walls. Laundry hangs carelessly outside on a makeshift balcony, overlooking shantytowns as far as the eye can see. She looks at the place, and purses her lips, but she continues. She coughs a bit at the dust, but ignores it.

His hands are pressed against her shoulder, and she places her hands against his cheeks again. He loves those cold palms, and holds them tight to his face.

He gives her a ring. It smells of blood and scratched with glass. There is no velvet box – he just hands it to her, and her eyes light up. It wraps around her fingers perfectly. A small shard nicks her finger, and blood it drawn. They patch it up quickly.

It’s a ring, but it’s his. She takes it and holds it close to her chest. This is the bounty of her freedom, and she is the bounty of his kindness.

---

Rain pours down through the cracks and the droplets kiss her lips. She wakes up that morning to a small room with no heating and plumbing, and wrestles out of his strong, sleeping clasp. She gets the clothes from outside, drenched, and lights a fire in barrel in the center of the room. He stirs, but doesn’t wake up. She clutches her side a bit, but it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. Her head, however, still feels dizzy.

She’s humming Stand by Me, leaving for the service office in the rain. He wakes up, but doesn’t see her. She kisses him, and then stifles a cough. She wipes her hands clean with the water they have there. It’s cold rainwater, nothing more.

---

He’s sitting by the lake, singing Tiny Dancer to himself. You have a beautiful voice, she says behind him, and he looks around, seeing her there.

Who are you? He asks. She’s enmeshed in the background of the beautiful park. He doesn’t have the words for it, but she has the words for him. She smiles, and whispers in his ears, and he looks at her with only the faintest grin.

---

She’s walking along to the unemployment line. The old man finds him, and she runs at first, but he catches her. She screams, but there’s nobody here in the morning. The roads are empty and fog shrouds the city in a ghostly white blanket.

He wakes up, and doesn’t see her. He waits, but she doesn’t come. He grits his teeth and punches the wall. The cuts on his hand begin to open up again. There’s still a little bit of glass in his fingers.

He goes to her house. He’s never allowed him. She doesn’t see him from the windows, but he sees the silhouette, and listens to the sound of her piano through the open window. There are no words to describe her song, just as there were no words to describe her. He walks away, and his fury boils.

---

He’s sitting at the park by the lake when he sees the cemetery by the lake. He’s humming Hallelujah when he sees the old man. He knows this old man.

The old man’s going to the cemetery. However, she wasn’t there.

After the funeral, he checks the cemetery. The tombstone leers back to him with nihilism. He misunderstands, and his fists clench.

---

The night after the old man died, he returned to the cemetery. He didn’t have much time. The dirt was heavy with rainwater. He could barely maintain a grip with his shovel. But it was okay. He was good with his hands.

He opens the coffin, and with a last, weak smile, he had cold palms upon his cheeks one last time.

Wow.

As in "Wow, that's really contrived"?

I'm impressed if Jenrak literally just wrote that this afternoon, but only because most people take a lot longer to write something that sounds so overly crafted. It's trying much too hard to be artistic.

Also...

He smells of alcohol and cheap cologne. The air was cold and dry. His lips taste of blood and all he smells is cigarette smoke.

My inner grammar Nazi wants to know why it changes from present tense to past and then back.

[-Deus-]

Here you are. Excerpt from a larger, obviously better story of mine. It's around 2, 339 words or so, I dunno. Bam. Enjoy the excerpt.

The sun rose, blanketing the sky in a carmine red, placing the world at the beginning of a new day. Men awake now to begin their work, to dig and plow in the fields, to herd the cattle, to harvest the grain. Men do this work until they die and the cycle seldom ever changes. And this day of course would be like any other if the heart of a certain man had not been sown with doubt. Doubt that he would be remembered after death, that his life would mean something more, doubt that even if he was a tiny, insignificant spec to the world that his being would still be remembered in myth and legend.

Across the world, in giant city that sits atop a lake, another, younger, bolder man awoke as well. His heart was callous and cold, having no natural affection for this world or its people. He was greedy, as all men are, yet he had not always been that way. This man’s hate and greed was the product of doubt, doubt that he was unloved, doubt that he would never be as good as the man that came before him, doubt that he was meaningless, doubt that he was nothing compared to the great men of this world.

These two men on this day both awoke with doubt in their heart, and their stories would be intertwined from this day forth. The sword strikes God in the heart, and the arrow pains Satan in the liver. The blooming white flower is drenched in foul water, yet it only grows stronger from its torment.

Hrmm Ha Hrmm

Tall, fit, dark haired and fair skinned was one way to describe the character of Garson Crowne of Tolk. Even at the age of forty-six he was physically capable of most tasks, yet still preferred to live simply. He lived now, in the village of Myyrth that was dug deep into the forest known as Isgrail. It was a simple village, populated by a tall, giant people with gray tinted skin and immense strength, but a deep-seated love of peace and all things that grow. Garson loved that about the giants and he shared their love of nature and life, and thus they had taken calling him “Tolkien” or “life-bringer”.

However, this morning, as the giant children woke up and began to plan their days; the man woke up and set off to packing. He strolled around his home that lay in the centre of the village. He looked around at the window pans, smiling, smelling the flowers and other plants that he had grown. He loved their beauty, their simplicity; he loved that they didn't have a care in the world besides surviving. He took a breath and then kneeled down, digging into a chest besides his rough looking bed. He pulled from it folded leather armor, scratches and scuffs on it as if it had seen many years of battle and war. He placed it on his bed, looking over it before pulling out a leather scabbard along with three tiny cloth pouches and a dagger. He placed all of these on the bed as well.

Standing now, he pulled from the chest leather paddings for his leg legs, and placed them on his well-fitting tan trousers. He pulled the leather armor over his loose white shirt, and strapped himself in after much effort. He put the dagger into a custom made scabbard built into the armor that lay on the lower left side of his torso, so that it was visible when looking at him from straight ahead. He tied the pouches to his right side, and taking the scabbard, unsheathed a sword that looked as if it had seen its share of combat. He smiled at it, looking at his distorted visage atop its metal blade. He sheathed it once more and securely fastened the scabbard to his left side.

After all was said and done, he smiled and looked at his reflection in a large mirror behind the main door of his house. 'Just like back in the day...' he smiled and muttered, modeling for himself in the mirror, rubbing his graying, stubbly beard. After a while of doing so he went back to the chest and pulled out a knapsack, throwing it on the bed. He walked towards the kitchen area, which was to the right of the house as opposed to the left where the bed was. Looking through the cupboards of his kitchen he found an assortment of tiny jars and pouches filled with dried out herbs and other such plants. He took them, stuffing them into the knapsack along with his blanket and pillow from atop his bed before tightening the thing so that nothing would fall out. He grabbed his light tan cloak and threw it on. He then proceeded to secure the knapsack onto his being, grabbed a long, oak staff that one would have presumed to be his walking stick, and set out into the world.

He smiled, and his giant neighbors waved, smiling at his approach as he walked northwards, towards the largest and oldest settlement of the giants. He took note of the fact that the giant village followed along a road that was long and shaped like a cross, with the newer, lesser giants at the bottom and the most important at the top. It was a curious thing to him and he always thought it over when he walked along the dirt road. He heard the giants talk and the children play, with the merry sound of “Hello Tolkien” filling the air and buzzing against his ear. He enjoyed being loved and he loved each and every giant back. Yet one he had more affection for than all the others combined. He was said to be the oldest and wisest of the giant people, having lived for nearly three hundred and forty five years according to some. It was said that Farin had in fact founded the village of Myyrth, but this was little more than myth as no one, not even Farin himself, could remember exactly.

But now as Garson walked up to Farins' house, the wrinkled, grayish giant wheezing and cackling with life and happiness. He rose from his wicker chair that sat on the porch of his house, and walked towards Garson. The human man was around six feet tall, yet the giant was around ten feet tall, wearing a brownish cloak and barefoot, shaking the earth as he walked. Garson was happy to see him as well, the giant picking him up with ease and hugging him tenderly. A look of happiness was on the giants face, yet still you could hear the sadness in his voice. “So my friend, you've decided, I take it?” He placed the man down, who dusted himself and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Yes, I'm afraid I have Farin.”

“But why?” The giant said, with pleading eyes now. “Ah, don't answer that...It's no business of mine. But oh my friend I will miss you.” He smiled and nodded, then, as if he had been hit by a mental brick, he sprung up. “Ah, I have just the parting gift...you'll love it...Yarin! YARIN!” He bellowed like thunder and Garson had to cover his ears or risk going deaf. “Ah, sorry, but that damned nephew of mine is nowhere to be seen. Probably off fraternizing with the women again. He'll end up like his father, I tell you. He'll end up just like ol' Darin, and that is to say, dead.”

A giant that was short for his size, with a greenish tint to his skin and light blondish hair stumbled from around the left corner. This was Yarin, the son of Darin, who was the brother of Farin. He was most certainly a giant of ill-repute. “What?” The ghastly thing uttered to its respectable uncle “I was...handling a very pressing matter.”

Farin looked at the boy-giant, and snarled. “Nonsense” he began shoving the youth towards his uncles’ gigantic home “I will have none of your lies in front of Tolkien. Now go and find my friends parting gift.” He shoved him once more and the youth disappeared into the house, the sound of stomping and clattering echoing out. Farins eyes went wide, shaking his head and sighing. “That boy won't come to any good, I tell you. By the time you come back, I swear he'll be the death of me.”

“When I get back?” Garson put his hands up and stopped him. He certainly wasn't attempting to put his friend down, and Farin took no offense, and the two shared a silent stare before breaking down into a friendly chuckle, but still something in Garson told him he wasn't going to come back in a long, long time. “Hrmm, but nonetheless, what is this gift?”

Farin chuckled and smiled widely. “Its elfwood leaves...I found them, four of them! Just sitting there one day in the meadow. I collected them and thought you'd like them if you ever did decide to go off.” Garson was pleasantly surprised and smiled, even going into hug his comrade. Elfwood, specifically its leaves, was a flowering plant known for its immense medicinal properties. It was a rare plant and when made into a tea it was said to bring grown men to tears at its delicacy and elegant tasted. Yarin came out just then, holding a silk, grass-green pouch that must have only been the size of a pebble to them, yet perfect size to Garson. He threw it to Farin, who snarled at the youth, and then the giant leader kneeled down and gave it to Garson. “I have the utmost confidence that you will use it wisely.”

Garson took the pouch then stored it in his knapsack. He hugged Farin once more, embracing him tenderly and smiling wide. Garson returned it as best he could and once the two were disconnected, Garson backed away and bowed. “Thank you, Farin of Myyrth...By the time, I get back, I reckon you'll still be breathing and going strong. I wish you luck.”

“And I wish you the same, Garson of Tolk...hopefully you will come back.” Farin bowed as well, and with that, no more words needed to be said. Garson headed southwards and turned to his left, heading west and deeper into the forest. The giants waved him as he departed, the man waving back, saddened that he had to leave his friends, the beings that he had spent nearly twenty years with, living and learning amongst them. It was heartbreaking, but still the man managed to press on, going further and further into the lush, dark green forest before finally the entirety of the village was lost behind him and the dirt road was nothing more than thickets of the dried out and fallen leaves.

As he walked through the forest, and came to an oak. It was a white oak, the tallest and oldest tree in the forest, the giants thought. And indeed it stood tall above all the rest. He came up to it, looking over it, touching it gently, connecting with it and the forest before coming to a mark in the tree. It was a mark in the shape of a circle with a smaller circle in the centre. It was nearly twenty years ago, but still he remembered passing this tree as a youth in the pouring rain, marking the tree so as not to lose his way. He took a deep breath and took out the dagger, marking next to his previous symbol, leaving only a large, unassuming and rather crude T before continuing on his way.

