OK, only 17 pages, but a lot of thought has gone into it. It is/will be a fantasy book. So, those who flinch at the word fantasy, look away now! Alright. I'm really just posting this to see what sort of reception it gets as you can't really ask friends or family, as they are biased. Or enemies, for that matter, but they're biased in a completely different way. Anyway, here is the first proper bit (there's some pages about gods and the main character being found as a baby before this)
Chapter One
A plume of misty breath rose from him and drifted upwards, but he didn't stop to admire the way it danced around the branches as he normally would. He was here on a task, and he wouldn't be diverted. The only things he held as real at that moment were the bow in his hands and the arrow ready to take flight.
There! A flash of tawny brown, easily missed in the murk of the surrounding forest, hovered at the edge of his sight. He didn’t move and neither did the beast. Its head slowly moved from side to side and its nostrils were flared. It sensed the danger. The time to act was now. Like a suddenly released spring he sprang into action and twirled on the spot, releasing his arrow on pure instinct alone. It was over in a second.
With a strangled cry the creature dropped to the ground and started thrashing, its kicking unnaturally loud after the silence of his stalking. The bowstring slapped against his leather armguard and he landed lightly on his feet. Quickly, but not so quickly as to make any noise he moved towards the doomed deer. His red-feathered arrow sprouted from the animal’s neck. Knowing it must be in terrible pain he drew out his slightly curved hunting knife and ended it. Nothing should have to suffer without cause. All he hoped was that his cause was great enough to merit a death, even if it held off his own. They needed the food.
As he straightened up, wiping the now blood stained blade on the grass beside the carcass, he saw other fleeting shapes bounding through the undergrowth. If he were to inhale deeply enough he could almost imagine that he could smell their fear. With a sigh he let them go. Not out of compassion, which a hunter could not afford, but because there was no way he could carry two dead deer home all the way from the forest.
Casting his gaze around the clearing that the deer had been grazing in he decided to bed down there for the night. The circle of sky he could see through the reaching branches was further obscured by the craggy faces of mountains rising up all around him, but he was used to living in the shadow of mountains. You got used to it if you lived in the Forked Valley. He pitched his tent under the spreading branches of an ancient oak tree, limbs pitted with long exposure to the elements. Sometimes he felt like that tree, weighed down by responsibility and weathered by his life, though still young and with few years behind him. That’s what being poor did to you, he supposed. If they had had any money he wouldn’t be here, wet and cold in the forest with night slowly pressing in on him. Like everyone else he would have bought his meat from the butcher, no need to trek leagues into the forest for stringy meat from wild animals. But that was how the world was, he thought glumly. After unstringing his bow, butchering the deer and packing away the meat he rested his head against an exposed tree root and, wrapping himself in his cloak, sank into a fitful sleep troubled by dreams of bloody knives and screaming deer.
He woke early in the morning, eyes crusted with sleep and soaked to the skin. It had rained heavily during the night, the oak’s leaves proving insubstantial shelter from the deluge. Groaning, he tossed his saturated cloak to the side and stood up. He had a day of walking ahead of him in order to get home. Rekindling the fire he had lit the night before he gathered up his cloak and set it near the fire. From all around him came the sounds of the forest coming to life and the drip-drip of water falling from the limbs of trees. For all his wet clothes he wasn’t miserable. No, he felt at one, happy to be in the woods alone with himself for once. The worst part was over, he had done the killing and now he felt that he could enjoy the peaceful walk home without the thought of hunger hanging over him. These were lean times and it seemed like there were less deer than usual. What he was carrying would last him and his father five weeks, if they were careful. That was enough to put a spring in his step.
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Also, given that this forum is mainly dedicated to Dwarves, I may as well give a bit of their background in my book. They were created and ruled over by the evil god known simply as the Silence. They had their lavish mountain halls dripping with gold, but because of this were soft. Over time they grew to resent having to part with the amount of gold they paid in taxes to the Silence, and denied him his money. In a rage he killed many of them and they were forced to flee from his land and into the surrounding lands of friendly man. There they wandered for two centuries until their splintered race came back together in a new mountain hall dug far from the Silence. Here they forged steel, not gold, and vowed vengeance on their creator.
Also, there will later on in the book be a poem which refers to the history of the Dwarves. It is not done yet and still needs some editing, but here it is so far:
In halls of Gold 'neath mountains old
There came a light which rent the night
It sang to me, a glimmering hoard
Gold and Jewels I was their lord.
I recalled dreams, of Dwarven things
Like gleaming swords and golden rings
The Silent Dwarves were master smiths
Their art lost to times murky mists
They dwell under another dell,
Honour all they've left to sell
Far from home they delve new deeps,
They make now strong and sturdy keeps
No more Gold from the forges old,
Not for halls of the Dwarven bold
And yet I stand in halls of Gold,
Yellow streams turned hard and cold
Beaten bright by the hammers might
Amidst flying stars made of light
Their halls are sombre and sad,
The Silence run rampant and mad
Blood of the dead stains darkly red
Floors which the olden Elders tread
Floors Elders tread, in olden days
Lit by globes with unearthly rays
Hanging high under ceilinged sky
While below merchants their wares cry
They cry! They cry! Their days are done
spat from dark to the cruel sun
hunted, hated, persecuted
Wealth and health both sadly wasted.
They made their way through vale and field
To a place where their wounds healed.
Grass and ground trembled to the sound
Of Dwarven picks in loamy mound
And yet I stand in halls of Gold,
Yellow streams turned hard and cold
Beaten bright by the hammers might
Amidst flying stars made of light
Hammer strikes on metal again
Shaped beneath the Dwarve's strain
Olden glory from a story,
Rage hotter than forges fury
Gonna be 4 more stanzas when it is done, and probably a few changes as it still isn't quite right.
There are similar races created by the Silence, such as the Aloges, a race of water-women who drown men foolish enough to go near their lair, but I haven't gone into much depth on them yet. Anyway, just tell me honestly what you think. Bad comments are as appreciated as good ones. I would like to know if I should look at this as a hobby or as a future publishable work, so all comments welcome!
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Topic: Forked Valley-The Book (If you can call 17 pages a book) (Read 1209 times)