He continued on this way, heading west, distorting his path only slightly north along with west. He felt the life in the forest, taking note of the tiny squirrels and other rodents as they scurried around the forest floor. He listened to the trees as they whistled and bellowed, speaking to each other, sharing the secrets that only immense time can create. It was like any other nature walk for him, and as he walked along, pushing things out of the way with his large oak staff, the doubt grew in his heart, for doubt always grows in the hearts of man. Hours had passed before he settled to stop, the sun going down, painting the sky carmine red, a beautiful sight to most, but an upsetting, disturbing one to Garson. He setup camp in a clearing, placing down his knapsack and taking out his pillow and blanket, setting on the forest floor, folding his clock next to his pillow. He made a fire just as quickly, staying silent all the while, ignoring the red sky as best as possible as the moon and stars slowly began to appear.

Yet as the fire flickered and he nibbled on the apple he had found only a few metres away, the doubt inside of him grew like a parasite. He nibbled and munched on the light green, slightly golden coloured fruit and stared into the fire. He saw a battlefield in that fire, a battlefield covered in arrows and swords, bodies and blood. He saw it and felt it; he felt the cold of lifelessness, the fear of war and the pain of seeing death so close. It stuck with him and the carmine field and sky disturbed him. The images of war were jolted from his mind’s eye only after the hissing of a snake caught his attention. He looked around and found the serpent, hesitating, wondering if he should kill it. He looked at it with a serious look, as if it was something more than a snake, as if it was all his guilt and sin rolled into one bronze coloured serpent. He looked at it evilly, and then took it in his hand and the thought of simply chucking it in the fire crossed his mind more than once, but something held him back. Something stopped him as he took the creature and placed it quite ways away.

“What am I to do?” He said it aloud, staring into the fire once more, uncertain. 'I'm wondering out into the wilderness for nothing...I'm leaving my home and my friends for...for a pipe dream. Why? Why am I doing this? What is there out in the world for me?' He thought to himself, chewing over it, thinking it over. He was uncertain, he was doubtful of his choice. He didn't even know where he was going and that certainly is never a good thing when adventuring. He shook away from the fire once the battle called to him once more. He rubbed his face and stubbly beard, resolving to lie down and sleep, to find his way tomorrow. He did just that, laying on his side and letting his dreams – the dreams of the battlefield, with its arrows and swords and carmine sky – overtake him. Yet he could not escape the guilt or the sin, even in that dream.

[Astrolinium]

Wow.

As in "Wow, that's really contrived"?

Wow as in "Wow, that was quick". Based on when she posted "Good enough. Time to start writing." and when she posted the story, it only took about an hour and twenty minutes.

[The Weimar Republic]

As in "Wow, that's really contrived"?

Wow as in "Wow, that was quick". Based on when she posted "Good enough. Time to start writing." and when she posted the story, it only took about an hour and twenty minutes.

In that case, I agree. Wow.

[Westboro]

A small portion of a story I wrote. It's slightly over 5,000, but it needs to be to make sense. I cut like 2,000 words off (two whole "chapters" and the whole prologue) so forgive me for the lack of a real ending, with a 5,000 word limit it has to be that way. Were it 7,000...

“And so, Aurics, I believe it folly to do what this man would suggest. How can we defend our homes if we abandon them? Nay, I think that the Harni will crash against this stronghold like water upon a rock!” the village elder Garth the Wise finished. He was giving a speech to the elders of the Auric tribe.
“You don’t understand. The Burics were far better prepared for war against horse tribes than we are, and they were sent running. Not only, though, were they sent running—very few even had the chance to run, most were dead!” Alatheus exclaimed.
“Sir, you are suggesting that we order our people to leave everything they own and follow you. I’m not ready to take the chance that the Harni may never even come,” reasoned another elder.
“And, you’re proposing that we invade Gracia! The Eastern Vanadul Empire is the most powerful nation in the world, and Gracia is their most loyal and wealthy holding! There’s bound to be massive armies there!” chimed in another elder.
“But where there is loyalty and wealth in Vanadul there are spoils to be gained. Just by raiding we could easily afford a massive mercenary army which would protect us from the Vanadul armies,” explained Alatheus.
The more logical elder of the two currently fighting with Alatheus then proposed his own plan. “Why don’t we, instead of trying to settle in Gracia, raid outlying towns and use the money to fund a mercenary force to fight the Harni?”
Most of the elders agreed, though on the condition that the raids were fast and brutal, and Vanadul never knew that Aurics conducted them.
“Why not take it to the People to decide? I’m sure that they would know what is better for their own families than a few old men who sit in these chairs all their days,” proposed Alatheus rather rudely, as he was getting angry.
In their own certainty of victory, the elders agreed and the matter was taken before the assembled people, mostly men who had either come with Alatheus or moved to Saremia in order to scrape up a living after the Buric raids. Alatheus was allowed to give the first speech.
“Men of Aurica! You have come here for one reason—to protect your families! Whether you are Auric Highlander like my own people that came with me, Wesarric like those who were hit hardest by the Buric raids, or even a Saremian who came to hear the results of my little debate with the Council, you have in mind the common purpose of the defence of your homeland. Now, I will tell all of you why I am here today talking with the Council. It has come to my attention that a vicious horse-tribe from the east forced the Burics out of their land. This horse-tribe, which as you should all know is a tribe that lives and dies by its horses, in all the stories we hear from Buric prisoners, is said to be strange-looking, with slanted eyes and yellowed skin. In addition, they use bows bent the wrong way and with those bows they can kill men from hundreds of yards away, without dismounting their horse. Now, we have dealt with horse-tribes like that before, though usually they aren’t that strange looking. However, there is one main difference between them and the other tribes we have fought—there are millions of them. All we consistently hear from the Burics, besides the normal descriptions of horse-tribes, is that when they charge you can see nothing but a massive wall of black-clothed men on dark horses firing arrows at you. One Buric even said that he watched them descend upon his village from the hill where he tended sheep, and their numbers obscured the whole valley. They produced such a dust-cloud, he said, that after they left when he went down with his sheep, the once-fertile, grass-covered valley was three feet lower and the dirt was all gone—all that was left was bare rock. Even allowing for exaggeration, does that sound like something that will “break like water upon a rock” when it hits Saremia, as Garth the Wise so eloquently puts it? I think not! I propose, men of Aurica, that we leave our homeland to the Harni, and find a new one. And, I propose that we make that new homeland in Gracia. This whole tribe can easily overcome the Vanadul forces in Gracia, and many veteran Vanadul soldiers turn to mercenary work once their tour of duty is over. With the money we get from raiding Gracian towns, we can hire some of these mercenaries and protect our new borders. Then, the Vanadul and Burics can fight the Harni, and we can guard our own lands more effectively. What say you, men of Aurica?”
The Highlanders cheered mightily, as did about 2/3 of the assembled tribesmen. This is a man who truly wants to defend our people, they thought. Next up for a speech was Garth the Wise. He made a short and offensive speech that basically mocked Alatheus and called him a coward. About half the tribesmen cheered, and of those about half again laughed openly at Alatheus. Refusing to stand to be mocked, Alatheus cried in old Vanadul a code word.
At this signal, the Highlanders pulled out their shortswords, as did Alatheus. He declared that the Highland clans, as well as whoever would follow him, we now independent from the Federation, and to enforce his claim he held his sword to Garth’s neck. The Alathani (Followers of Alatheus) then marched to the gates, took their weapons from the gatekeepers, and then proceeded to gallop about the land trying to recruit men for their cause. The Great Auric Schism, as it has been called, split clans in two. It tore apart Auric families and deeply divided the tribe. However, for the idealistic followers of Alatheus, the end justified the means.
Alatheus’s aide-de-camp, Ricgard the Honourable, came to him just as the sun came over the Auric Mountains and began to show on the frozen, snow-covered Alathani encampment.
“M’lord, we’ve hardly any rations left. The men are starved and freezing. We need more food and clothing.”
“I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that in Winæteropoulis there is a massive store of food and equipment bound for the Vanadul legions.”
“Sir, that’s across the river. How can we get to it? The only bridge is guarded by four full Vanadul legions. There’s no way past them.”
“Then we shall make a way through them.”
The army then went south, to the Janbale Bridge.
As the Alathani army formed the standard Vanadul bridge-taking formation (many of them had previously served in the Vanadul army as Foederati), Alatheus surveyed the Vanadul lines. Having seen the Aurics coming over the hills, the Vanadul had prepared a very large shieldwall right at the end of the bridge, with huge numbers of javelinmen and archers behind the line. Their cavalry was on the flanks, and it seemed as though they were planning to barrage the Alathani with arrows before the lines met and the cavalry could charge the flanks.
“Standard hammer-and-anvil tactics,” Alatheus sighed. Hammer-and-anvil tactics had been used for centuries and were well known. However, they worked, and despite being well known nobody really could think of a way to counteract them, and thus they prevailed as the standard Vanadul tactical formation. Alatheus knew that the relatively small force he had would never be able to take such a well-defended bridge unless the gods themselves fought for the Alathani. However, he had to try, since otherwise his army would just desert him.
“Men of Aurica, today is a good day to die!” he began his pre-battle speech, “The Vanadul with their evil communal ways sit across the bridge. To protect your people, you must fight today. I understand that you are weary, hungry, and poorly equipped. Within that fortress is food and clothing. Let’s go get it!”
The men cheered, and despite their previously well-disciplined formations they surged forward in one massive wave. Swords, spears, and even clubs waved in the air, as everything from javelins to bows to rocks flew at the Vanadul shieldwall. Alatheus and his cavalry sat back and watched the chaos. The Vanadul hadn’t fought a truly “barbaric” enemy in hundreds of years—the Aurics would be plenty barbaric for them.
The Aurics charged across the bridge, weapons and helms gleaming. The Vanadul wavered a bit. No enemy had ever shown the courage that these ten thousand men were now showing. Twenty thousand Vanadul against ten thousand Aurics—and the Aurics were charging. Never had any of the Vanadul soldiers seen such a sight as the heroic Auric charge. Basically, it quite literally scared the crap out of them. The line shuddered with anticipation of the impending fight. The Vanadul legions were green; the army consisted new recruits who had been pressed into service following the Buric migration in order to defend against the Harni. However, the Harni had been delayed in their invasion by the remaining Aurics, and most of the legions along the Janbale had been redeployed. The result was that only four green legions guarded the Janbale Bridge. Four five-thousand-man legions, though, could easily defeat the ten thousand-some Aurics. Especially on a bridge. At least, that’s how the Vanadul commander Delius Cratianus reassured himself.
Alatheus watched as his men hit the Vanadul line. The obviously inexperienced Vanadul were beginning to falter under the heroics of the Auric warriors. However, the weight of numbers that the Vanadul had was showing. As the ranks thinned, Alatheus decided that he now could do no more good watching, and he waded into the fray with his cavalry. His long green cloak waving in the wind, his spear levelled, his armour shining brightly in the sunlight, Alatheus charged as his infantry were absorbed into the Vanadul line and the Vanadul cavalry began to skirt around the infantry. When the Vanadul cavalry hit the Auric infantry, the Auric cavalry hit the rear of the Vanadul cavalry, crushing it. However, many Auric infantrymen were dying. Alatheus tried to survey the field and decide whether or not to retreat, when he heard his aide Ricgard’s horse scream. Moments later, his own horse went down, an arrow in his neck. Alatheus spun around, seeing most of his cavalrymen dismounting and hiding beneath their shields from a massive volley of arrows. The Vanadul archers wreaked havoc among the Auric cavalry, and many of the once-heroic Aurics decided to flee the field. Alatheus, with Vanadul closing in, tried to rally his troops, but as he raised his arm and began to shout for his men to come back, he was struck on the back of the head and everything stopped. He fell to the ground, nearly being trampled by the rush of Aurics away from the fight.
Alatheus awoke feeling and smelling like crap. The feeling was due to being smashed on the back of the head with a club. The smell was due to the fact he was sitting in a pile of crap.
“Mornin’, sleepin’ beau’y!” called a heavily accented man from a circle of barbarians nearby, “’ow are ye?”
“I feel like I was just beaten with a club. Perhaps because I was,” Alatheus responded.
“Well, I’d love te say thet ye’ll be fine now, bet the problem is ye won’t. Ye’re in a Vanadel prison camp, ye are,” explained the man, “My name be Dergyll ap Cymwyr. I’m a Wealic chieftain, captured by this legion about five years ago while they were on campaign in Wealannia. Ne’er seen a way out o’ ‘ere since, ‘ave I.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Alatheus said dryly.
“Ain’t it?” Dergyll queried jokingly. “Well, I’d like te introduce ye te me lackeys ‘ere. This ‘ere is Aeron,” Dergyll said pointing at a middle-aged, but fit-looking, Wealic warrior. “an’ this be Ermanaric the Young,” he continued, putting his hand on the shoulder of a very young Buric lad of about fourteen. “’ere’s me laddie Crispus,” he explained, pointing to a tall man of muscular build wearing the full muscled bull hide cuirass of a Vanadul Dux, as well as the red cloak of such a leader and the red-plumed helm of said officer. “I was talkin’ te ‘im ‘fore ye woke. Fin’ly, I think ye know this guy, Ricgard the Auric,” he finished as the tall, burly, grey-cloaked frame of Ricgard came into view.
“Hey, Ricky!” Alatheus exclaimed.
“Yeah, I was taken down right after you. Actually, I believe I fell on top of you,” Ricgard answered.
Crispus came forward and shook Alatheus’ hand. “It is good to meet you, Your Majesty. Come, we must speak.”
The group sat back down on a circle of logs. Alatheus sat next to Crispus, who then tended the fire, on which roasted a leg of mutton. Crispus then spoke again.
“I will repeat my proposal for Alatheus’ benefit. I propose that my mercenary army, which is about the size of this Vanadul army, join the Aurics and help them gain a homeland. Any prisoners who wish to come may come. In return, my army will be granted small plots of land and be allowed to stay in the new Auric land. I expect no payment, only the right to settle once we gain a homeland. My men are mostly former Vanadul citizens, who rebelled against Dictator Thalius and captured the town of Winæteropoulis. We then raided the town and set fire to it, fleeing from the Vanadul authorities. We saw what your Aurics did from the hill over there,” Crispus motioned to a nearby hill, “and we were shocked. About ten thousand, it seemed, against about twenty thousand men? Impossible, I thought. I decided to come down here and see for myself. I found out about the casualties as well, from a drunken guard. They counted almost ten thousand Vanadul dead, mostly cavalry and light infantry, and just one thousand Aurics dead and one thousand captured, mostly light infantry and spearmen. Because of those casualties, I just had to offer you my services. Your eight thousand Aurics will be supplemented by about four thousand former Vanadul legionaries and two thousand former Vanadul peasants, in addition to whoever wants to join from this prison camp, I’m guessing about two thousand non-Aurics and all the Aurics.”
Alatheus listened intently, sucked on his lip for a bit in thought, and then spoke. “I will accept. We must first get out of this camp, however.”
Crispus had a plan.
In the cold, dark night a rider came to the door of Crispus Victor’s little hut. The black-clad man unhorsed, knocked on the door, and waited. Crispus came to the door and opened it. The man pulled out a piece of paper. Upon the paper was written:

Crispus read the paper, and drew his sword. Though the black cloaked man had a sword also, the military-trained Crispus was faster. The man, before he died, screamed at the top of his lungs. Crispus, looking around, realised that every house had, in front of the door, the owner of said house, as well as a black cloaked man holding a similar decree as the one Crispus now held. All the black cloaked men then looked at Crispus and drew their swords, most of them killing the man whom they were then speaking to. Within minutes, the city was in utter chaos. A double-strength legion marched into the city as people killed the black-cloaked riders and gathered their possessions. Eventually, with Crispus at the head, the people of Winæteropoulis fled out the other gate, setting the city aflame and running for their lives. The legion in the city tried to give chase, but was decimated when an explosion rocked the city. Apparently, the fire had reached the tavern.
Crispus sat bolt-upright in his camp bed. The events of that night a few months ago were just too disturbing to continue remembering.






Alatheus and his cavalry steadied their “lances”. They were called lances for lack of a better term – in reality they were long sticks that had had the tips sharpened with a rock. That didn’t really cause any trouble, though, because their job was to charge some guards and look scary. They did a good job, too. When they got the signal from Dergyll on the other side of the camp, they charged forward, where the guardsmen who had been chased out of their guardhouse by Dergyll’s barbarian infantrymen ran right into them and were slaughtered by the infantry they ran into after seeing the “lancers.” After about five minutes, the guards were dead, the prisoners were running, and the Vanadul army was chasing them. On the bridge, the streaming thousands looked like the sands of time in an hourglass. Following the barbarians’ crossing of the bridge, the Vanadul stopped, unable to pursue for fear of ambush by the Aurics who had fled the field after the Battle of Janbale. After fleeing from the prison camp, Alatheus addressed the former prisoners.
“I know that you have just won your liberty, and if you choose to leave now then you may do so. However, any who wish to stay and join my army will be given weapons and armour to the best of our ability, and will have the promise of a place in the new Auric kingdom, once we have conquered a homeland. You need not stay if you so desire, yet if you do then you will be rewarded.”
Nearly all the prisoners shouted their approval. A few said something along the lines of “This is friggin’ ridiculous, why on earth would he ask that?” but the majority joined the Aurics. The Aurics, who will henceforth be called the Alathani due to the small number of actual Aurics in the army, then set up a bigger camp for the other men. The wolf banner of Alatheus was then hoisted, and despite the ramshackle and rudimentary equipment, the camp, for the first time, looked worthy of a real army. Crispus, taking with him a few of Alatheus’ best warriors in case of issues with guards, swam across the Janbale at night (a daunting task) and readied his own mercenary army for battle. The plan was that Crispus’ army would besiege the fort, and then while trying to break in the Alathani would rush to the other side of the fort with ladders. Then, the Alathani would run across the walls, capture some gates, and allow both armies’ cavalry to ride in. Finally, while the Alathani and the cavalry ran through the streets pillaging and slaughtering (for the fort had become a real village, with lots of people and shops), the Vanadul infantry would (hopefully) surrender to the mercenaries.












“My lord, our men are taking casualties! We can’t hold up the attack much longer!” Crispus’ aide screamed to him.
“Keep it going, Manius, not much more. They’ve almost had it, I can see. Al is almost over the walls, see? Once he gets on, he’ll send men to hit them from the rear,” Crispus explained.
“Yessir!” the diminutive Manius rapidly shot off. He turned on his heels and marched away on the double, his homespun Vanadul-style cloak swaying behind, and his short sword clinking on his chainmail habergeon. He hopped onto the little pony he rode (which fit his small stature perfectly) and galloped to the base of the fortress wall, where he told Magister Pedites Aruminius what Crispus had told him. Aruminius screwed up the order and had his infantry pull back and wait for the Alathani.
Alatheus and his cavalry stood at the crest of a hill and watched their infantry. The cavalry, since it couldn’t go on walls, was worthless for now. So, it was serving as an advance guard and scouting force for Alatheus, who needed to see the “chink in the armour” as he put it. The silver-helmeted Highland Guard were the first to come across the bridge. They ran forward with ladders over their shoulders, their mail jangling and spears shining. Many were shot down by Vanadul arrows, but those not carrying the ladders held their leather-bound shields afore those carrying ladders, negating the volley, for the most part. Next came the former prisoners, wearing armour ranging from steel Vanadul helms and cuirasses to naught but skin. They wielded a variety of weapons, and were relatively disorganised. However, they had a definite cause, and were good warriors. After them came the rest of the Aurics, with four siege towers and ten more ladders. The Alathani charged as fast as possible, but lost many warriors due to the retreat of Crispus’ mercenaries and the subsequent moving of the Vanadul soldiers to confront the Alathani.

















Crispus walked in the carnage of the once-great fortress at the Janbale Bridge. His army waited far off for his return. Once he had been satisfied of there being no survivor in the ash-covered ruins, he returned, his scarlet cloak flapping in the wind and causing a cloud of ash to rise behind him.
“Imperator, what are your orders?” Manius, his aide, asked him.
“We ride south. If we hit a major town, we shall raid it and return to the army. If we encounter Vanadul soldiers first, we return across the bridge and order the retreat of our forces,” Crispus answered.
“Aye, Imperator, it shall be done,” Manius replied. Then he rode off to ready the mercenary cavalry and the Alathani for the ride south.
Crispus swung himself over his saddle, sat in it, adjusted his cloak and cuirass, unhooked his sword from his belt, hooked it to the side of his saddle, and rode after the aide toward his cavalry at a gallop. The Gracian countryside was green and happy; soon it would not be so. After meeting with his cavalry, Crispus rode towards Marcipa, the nearest large settlement. It took several days to get there, but at last the scouting cavalry reached their destination. Once they reached the walls, a Marcipan elder came out to see who the people flying Crispus’ and Alatheus’ flags of the wolf and the lion, respectively, were and why the obviously Vanadul equipped cavalry were not flying the Vanadul banner, which has an eagle with a hammer in its mouth sitting upon a sickle.
“Speak, stranger,” the man, who Crispus assumed was the chief elder, beckoned.
“Ave. My name is Crispus Victor, a general of the Auric tribe. I was formerly a Vanadul general, and from there my name and station comes, but after the Decree my whole village rebelled under my lead. If you will, you may join us. If you find that loyalty to the Empire is more important than your own rights, then you will be destroyed,” Crispus declared.
“I must convene with the other elders,” said the elder in a wise old voice.
“Then you have four hours. Anything more than that and you must understand that we will be forced to either take refuge in or raid your town,” Crispus warned.
“It is understood,” confirmed the elder.
“Then when we attack you shall not be surprised,” Crispus said as he rode off with his retinue.
The elder hobbled back into town while Crispus rode back to his men. The scouts set up camp outside the walls, and then had a meeting.
“Frankly, I don’t think we can take the town. If we are turned away, then we’ll have to leave, because we can’t get through those walls. The Marcipani can send out riders and have a Vanadul force here within days. Add that to the walls, and we end up stuck between a hostile village and an army,” Manius told the assembled cavalrymen.
“Hear, hear. We are cavalrymen. We don’t have experience in ways of sieges. No, we must go back or find an undefended city. We’ve no chance,” A cavalryman agreed.
Crispus nodded. “We have to turn back. A Vanadul legion will already be on its way. Gracia is just too strong for us. Alatheus will not be pleased, but there is little that I can do.”
A few hours later, the Marcipan elder came back and told them that they would not be joining them, but could provide some provisions. Crispus accepted and the cavalry rode back north to the Alathani camp the next day. Alatheus cursed at the bad luck, but seeing that the situation was hopeless he authorised the construction of another fort, on top of the old one, and a guardhouse on the other side of the bridge. At that bridge would he start a new Auric kingdom, and there he would rule.

















The sun shone through the window of the Royal Court at Alathaea as Alatheus awoke. He sprung out of bed and swung open his curtains, looking out at the snow-covered town, where people were putting up decorations and preparing for Schismain, the celebration of the Schism with the Auric Federation. Alatheus washed, quickly dressed himself, and went downstairs to join the pre-celebration festivities. Upon leaving the Court, however, he was awestruck – he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her blue eyes shone from her beautiful face rimmed with golden locks, which waved in the wind and shone with the radiance of the sun. He went over to her, introduced himself (rather stupidly, for he WAS her king, after all), and kissed her hand, bowing low. She giggled and introduced herself as Petrasia, saying that she was the daughter of Dergyll ap Cymwyr, the Wealic chieftain Alatheus had earlier met in prison. Alatheus pressed her for more information, and discovered to his joy that she was not engaged. What luck! Alatheus, now thrilled, ran to Dergyll’s house and asked him for Petrasia’s hand in marriage. He agreed, and the wedding was scheduled for immediately after Schismain.
The festival was a fine one. At high noon, the festivities officially commenced, and there was much rejoicing. Singing and dancing became the order of the day, and no matter what happened, it seemed, the happiness of the Alathani could not be dampened. Then came the wedding. Crispus oversaw the wedding and married Alatheus and Petrasia. During the post-wedding celebration, a sound was heard.
A crowd of horses stopped outside the gate. A soldier sprinted up a ladder and looked out. The guardhouse was aflame, a huge army marching under the yellow hawk banner of the Auric Federation and the green boar banner of Gautertit, an Auric chieftain. Alatheus readied his horse and waved to Ricgard to accompany him and carry his banner.
“Stay here and DO NOT FOLLOW,” he said to Petrasia sternly, buckling his sword onto his ceremonial armour. Petrasia began to cry as he galloped away to meet with Gautertit.
“Hello, dear brother. It is nice to see you again,” Gautertit greeted Alatheus with that smile that makes you want to strangle the wearer.
“What do you want, Gautertit?” Alatheus bluntly interrogated, with an obvious attitude of annoyance and anger.
“I want to tell you how much you have helped me. I am now the head of the Auric tribes, thanks to you. We all knew that the Harni would invade soon, and your departure left me the chief of the most powerful tribe. So, when the Harni did come, who they the people come to? Me, of course. I declared myself King of the Auric Confederacy and struck a deal with the Harni. In return for help invading Gracia, they would bypass our lands. Then, when almost all the Aurics had joined me, I struck another deal with the Vanadul, that in return for aid against the Harni they would allow me to “settle” in Gracia. Of course, I intend to honour neither agreement, but you stand in the way of progress, and thus you will be destroyed,” Gautertit gloated. “Now, men, seize them!”
The Auric warriors grabbed Alatheus and Ricgard, pulled them off their horses, and spun them around to face Alathaea.
“NO! Take me instead,” a woman cried. Petrasia was running to Alatheus!
“Stay back Petrasia! I will fight my way out! STAY BACK! Go back to the city! Stop!” Alatheus screamed to no avail. She kept running, and Gautertit raised his arm with that sick smile from before. Upon swinging his arm down, a line of archers stepped forward and fired a volley, killing Petrasia instantly.
“NO! You will die, Gautertit, at my hands!” Alatheus screamed, furious (for obvious reasons). He broke free of the Aurics holding him, and strangled one. He then pulled out his sword and stabbed the other in the gut. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating everyone. Ricgard also broke free and pulled out his sword. The mob of Auric soldiers behind Gautertit then stepped forward with spears. Alatheus lunged for Gautertit, and was stabbed by several soldiers. He still kept fighting, and killed seven more Auric warriors. Ricgard then fell, and a new rage rose within him. He jammed his sword into the heart of Gautertit’s horse, forcing Gautertit to get off and become vulnerable. Alatheus chopped off Gautertit’s sword arm, before being stabbed about eighteen times with the warriors’ spears and eventually doubling over, unable to do any more.
“You mad, bro?” Gautertit asked, laughing maniacally. “You have one day to pack up the necessary belongings and leave the town as-is to us, the Gautertani. You must turn over all weapons and you may only take one month’s rations.”
Alatheus crawled in the dust over to Ricgard. Discovering a pulse, he dragged Ricgard over to Petrasia’s corpse. There was no hope. Alatheus then dragged Ricgard toward the town, from whence Crispus was riding with two horses – one for him and Petrasia’s corpse and the other for Ricgard and Alatheus. The sight of the King of the Alathani crawling in the dirt caused Gautertit and his mentally deformed scum of followers to laugh.

[Conserative Morality]

A small portion of a story I wrote. It's slightly over 5,000, but it needs to be to make sense. I cut like 2,000 words off (two whole "chapters" and the whole prologue) so forgive me for the lack of a real ending, with a 5,000 word limit it has to be that way. Were it 7,000...

“And so, Aurics, I believe it folly to do what this man would suggest. How can we defend our homes if we abandon them? Nay, I think that the Harni will crash against this stronghold like water upon a rock!” the village elder Garth the Wise finished. He was giving a speech to the elders of the Auric tribe.
“You don’t understand. The Burics were far better prepared for war against horse tribes than we are, and they were sent running. Not only, though, were they sent running—very few even had the chance to run, most were dead!” Alatheus exclaimed.
“Sir, you are suggesting that we order our people to leave everything they own and follow you. I’m not ready to take the chance that the Harni may never even come,” reasoned another elder.
“And, you’re proposing that we invade Gracia! The Eastern Vanadul Empire is the most powerful nation in the world, and Gracia is their most loyal and wealthy holding! There’s bound to be massive armies there!” chimed in another elder.
“But where there is loyalty and wealth in Vanadul there are spoils to be gained. Just by raiding we could easily afford a massive mercenary army which would protect us from the Vanadul armies,” explained Alatheus.
The more logical elder of the two currently fighting with Alatheus then proposed his own plan. “Why don’t we, instead of trying to settle in Gracia, raid outlying towns and use the money to fund a mercenary force to fight the Harni?”
Most of the elders agreed, though on the condition that the raids were fast and brutal, and Vanadul never knew that Aurics conducted them.
“Why not take it to the People to decide? I’m sure that they would know what is better for their own families than a few old men who sit in these chairs all their days,” proposed Alatheus rather rudely, as he was getting angry.
In their own certainty of victory, the elders agreed and the matter was taken before the assembled people, mostly men who had either come with Alatheus or moved to Saremia in order to scrape up a living after the Buric raids. Alatheus was allowed to give the first speech.
“Men of Aurica! You have come here for one reason—to protect your families! Whether you are Auric Highlander like my own people that came with me, Wesarric like those who were hit hardest by the Buric raids, or even a Saremian who came to hear the results of my little debate with the Council, you have in mind the common purpose of the defence of your homeland. Now, I will tell all of you why I am here today talking with the Council. It has come to my attention that a vicious horse-tribe from the east forced the Burics out of their land. This horse-tribe, which as you should all know is a tribe that lives and dies by its horses, in all the stories we hear from Buric prisoners, is said to be strange-looking, with slanted eyes and yellowed skin. In addition, they use bows bent the wrong way and with those bows they can kill men from hundreds of yards away, without dismounting their horse. Now, we have dealt with horse-tribes like that before, though usually they aren’t that strange looking. However, there is one main difference between them and the other tribes we have fought—there are millions of them. All we consistently hear from the Burics, besides the normal descriptions of horse-tribes, is that when they charge you can see nothing but a massive wall of black-clothed men on dark horses firing arrows at you. One Buric even said that he watched them descend upon his village from the hill where he tended sheep, and their numbers obscured the whole valley. They produced such a dust-cloud, he said, that after they left when he went down with his sheep, the once-fertile, grass-covered valley was three feet lower and the dirt was all gone—all that was left was bare rock. Even allowing for exaggeration, does that sound like something that will “break like water upon a rock” when it hits Saremia, as Garth the Wise so eloquently puts it? I think not! I propose, men of Aurica, that we leave our homeland to the Harni, and find a new one. And, I propose that we make that new homeland in Gracia. This whole tribe can easily overcome the Vanadul forces in Gracia, and many veteran Vanadul soldiers turn to mercenary work once their tour of duty is over. With the money we get from raiding Gracian towns, we can hire some of these mercenaries and protect our new borders. Then, the Vanadul and Burics can fight the Harni, and we can guard our own lands more effectively. What say you, men of Aurica?”
The Highlanders cheered mightily, as did about 2/3 of the assembled tribesmen. This is a man who truly wants to defend our people, they thought. Next up for a speech was Garth the Wise. He made a short and offensive speech that basically mocked Alatheus and called him a coward. About half the tribesmen cheered, and of those about half again laughed openly at Alatheus. Refusing to stand to be mocked, Alatheus cried in old Vanadul a code word.
At this signal, the Highlanders pulled out their shortswords, as did Alatheus. He declared that the Highland clans, as well as whoever would follow him, we now independent from the Federation, and to enforce his claim he held his sword to Garth’s neck. The Alathani (Followers of Alatheus) then marched to the gates, took their weapons from the gatekeepers, and then proceeded to gallop about the land trying to recruit men for their cause. The Great Auric Schism, as it has been called, split clans in two. It tore apart Auric families and deeply divided the tribe. However, for the idealistic followers of Alatheus, the end justified the means.
Alatheus’s aide-de-camp, Ricgard the Honourable, came to him just as the sun came over the Auric Mountains and began to show on the frozen, snow-covered Alathani encampment.
“M’lord, we’ve hardly any rations left. The men are starved and freezing. We need more food and clothing.”
“I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that in Winæteropoulis there is a massive store of food and equipment bound for the Vanadul legions.”
“Sir, that’s across the river. How can we get to it? The only bridge is guarded by four full Vanadul legions. There’s no way past them.”
“Then we shall make a way through them.”
The army then went south, to the Janbale Bridge.
As the Alathani army formed the standard Vanadul bridge-taking formation (many of them had previously served in the Vanadul army as Foederati), Alatheus surveyed the Vanadul lines. Having seen the Aurics coming over the hills, the Vanadul had prepared a very large shieldwall right at the end of the bridge, with huge numbers of javelinmen and archers behind the line. Their cavalry was on the flanks, and it seemed as though they were planning to barrage the Alathani with arrows before the lines met and the cavalry could charge the flanks.
“Standard hammer-and-anvil tactics,” Alatheus sighed. Hammer-and-anvil tactics had been used for centuries and were well known. However, they worked, and despite being well known nobody really could think of a way to counteract them, and thus they prevailed as the standard Vanadul tactical formation. Alatheus knew that the relatively small force he had would never be able to take such a well-defended bridge unless the gods themselves fought for the Alathani. However, he had to try, since otherwise his army would just desert him.
“Men of Aurica, today is a good day to die!” he began his pre-battle speech, “The Vanadul with their evil communal ways sit across the bridge. To protect your people, you must fight today. I understand that you are weary, hungry, and poorly equipped. Within that fortress is food and clothing. Let’s go get it!”
The men cheered, and despite their previously well-disciplined formations they surged forward in one massive wave. Swords, spears, and even clubs waved in the air, as everything from javelins to bows to rocks flew at the Vanadul shieldwall. Alatheus and his cavalry sat back and watched the chaos. The Vanadul hadn’t fought a truly “barbaric” enemy in hundreds of years—the Aurics would be plenty barbaric for them.
The Aurics charged across the bridge, weapons and helms gleaming. The Vanadul wavered a bit. No enemy had ever shown the courage that these ten thousand men were now showing. Twenty thousand Vanadul against ten thousand Aurics—and the Aurics were charging. Never had any of the Vanadul soldiers seen such a sight as the heroic Auric charge. Basically, it quite literally scared the crap out of them. The line shuddered with anticipation of the impending fight. The Vanadul legions were green; the army consisted new recruits who had been pressed into service following the Buric migration in order to defend against the Harni. However, the Harni had been delayed in their invasion by the remaining Aurics, and most of the legions along the Janbale had been redeployed. The result was that only four green legions guarded the Janbale Bridge. Four five-thousand-man legions, though, could easily defeat the ten thousand-some Aurics. Especially on a bridge. At least, that’s how the Vanadul commander Delius Cratianus reassured himself.
Alatheus watched as his men hit the Vanadul line. The obviously inexperienced Vanadul were beginning to falter under the heroics of the Auric warriors. However, the weight of numbers that the Vanadul had was showing. As the ranks thinned, Alatheus decided that he now could do no more good watching, and he waded into the fray with his cavalry. His long green cloak waving in the wind, his spear levelled, his armour shining brightly in the sunlight, Alatheus charged as his infantry were absorbed into the Vanadul line and the Vanadul cavalry began to skirt around the infantry. When the Vanadul cavalry hit the Auric infantry, the Auric cavalry hit the rear of the Vanadul cavalry, crushing it. However, many Auric infantrymen were dying. Alatheus tried to survey the field and decide whether or not to retreat, when he heard his aide Ricgard’s horse scream. Moments later, his own horse went down, an arrow in his neck. Alatheus spun around, seeing most of his cavalrymen dismounting and hiding beneath their shields from a massive volley of arrows. The Vanadul archers wreaked havoc among the Auric cavalry, and many of the once-heroic Aurics decided to flee the field. Alatheus, with Vanadul closing in, tried to rally his troops, but as he raised his arm and began to shout for his men to come back, he was struck on the back of the head and everything stopped. He fell to the ground, nearly being trampled by the rush of Aurics away from the fight.
Alatheus awoke feeling and smelling like crap. The feeling was due to being smashed on the back of the head with a club. The smell was due to the fact he was sitting in a pile of crap.
“Mornin’, sleepin’ beau’y!” called a heavily accented man from a circle of barbarians nearby, “’ow are ye?”
“I feel like I was just beaten with a club. Perhaps because I was,” Alatheus responded.
“Well, I’d love te say thet ye’ll be fine now, bet the problem is ye won’t. Ye’re in a Vanadel prison camp, ye are,” explained the man, “My name be Dergyll ap Cymwyr. I’m a Wealic chieftain, captured by this legion about five years ago while they were on campaign in Wealannia. Ne’er seen a way out o’ ‘ere since, ‘ave I.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Alatheus said dryly.
“Ain’t it?” Dergyll queried jokingly. “Well, I’d like te introduce ye te me lackeys ‘ere. This ‘ere is Aeron,” Dergyll said pointing at a middle-aged, but fit-looking, Wealic warrior. “an’ this be Ermanaric the Young,” he continued, putting his hand on the shoulder of a very young Buric lad of about fourteen. “’ere’s me laddie Crispus,” he explained, pointing to a tall man of muscular build wearing the full muscled bull hide cuirass of a Vanadul Dux, as well as the red cloak of such a leader and the red-plumed helm of said officer. “I was talkin’ te ‘im ‘fore ye woke. Fin’ly, I think ye know this guy, Ricgard the Auric,” he finished as the tall, burly, grey-cloaked frame of Ricgard came into view.
“Hey, Ricky!” Alatheus exclaimed.
“Yeah, I was taken down right after you. Actually, I believe I fell on top of you,” Ricgard answered.
Crispus came forward and shook Alatheus’ hand. “It is good to meet you, Your Majesty. Come, we must speak.”
The group sat back down on a circle of logs. Alatheus sat next to Crispus, who then tended the fire, on which roasted a leg of mutton. Crispus then spoke again.
“I will repeat my proposal for Alatheus’ benefit. I propose that my mercenary army, which is about the size of this Vanadul army, join the Aurics and help them gain a homeland. Any prisoners who wish to come may come. In return, my army will be granted small plots of land and be allowed to stay in the new Auric land. I expect no payment, only the right to settle once we gain a homeland. My men are mostly former Vanadul citizens, who rebelled against Dictator Thalius and captured the town of Winæteropoulis. We then raided the town and set fire to it, fleeing from the Vanadul authorities. We saw what your Aurics did from the hill over there,” Crispus motioned to a nearby hill, “and we were shocked. About ten thousand, it seemed, against about twenty thousand men? Impossible, I thought. I decided to come down here and see for myself. I found out about the casualties as well, from a drunken guard. They counted almost ten thousand Vanadul dead, mostly cavalry and light infantry, and just one thousand Aurics dead and one thousand captured, mostly light infantry and spearmen. Because of those casualties, I just had to offer you my services. Your eight thousand Aurics will be supplemented by about four thousand former Vanadul legionaries and two thousand former Vanadul peasants, in addition to whoever wants to join from this prison camp, I’m guessing about two thousand non-Aurics and all the Aurics.”
Alatheus listened intently, sucked on his lip for a bit in thought, and then spoke. “I will accept. We must first get out of this camp, however.”
Crispus had a plan.
In the cold, dark night a rider came to the door of Crispus Victor’s little hut. The black-clad man unhorsed, knocked on the door, and waited. Crispus came to the door and opened it. The man pulled out a piece of paper. Upon the paper was written:

Crispus read the paper, and drew his sword. Though the black cloaked man had a sword also, the military-trained Crispus was faster. The man, before he died, screamed at the top of his lungs. Crispus, looking around, realised that every house had, in front of the door, the owner of said house, as well as a black cloaked man holding a similar decree as the one Crispus now held. All the black cloaked men then looked at Crispus and drew their swords, most of them killing the man whom they were then speaking to. Within minutes, the city was in utter chaos. A double-strength legion marched into the city as people killed the black-cloaked riders and gathered their possessions. Eventually, with Crispus at the head, the people of Winæteropoulis fled out the other gate, setting the city aflame and running for their lives. The legion in the city tried to give chase, but was decimated when an explosion rocked the city. Apparently, the fire had reached the tavern.
Crispus sat bolt-upright in his camp bed. The events of that night a few months ago were just too disturbing to continue remembering.






Alatheus and his cavalry steadied their “lances”. They were called lances for lack of a better term – in reality they were long sticks that had had the tips sharpened with a rock. That didn’t really cause any trouble, though, because their job was to charge some guards and look scary. They did a good job, too. When they got the signal from Dergyll on the other side of the camp, they charged forward, where the guardsmen who had been chased out of their guardhouse by Dergyll’s barbarian infantrymen ran right into them and were slaughtered by the infantry they ran into after seeing the “lancers.” After about five minutes, the guards were dead, the prisoners were running, and the Vanadul army was chasing them. On the bridge, the streaming thousands looked like the sands of time in an hourglass. Following the barbarians’ crossing of the bridge, the Vanadul stopped, unable to pursue for fear of ambush by the Aurics who had fled the field after the Battle of Janbale. After fleeing from the prison camp, Alatheus addressed the former prisoners.
“I know that you have just won your liberty, and if you choose to leave now then you may do so. However, any who wish to stay and join my army will be given weapons and armour to the best of our ability, and will have the promise of a place in the new Auric kingdom, once we have conquered a homeland. You need not stay if you so desire, yet if you do then you will be rewarded.”
Nearly all the prisoners shouted their approval. A few said something along the lines of “This is friggin’ ridiculous, why on earth would he ask that?” but the majority joined the Aurics. The Aurics, who will henceforth be called the Alathani due to the small number of actual Aurics in the army, then set up a bigger camp for the other men. The wolf banner of Alatheus was then hoisted, and despite the ramshackle and rudimentary equipment, the camp, for the first time, looked worthy of a real army. Crispus, taking with him a few of Alatheus’ best warriors in case of issues with guards, swam across the Janbale at night (a daunting task) and readied his own mercenary army for battle. The plan was that Crispus’ army would besiege the fort, and then while trying to break in the Alathani would rush to the other side of the fort with ladders. Then, the Alathani would run across the walls, capture some gates, and allow both armies’ cavalry to ride in. Finally, while the Alathani and the cavalry ran through the streets pillaging and slaughtering (for the fort had become a real village, with lots of people and shops), the Vanadul infantry would (hopefully) surrender to the mercenaries.












“My lord, our men are taking casualties! We can’t hold up the attack much longer!” Crispus’ aide screamed to him.
“Keep it going, Manius, not much more. They’ve almost had it, I can see. Al is almost over the walls, see? Once he gets on, he’ll send men to hit them from the rear,” Crispus explained.
“Yessir!” the diminutive Manius rapidly shot off. He turned on his heels and marched away on the double, his homespun Vanadul-style cloak swaying behind, and his short sword clinking on his chainmail habergeon. He hopped onto the little pony he rode (which fit his small stature perfectly) and galloped to the base of the fortress wall, where he told Magister Pedites Aruminius what Crispus had told him. Aruminius screwed up the order and had his infantry pull back and wait for the Alathani.
Alatheus and his cavalry stood at the crest of a hill and watched their infantry. The cavalry, since it couldn’t go on walls, was worthless for now. So, it was serving as an advance guard and scouting force for Alatheus, who needed to see the “chink in the armour” as he put it. The silver-helmeted Highland Guard were the first to come across the bridge. They ran forward with ladders over their shoulders, their mail jangling and spears shining. Many were shot down by Vanadul arrows, but those not carrying the ladders held their leather-bound shields afore those carrying ladders, negating the volley, for the most part. Next came the former prisoners, wearing armour ranging from steel Vanadul helms and cuirasses to naught but skin. They wielded a variety of weapons, and were relatively disorganised. However, they had a definite cause, and were good warriors. After them came the rest of the Aurics, with four siege towers and ten more ladders. The Alathani charged as fast as possible, but lost many warriors due to the retreat of Crispus’ mercenaries and the subsequent moving of the Vanadul soldiers to confront the Alathani.

















Crispus walked in the carnage of the once-great fortress at the Janbale Bridge. His army waited far off for his return. Once he had been satisfied of there being no survivor in the ash-covered ruins, he returned, his scarlet cloak flapping in the wind and causing a cloud of ash to rise behind him.
“Imperator, what are your orders?” Manius, his aide, asked him.
“We ride south. If we hit a major town, we shall raid it and return to the army. If we encounter Vanadul soldiers first, we return across the bridge and order the retreat of our forces,” Crispus answered.
“Aye, Imperator, it shall be done,” Manius replied. Then he rode off to ready the mercenary cavalry and the Alathani for the ride south.
Crispus swung himself over his saddle, sat in it, adjusted his cloak and cuirass, unhooked his sword from his belt, hooked it to the side of his saddle, and rode after the aide toward his cavalry at a gallop. The Gracian countryside was green and happy; soon it would not be so. After meeting with his cavalry, Crispus rode towards Marcipa, the nearest large settlement. It took several days to get there, but at last the scouting cavalry reached their destination. Once they reached the walls, a Marcipan elder came out to see who the people flying Crispus’ and Alatheus’ flags of the wolf and the lion, respectively, were and why the obviously Vanadul equipped cavalry were not flying the Vanadul banner, which has an eagle with a hammer in its mouth sitting upon a sickle.
“Speak, stranger,” the man, who Crispus assumed was the chief elder, beckoned.
“Ave. My name is Crispus Victor, a general of the Auric tribe. I was formerly a Vanadul general, and from there my name and station comes, but after the Decree my whole village rebelled under my lead. If you will, you may join us. If you find that loyalty to the Empire is more important than your own rights, then you will be destroyed,” Crispus declared.
“I must convene with the other elders,” said the elder in a wise old voice.
“Then you have four hours. Anything more than that and you must understand that we will be forced to either take refuge in or raid your town,” Crispus warned.
“It is understood,” confirmed the elder.
“Then when we attack you shall not be surprised,” Crispus said as he rode off with his retinue.
The elder hobbled back into town while Crispus rode back to his men. The scouts set up camp outside the walls, and then had a meeting.
“Frankly, I don’t think we can take the town. If we are turned away, then we’ll have to leave, because we can’t get through those walls. The Marcipani can send out riders and have a Vanadul force here within days. Add that to the walls, and we end up stuck between a hostile village and an army,” Manius told the assembled cavalrymen.
“Hear, hear. We are cavalrymen. We don’t have experience in ways of sieges. No, we must go back or find an undefended city. We’ve no chance,” A cavalryman agreed.
Crispus nodded. “We have to turn back. A Vanadul legion will already be on its way. Gracia is just too strong for us. Alatheus will not be pleased, but there is little that I can do.”
A few hours later, the Marcipan elder came back and told them that they would not be joining them, but could provide some provisions. Crispus accepted and the cavalry rode back north to the Alathani camp the next day. Alatheus cursed at the bad luck, but seeing that the situation was hopeless he authorised the construction of another fort, on top of the old one, and a guardhouse on the other side of the bridge. At that bridge would he start a new Auric kingdom, and there he would rule.

















The sun shone through the window of the Royal Court at Alathaea as Alatheus awoke. He sprung out of bed and swung open his curtains, looking out at the snow-covered town, where people were putting up decorations and preparing for Schismain, the celebration of the Schism with the Auric Federation. Alatheus washed, quickly dressed himself, and went downstairs to join the pre-celebration festivities. Upon leaving the Court, however, he was awestruck – he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her blue eyes shone from her beautiful face rimmed with golden locks, which waved in the wind and shone with the radiance of the sun. He went over to her, introduced himself (rather stupidly, for he WAS her king, after all), and kissed her hand, bowing low. She giggled and introduced herself as Petrasia, saying that she was the daughter of Dergyll ap Cymwyr, the Wealic chieftain Alatheus had earlier met in prison. Alatheus pressed her for more information, and discovered to his joy that she was not engaged. What luck! Alatheus, now thrilled, ran to Dergyll’s house and asked him for Petrasia’s hand in marriage. He agreed, and the wedding was scheduled for immediately after Schismain.
The festival was a fine one. At high noon, the festivities officially commenced, and there was much rejoicing. Singing and dancing became the order of the day, and no matter what happened, it seemed, the happiness of the Alathani could not be dampened. Then came the wedding. Crispus oversaw the wedding and married Alatheus and Petrasia. During the post-wedding celebration, a sound was heard.
A crowd of horses stopped outside the gate. A soldier sprinted up a ladder and looked out. The guardhouse was aflame, a huge army marching under the yellow hawk banner of the Auric Federation and the green boar banner of Gautertit, an Auric chieftain. Alatheus readied his horse and waved to Ricgard to accompany him and carry his banner.
“Stay here and DO NOT FOLLOW,” he said to Petrasia sternly, buckling his sword onto his ceremonial armour. Petrasia began to cry as he galloped away to meet with Gautertit.
“Hello, dear brother. It is nice to see you again,” Gautertit greeted Alatheus with that smile that makes you want to strangle the wearer.
“What do you want, Gautertit?” Alatheus bluntly interrogated, with an obvious attitude of annoyance and anger.
“I want to tell you how much you have helped me. I am now the head of the Auric tribes, thanks to you. We all knew that the Harni would invade soon, and your departure left me the chief of the most powerful tribe. So, when the Harni did come, who they the people come to? Me, of course. I declared myself King of the Auric Confederacy and struck a deal with the Harni. In return for help invading Gracia, they would bypass our lands. Then, when almost all the Aurics had joined me, I struck another deal with the Vanadul, that in return for aid against the Harni they would allow me to “settle” in Gracia. Of course, I intend to honour neither agreement, but you stand in the way of progress, and thus you will be destroyed,” Gautertit gloated. “Now, men, seize them!”
The Auric warriors grabbed Alatheus and Ricgard, pulled them off their horses, and spun them around to face Alathaea.
“NO! Take me instead,” a woman cried. Petrasia was running to Alatheus!
“Stay back Petrasia! I will fight my way out! STAY BACK! Go back to the city! Stop!” Alatheus screamed to no avail. She kept running, and Gautertit raised his arm with that sick smile from before. Upon swinging his arm down, a line of archers stepped forward and fired a volley, killing Petrasia instantly.
“NO! You will die, Gautertit, at my hands!” Alatheus screamed, furious (for obvious reasons). He broke free of the Aurics holding him, and strangled one. He then pulled out his sword and stabbed the other in the gut. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating everyone. Ricgard also broke free and pulled out his sword. The mob of Auric soldiers behind Gautertit then stepped forward with spears. Alatheus lunged for Gautertit, and was stabbed by several soldiers. He still kept fighting, and killed seven more Auric warriors. Ricgard then fell, and a new rage rose within him. He jammed his sword into the heart of Gautertit’s horse, forcing Gautertit to get off and become vulnerable. Alatheus chopped off Gautertit’s sword arm, before being stabbed about eighteen times with the warriors’ spears and eventually doubling over, unable to do any more.
“You mad, bro?” Gautertit asked, laughing maniacally. “You have one day to pack up the necessary belongings and leave the town as-is to us, the Gautertani. You must turn over all weapons and you may only take one month’s rations.”
Alatheus crawled in the dust over to Ricgard. Discovering a pulse, he dragged Ricgard over to Petrasia’s corpse. There was no hope. Alatheus then dragged Ricgard toward the town, from whence Crispus was riding with two horses – one for him and Petrasia’s corpse and the other for Ricgard and Alatheus. The sight of the King of the Alathani crawling in the dirt caused Gautertit and his mentally deformed scum of followers to laugh.

"Has the whole world gone crazy?! Am I the only one around here who gives a shit about the rules?! Mark it zero!"

I can't accept this entry, as it's over three hundred words over the word count limit.

[Westboro]

A small portion of a story I wrote. It's slightly over 5,000, but it needs to be to make sense. I cut like 2,000 words off (two whole "chapters" and the whole prologue) so forgive me for the lack of a real ending, with a 5,000 word limit it has to be that way. Were it 7,000...

“And so, Aurics, I believe it folly to do what this man would suggest. How can we defend our homes if we abandon them? Nay, I think that the Harni will crash against this stronghold like water upon a rock!” the village elder Garth the Wise finished. He was giving a speech to the elders of the Auric tribe.
“You don’t understand. The Burics were far better prepared for war against horse tribes than we are, and they were sent running. Not only, though, were they sent running—very few even had the chance to run, most were dead!” Alatheus exclaimed.
“Sir, you are suggesting that we order our people to leave everything they own and follow you. I’m not ready to take the chance that the Harni may never even come,” reasoned another elder.
“And, you’re proposing that we invade Gracia! The Eastern Vanadul Empire is the most powerful nation in the world, and Gracia is their most loyal and wealthy holding! There’s bound to be massive armies there!” chimed in another elder.
“But where there is loyalty and wealth in Vanadul there are spoils to be gained. Just by raiding we could easily afford a massive mercenary army which would protect us from the Vanadul armies,” explained Alatheus.
The more logical elder of the two currently fighting with Alatheus then proposed his own plan. “Why don’t we, instead of trying to settle in Gracia, raid outlying towns and use the money to fund a mercenary force to fight the Harni?”
Most of the elders agreed, though on the condition that the raids were fast and brutal, and Vanadul never knew that Aurics conducted them.
“Why not take it to the People to decide? I’m sure that they would know what is better for their own families than a few old men who sit in these chairs all their days,” proposed Alatheus rather rudely, as he was getting angry.
In their own certainty of victory, the elders agreed and the matter was taken before the assembled people, mostly men who had either come with Alatheus or moved to Saremia in order to scrape up a living after the Buric raids. Alatheus was allowed to give the first speech.
“Men of Aurica! You have come here for one reason—to protect your families! Whether you are Auric Highlander like my own people that came with me, Wesarric like those who were hit hardest by the Buric raids, or even a Saremian who came to hear the results of my little debate with the Council, you have in mind the common purpose of the defence of your homeland. Now, I will tell all of you why I am here today talking with the Council. It has come to my attention that a vicious horse-tribe from the east forced the Burics out of their land. This horse-tribe, which as you should all know is a tribe that lives and dies by its horses, in all the stories we hear from Buric prisoners, is said to be strange-looking, with slanted eyes and yellowed skin. In addition, they use bows bent the wrong way and with those bows they can kill men from hundreds of yards away, without dismounting their horse. Now, we have dealt with horse-tribes like that before, though usually they aren’t that strange looking. However, there is one main difference between them and the other tribes we have fought—there are millions of them. All we consistently hear from the Burics, besides the normal descriptions of horse-tribes, is that when they charge you can see nothing but a massive wall of black-clothed men on dark horses firing arrows at you. One Buric even said that he watched them descend upon his village from the hill where he tended sheep, and their numbers obscured the whole valley. They produced such a dust-cloud, he said, that after they left when he went down with his sheep, the once-fertile, grass-covered valley was three feet lower and the dirt was all gone—all that was left was bare rock. Even allowing for exaggeration, does that sound like something that will “break like water upon a rock” when it hits Saremia, as Garth the Wise so eloquently puts it? I think not! I propose, men of Aurica, that we leave our homeland to the Harni, and find a new one. And, I propose that we make that new homeland in Gracia. This whole tribe can easily overcome the Vanadul forces in Gracia, and many veteran Vanadul soldiers turn to mercenary work once their tour of duty is over. With the money we get from raiding Gracian towns, we can hire some of these mercenaries and protect our new borders. Then, the Vanadul and Burics can fight the Harni, and we can guard our own lands more effectively. What say you, men of Aurica?”
The Highlanders cheered mightily, as did about 2/3 of the assembled tribesmen. This is a man who truly wants to defend our people, they thought. Next up for a speech was Garth the Wise. He made a short and offensive speech that basically mocked Alatheus and called him a coward. About half the tribesmen cheered, and of those about half again laughed openly at Alatheus. Refusing to stand to be mocked, Alatheus cried in old Vanadul a code word.
At this signal, the Highlanders pulled out their shortswords, as did Alatheus. He declared that the Highland clans, as well as whoever would follow him, we now independent from the Federation, and to enforce his claim he held his sword to Garth’s neck. The Alathani (Followers of Alatheus) then marched to the gates, took their weapons from the gatekeepers, and then proceeded to gallop about the land trying to recruit men for their cause. The Great Auric Schism, as it has been called, split clans in two. It tore apart Auric families and deeply divided the tribe. However, for the idealistic followers of Alatheus, the end justified the means.
Alatheus’s aide-de-camp, Ricgard the Honourable, came to him just as the sun came over the Auric Mountains and began to show on the frozen, snow-covered Alathani encampment.
“M’lord, we’ve hardly any rations left. The men are starved and freezing. We need more food and clothing.”
“I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that in Winæteropoulis there is a massive store of food and equipment bound for the Vanadul legions.”
“Sir, that’s across the river. How can we get to it? The only bridge is guarded by four full Vanadul legions. There’s no way past them.”
“Then we shall make a way through them.”
The army then went south, to the Janbale Bridge.
As the Alathani army formed the standard Vanadul bridge-taking formation (many of them had previously served in the Vanadul army as Foederati), Alatheus surveyed the Vanadul lines. Having seen the Aurics coming over the hills, the Vanadul had prepared a very large shieldwall right at the end of the bridge, with huge numbers of javelinmen and archers behind the line. Their cavalry was on the flanks, and it seemed as though they were planning to barrage the Alathani with arrows before the lines met and the cavalry could charge the flanks.
“Standard hammer-and-anvil tactics,” Alatheus sighed. Hammer-and-anvil tactics had been used for centuries and were well known. However, they worked, and despite being well known nobody really could think of a way to counteract them, and thus they prevailed as the standard Vanadul tactical formation. Alatheus knew that the relatively small force he had would never be able to take such a well-defended bridge unless the gods themselves fought for the Alathani. However, he had to try, since otherwise his army would just desert him.
“Men of Aurica, today is a good day to die!” he began his pre-battle speech, “The Vanadul with their evil communal ways sit across the bridge. To protect your people, you must fight today. I understand that you are weary, hungry, and poorly equipped. Within that fortress is food and clothing. Let’s go get it!”
The men cheered, and despite their previously well-disciplined formations they surged forward in one massive wave. Swords, spears, and even clubs waved in the air, as everything from javelins to bows to rocks flew at the Vanadul shieldwall. Alatheus and his cavalry sat back and watched the chaos. The Vanadul hadn’t fought a truly “barbaric” enemy in hundreds of years—the Aurics would be plenty barbaric for them.
The Aurics charged across the bridge, weapons and helms gleaming. The Vanadul wavered a bit. No enemy had ever shown the courage that these ten thousand men were now showing. Twenty thousand Vanadul against ten thousand Aurics—and the Aurics were charging. Never had any of the Vanadul soldiers seen such a sight as the heroic Auric charge. Basically, it quite literally scared the crap out of them. The line shuddered with anticipation of the impending fight. The Vanadul legions were green; the army consisted new recruits who had been pressed into service following the Buric migration in order to defend against the Harni. However, the Harni had been delayed in their invasion by the remaining Aurics, and most of the legions along the Janbale had been redeployed. The result was that only four green legions guarded the Janbale Bridge. Four five-thousand-man legions, though, could easily defeat the ten thousand-some Aurics. Especially on a bridge. At least, that’s how the Vanadul commander Delius Cratianus reassured himself.
Alatheus watched as his men hit the Vanadul line. The obviously inexperienced Vanadul were beginning to falter under the heroics of the Auric warriors. However, the weight of numbers that the Vanadul had was showing. As the ranks thinned, Alatheus decided that he now could do no more good watching, and he waded into the fray with his cavalry. His long green cloak waving in the wind, his spear levelled, his armour shining brightly in the sunlight, Alatheus charged as his infantry were absorbed into the Vanadul line and the Vanadul cavalry began to skirt around the infantry. When the Vanadul cavalry hit the Auric infantry, the Auric cavalry hit the rear of the Vanadul cavalry, crushing it. However, many Auric infantrymen were dying. Alatheus tried to survey the field and decide whether or not to retreat, when he heard his aide Ricgard’s horse scream. Moments later, his own horse went down, an arrow in his neck. Alatheus spun around, seeing most of his cavalrymen dismounting and hiding beneath their shields from a massive volley of arrows. The Vanadul archers wreaked havoc among the Auric cavalry, and many of the once-heroic Aurics decided to flee the field. Alatheus, with Vanadul closing in, tried to rally his troops, but as he raised his arm and began to shout for his men to come back, he was struck on the back of the head and everything stopped. He fell to the ground, nearly being trampled by the rush of Aurics away from the fight.
Alatheus awoke feeling and smelling like crap. The feeling was due to being smashed on the back of the head with a club. The smell was due to the fact he was sitting in a pile of crap.
“Mornin’, sleepin’ beau’y!” called a heavily accented man from a circle of barbarians nearby, “’ow are ye?”
“I feel like I was just beaten with a club. Perhaps because I was,” Alatheus responded.
“Well, I’d love te say thet ye’ll be fine now, bet the problem is ye won’t. Ye’re in a Vanadel prison camp, ye are,” explained the man, “My name be Dergyll ap Cymwyr. I’m a Wealic chieftain, captured by this legion about five years ago while they were on campaign in Wealannia. Ne’er seen a way out o’ ‘ere since, ‘ave I.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Alatheus said dryly.
“Ain’t it?” Dergyll queried jokingly. “Well, I’d like te introduce ye te me lackeys ‘ere. This ‘ere is Aeron,” Dergyll said pointing at a middle-aged, but fit-looking, Wealic warrior. “an’ this be Ermanaric the Young,” he continued, putting his hand on the shoulder of a very young Buric lad of about fourteen. “’ere’s me laddie Crispus,” he explained, pointing to a tall man of muscular build wearing the full muscled bull hide cuirass of a Vanadul Dux, as well as the red cloak of such a leader and the red-plumed helm of said officer. “I was talkin’ te ‘im ‘fore ye woke. Fin’ly, I think ye know this guy, Ricgard the Auric,” he finished as the tall, burly, grey-cloaked frame of Ricgard came into view.
“Hey, Ricky!” Alatheus exclaimed.
“Yeah, I was taken down right after you. Actually, I believe I fell on top of you,” Ricgard answered.
Crispus came forward and shook Alatheus’ hand. “It is good to meet you, Your Majesty. Come, we must speak.”
The group sat back down on a circle of logs. Alatheus sat next to Crispus, who then tended the fire, on which roasted a leg of mutton. Crispus then spoke again.
“I will repeat my proposal for Alatheus’ benefit. I propose that my mercenary army, which is about the size of this Vanadul army, join the Aurics and help them gain a homeland. Any prisoners who wish to come may come. In return, my army will be granted small plots of land and be allowed to stay in the new Auric land. I expect no payment, only the right to settle once we gain a homeland. My men are mostly former Vanadul citizens, who rebelled against Dictator Thalius and captured the town of Winæteropoulis. We then raided the town and set fire to it, fleeing from the Vanadul authorities. We saw what your Aurics did from the hill over there,” Crispus motioned to a nearby hill, “and we were shocked. About ten thousand, it seemed, against about twenty thousand men? Impossible, I thought. I decided to come down here and see for myself. I found out about the casualties as well, from a drunken guard. They counted almost ten thousand Vanadul dead, mostly cavalry and light infantry, and just one thousand Aurics dead and one thousand captured, mostly light infantry and spearmen. Because of those casualties, I just had to offer you my services. Your eight thousand Aurics will be supplemented by about four thousand former Vanadul legionaries and two thousand former Vanadul peasants, in addition to whoever wants to join from this prison camp, I’m guessing about two thousand non-Aurics and all the Aurics.”
Alatheus listened intently, sucked on his lip for a bit in thought, and then spoke. “I will accept. We must first get out of this camp, however.”
Crispus had a plan.
In the cold, dark night a rider came to the door of Crispus Victor’s little hut. The black-clad man unhorsed, knocked on the door, and waited. Crispus came to the door and opened it. The man pulled out a piece of paper. Upon the paper was written:

Crispus read the paper, and drew his sword. Though the black cloaked man had a sword also, the military-trained Crispus was faster. The man, before he died, screamed at the top of his lungs. Crispus, looking around, realised that every house had, in front of the door, the owner of said house, as well as a black cloaked man holding a similar decree as the one Crispus now held. All the black cloaked men then looked at Crispus and drew their swords, most of them killing the man whom they were then speaking to. Within minutes, the city was in utter chaos. A double-strength legion marched into the city as people killed the black-cloaked riders and gathered their possessions. Eventually, with Crispus at the head, the people of Winæteropoulis fled out the other gate, setting the city aflame and running for their lives. The legion in the city tried to give chase, but was decimated when an explosion rocked the city. Apparently, the fire had reached the tavern.
Crispus sat bolt-upright in his camp bed. The events of that night a few months ago were just too disturbing to continue remembering.






Alatheus and his cavalry steadied their “lances”. They were called lances for lack of a better term – in reality they were long sticks that had had the tips sharpened with a rock. That didn’t really cause any trouble, though, because their job was to charge some guards and look scary. They did a good job, too. When they got the signal from Dergyll on the other side of the camp, they charged forward, where the guardsmen who had been chased out of their guardhouse by Dergyll’s barbarian infantrymen ran right into them and were slaughtered by the infantry they ran into after seeing the “lancers.” After about five minutes, the guards were dead, the prisoners were running, and the Vanadul army was chasing them. On the bridge, the streaming thousands looked like the sands of time in an hourglass. Following the barbarians’ crossing of the bridge, the Vanadul stopped, unable to pursue for fear of ambush by the Aurics who had fled the field after the Battle of Janbale. After fleeing from the prison camp, Alatheus addressed the former prisoners.
“I know that you have just won your liberty, and if you choose to leave now then you may do so. However, any who wish to stay and join my army will be given weapons and armour to the best of our ability, and will have the promise of a place in the new Auric kingdom, once we have conquered a homeland. You need not stay if you so desire, yet if you do then you will be rewarded.”
Nearly all the prisoners shouted their approval. A few said something along the lines of “This is friggin’ ridiculous, why on earth would he ask that?” but the majority joined the Aurics. The Aurics, who will henceforth be called the Alathani due to the small number of actual Aurics in the army, then set up a bigger camp for the other men. The wolf banner of Alatheus was then hoisted, and despite the ramshackle and rudimentary equipment, the camp, for the first time, looked worthy of a real army. Crispus, taking with him a few of Alatheus’ best warriors in case of issues with guards, swam across the Janbale at night (a daunting task) and readied his own mercenary army for battle. The plan was that Crispus’ army would besiege the fort, and then while trying to break in the Alathani would rush to the other side of the fort with ladders. Then, the Alathani would run across the walls, capture some gates, and allow both armies’ cavalry to ride in. Finally, while the Alathani and the cavalry ran through the streets pillaging and slaughtering (for the fort had become a real village, with lots of people and shops), the Vanadul infantry would (hopefully) surrender to the mercenaries.












“My lord, our men are taking casualties! We can’t hold up the attack much longer!” Crispus’ aide screamed to him.
“Keep it going, Manius, not much more. They’ve almost had it, I can see. Al is almost over the walls, see? Once he gets on, he’ll send men to hit them from the rear,” Crispus explained.
“Yessir!” the diminutive Manius rapidly shot off. He turned on his heels and marched away on the double, his homespun Vanadul-style cloak swaying behind, and his short sword clinking on his chainmail habergeon. He hopped onto the little pony he rode (which fit his small stature perfectly) and galloped to the base of the fortress wall, where he told Magister Pedites Aruminius what Crispus had told him. Aruminius screwed up the order and had his infantry pull back and wait for the Alathani.
Alatheus and his cavalry stood at the crest of a hill and watched their infantry. The cavalry, since it couldn’t go on walls, was worthless for now. So, it was serving as an advance guard and scouting force for Alatheus, who needed to see the “chink in the armour” as he put it. The silver-helmeted Highland Guard were the first to come across the bridge. They ran forward with ladders over their shoulders, their mail jangling and spears shining. Many were shot down by Vanadul arrows, but those not carrying the ladders held their leather-bound shields afore those carrying ladders, negating the volley, for the most part. Next came the former prisoners, wearing armour ranging from steel Vanadul helms and cuirasses to naught but skin. They wielded a variety of weapons, and were relatively disorganised. However, they had a definite cause, and were good warriors. After them came the rest of the Aurics, with four siege towers and ten more ladders. The Alathani charged as fast as possible, but lost many warriors due to the retreat of Crispus’ mercenaries and the subsequent moving of the Vanadul soldiers to confront the Alathani.

















Crispus walked in the carnage of the once-great fortress at the Janbale Bridge. His army waited far off for his return. Once he had been satisfied of there being no survivor in the ash-covered ruins, he returned, his scarlet cloak flapping in the wind and causing a cloud of ash to rise behind him.
“Imperator, what are your orders?” Manius, his aide, asked him.
“We ride south. If we hit a major town, we shall raid it and return to the army. If we encounter Vanadul soldiers first, we return across the bridge and order the retreat of our forces,” Crispus answered.
“Aye, Imperator, it shall be done,” Manius replied. Then he rode off to ready the mercenary cavalry and the Alathani for the ride south.
Crispus swung himself over his saddle, sat in it, adjusted his cloak and cuirass, unhooked his sword from his belt, hooked it to the side of his saddle, and rode after the aide toward his cavalry at a gallop. The Gracian countryside was green and happy; soon it would not be so. After meeting with his cavalry, Crispus rode towards Marcipa, the nearest large settlement. It took several days to get there, but at last the scouting cavalry reached their destination. Once they reached the walls, a Marcipan elder came out to see who the people flying Crispus’ and Alatheus’ flags of the wolf and the lion, respectively, were and why the obviously Vanadul equipped cavalry were not flying the Vanadul banner, which has an eagle with a hammer in its mouth sitting upon a sickle.
“Speak, stranger,” the man, who Crispus assumed was the chief elder, beckoned.
“Ave. My name is Crispus Victor, a general of the Auric tribe. I was formerly a Vanadul general, and from there my name and station comes, but after the Decree my whole village rebelled under my lead. If you will, you may join us. If you find that loyalty to the Empire is more important than your own rights, then you will be destroyed,” Crispus declared.
“I must convene with the other elders,” said the elder in a wise old voice.
“Then you have four hours. Anything more than that and you must understand that we will be forced to either take refuge in or raid your town,” Crispus warned.
“It is understood,” confirmed the elder.
“Then when we attack you shall not be surprised,” Crispus said as he rode off with his retinue.
The elder hobbled back into town while Crispus rode back to his men. The scouts set up camp outside the walls, and then had a meeting.
“Frankly, I don’t think we can take the town. If we are turned away, then we’ll have to leave, because we can’t get through those walls. The Marcipani can send out riders and have a Vanadul force here within days. Add that to the walls, and we end up stuck between a hostile village and an army,” Manius told the assembled cavalrymen.
“Hear, hear. We are cavalrymen. We don’t have experience in ways of sieges. No, we must go back or find an undefended city. We’ve no chance,” A cavalryman agreed.
Crispus nodded. “We have to turn back. A Vanadul legion will already be on its way. Gracia is just too strong for us. Alatheus will not be pleased, but there is little that I can do.”
A few hours later, the Marcipan elder came back and told them that they would not be joining them, but could provide some provisions. Crispus accepted and the cavalry rode back north to the Alathani camp the next day. Alatheus cursed at the bad luck, but seeing that the situation was hopeless he authorised the construction of another fort, on top of the old one, and a guardhouse on the other side of the bridge. At that bridge would he start a new Auric kingdom, and there he would rule.

















The sun shone through the window of the Royal Court at Alathaea as Alatheus awoke. He sprung out of bed and swung open his curtains, looking out at the snow-covered town, where people were putting up decorations and preparing for Schismain, the celebration of the Schism with the Auric Federation. Alatheus washed, quickly dressed himself, and went downstairs to join the pre-celebration festivities. Upon leaving the Court, however, he was awestruck – he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her blue eyes shone from her beautiful face rimmed with golden locks, which waved in the wind and shone with the radiance of the sun. He went over to her, introduced himself (rather stupidly, for he WAS her king, after all), and kissed her hand, bowing low. She giggled and introduced herself as Petrasia, saying that she was the daughter of Dergyll ap Cymwyr, the Wealic chieftain Alatheus had earlier met in prison. Alatheus pressed her for more information, and discovered to his joy that she was not engaged. What luck! Alatheus, now thrilled, ran to Dergyll’s house and asked him for Petrasia’s hand in marriage. He agreed, and the wedding was scheduled for immediately after Schismain.
The festival was a fine one. At high noon, the festivities officially commenced, and there was much rejoicing. Singing and dancing became the order of the day, and no matter what happened, it seemed, the happiness of the Alathani could not be dampened. Then came the wedding. Crispus oversaw the wedding and married Alatheus and Petrasia. During the post-wedding celebration, a sound was heard.
A crowd of horses stopped outside the gate. A soldier sprinted up a ladder and looked out. The guardhouse was aflame, a huge army marching under the yellow hawk banner of the Auric Federation and the green boar banner of Gautertit, an Auric chieftain. Alatheus readied his horse and waved to Ricgard to accompany him and carry his banner.
“Stay here and DO NOT FOLLOW,” he said to Petrasia sternly, buckling his sword onto his ceremonial armour. Petrasia began to cry as he galloped away to meet with Gautertit.
“Hello, dear brother. It is nice to see you again,” Gautertit greeted Alatheus with that smile that makes you want to strangle the wearer.
“What do you want, Gautertit?” Alatheus bluntly interrogated, with an obvious attitude of annoyance and anger.
“I want to tell you how much you have helped me. I am now the head of the Auric tribes, thanks to you. We all knew that the Harni would invade soon, and your departure left me the chief of the most powerful tribe. So, when the Harni did come, who they the people come to? Me, of course. I declared myself King of the Auric Confederacy and struck a deal with the Harni. In return for help invading Gracia, they would bypass our lands. Then, when almost all the Aurics had joined me, I struck another deal with the Vanadul, that in return for aid against the Harni they would allow me to “settle” in Gracia. Of course, I intend to honour neither agreement, but you stand in the way of progress, and thus you will be destroyed,” Gautertit gloated. “Now, men, seize them!”
The Auric warriors grabbed Alatheus and Ricgard, pulled them off their horses, and spun them around to face Alathaea.
“NO! Take me instead,” a woman cried. Petrasia was running to Alatheus!
“Stay back Petrasia! I will fight my way out! STAY BACK! Go back to the city! Stop!” Alatheus screamed to no avail. She kept running, and Gautertit raised his arm with that sick smile from before. Upon swinging his arm down, a line of archers stepped forward and fired a volley, killing Petrasia instantly.
“NO! You will die, Gautertit, at my hands!” Alatheus screamed, furious (for obvious reasons). He broke free of the Aurics holding him, and strangled one. He then pulled out his sword and stabbed the other in the gut. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating everyone. Ricgard also broke free and pulled out his sword. The mob of Auric soldiers behind Gautertit then stepped forward with spears. Alatheus lunged for Gautertit, and was stabbed by several soldiers. He still kept fighting, and killed seven more Auric warriors. Ricgard then fell, and a new rage rose within him. He jammed his sword into the heart of Gautertit’s horse, forcing Gautertit to get off and become vulnerable. Alatheus chopped off Gautertit’s sword arm, before being stabbed about eighteen times with the warriors’ spears and eventually doubling over, unable to do any more.
“You mad, bro?” Gautertit asked, laughing maniacally. “You have one day to pack up the necessary belongings and leave the town as-is to us, the Gautertani. You must turn over all weapons and you may only take one month’s rations.”
Alatheus crawled in the dust over to Ricgard. Discovering a pulse, he dragged Ricgard over to Petrasia’s corpse. There was no hope. Alatheus then dragged Ricgard toward the town, from whence Crispus was riding with two horses – one for him and Petrasia’s corpse and the other for Ricgard and Alatheus. The sight of the King of the Alathani crawling in the dirt caused Gautertit and his mentally deformed scum of followers to laugh.

"Has the whole world gone crazy?! Am I the only one around here who gives a shit about the rules?! Mark it zero!"

I can't accept this entry, as it's over three hundred words over the word count limit.

Aw. I did say that I couldn't make it any shorter without sacrificing the most dramatic part... Oh well.

[The Weimar Republic]

Deus, you're having some technical issues with putting verbs in the right tense, and you should either put this together into one long-ass sentence or add a subject and verb to the 2nd half:

And this day of course would be like any other if the heart of a certain man had not been sown with doubt. Doubt that he would be remembered after death, that his life would mean something more, doubt that even if he was a tiny, insignificant spec to the world that his being would still be remembered in myth and legend.

Aside from the grammar, it's just kind of pompous.

[-Deus-]

Deus, you're having some technical issues with putting verbs in the right tense, and you should either put this together into one long-ass sentence or add a subject and verb to the 2nd half:

And this day of course would be like any other if the heart of a certain man had not been sown with doubt. Doubt that he would be remembered after death, that his life would mean something more, doubt that even if he was a tiny, insignificant spec to the world that his being would still be remembered in myth and legend.

Aside from the grammar, it's just kind of pompous.

Wait...Who are you again? U_U

[Conserative Morality]

Wait...Who are you again? U_U

He's our official unofficial critic.

[New Hayesalia]

NEW HAYESALIA'S SHORT STORY #1

I was the last man on earth. And then I heard a knock at the door.

---

More coming later.

[Conserative Morality]

NEW HAYESALIA'S SHORT STORY #1

I was the last man on earth. And then I heard a knock at the door.

---

More coming later.

You've got twenty minutes.

[Buffett and Colbert]

NEW HAYESALIA'S SHORT STORY #1

I was the last man on earth. And then I heard a knock at the door.

---

More coming later.

Eliminated for plagiarism.

[New Hayesalia]

NEW HAYESALIA'S SHORT STORY #1

I was the last man on earth. And then I heard a knock at the door.

---

More coming later.

Eliminated for plagiarism.

Wait, what?

<google search>

I knew it was too good an idea to be undone...

[Conserative Morality]

Wait, what?

<google search>

I knew it was too good an idea to be undone...

I thought you were just using it as a placeholder?

[-Deus-]

Wait...Who are you again? U_U

He's our official unofficial critic.

Since anyone is allowed to be a critic...can I be a critic?

[Conserative Morality]

Since anyone is allowed to be a critic...can I be a critic?

Go ahead. Only the judges count, mind.

[Norstal]

Wait...Who are you again? U_U

He's our official unofficial critic.

He's accurate you know. But I'll reserve my own judgements.

[Conserative Morality]

He's accurate you know. But I'll reserve my own judgements.

It's past midnight, start making 'em.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Well, I was banned for three days. I will now frantically edit my terrible story and submit it before 12 AM West Coast time.

Thanks for training me, college.

[Buffett and Colbert]

My number one pet peeve with regards to short stories is when authors seem to have a fetish for run-on sentences, excessive comma use, and dangling modifiers. Just putting that out there.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

My number one pet peeve with regards to short stories is when authors seem to have a fetish for run-on sentences, excessive comma use, and dangling modifiers. Just putting that out there.

You are going to hate my submission.

[Astrolinium]

My number one pet peeve with regards to short stories is when authors seem to have a fetish for run-on sentences, excessive comma use, and dangling modifiers. Just putting that out there.

I don't get it, I mean, really, what's so bad about run ons, they're perfectly good sentences, capable of having kids, wives, not necessarily in that order, but all the same, it's discrimination, I tell ya, and it's just not fair to the run on sentences, because they have feelings too, and in the modern twenty-first world we live in, it's just not polite or correct to be sentencist, Buffy, I mean, when being all holo-accosted, didn't the allies intervene to stop Hitler's treatment of the Jews?

[Buffett and Colbert]

My number one pet peeve with regards to short stories is when authors seem to have a fetish for run-on sentences, excessive comma use, and dangling modifiers. Just putting that out there.

I don't get it, I mean, really, what's so bad about run ons, they're perfectly good sentences, capable of having kids, wives, not necessarily in that order, but all the same, it's discrimination, I tell ya, and it's just not fair to the run on sentences, because they have feelings too, and in the modern twenty-first world we live in, it's just not polite or correct to be sentencist, Buffy, I mean, when being all holo-accosted, didn't the allies intervene to stop Hitler's treatment of the Jews?

Bad grammar should die.

[Buffett and Colbert]

My number one pet peeve with regards to short stories is when authors seem to have a fetish for run-on sentences, excessive comma use, and dangling modifiers. Just putting that out there.

You are going to hate my submission.

Probably.