Ok, here goes, the second part of Eric the Dwarf. This part is probably just as rife with grammatical errors, feel free to point them out... Feel just as free to point out strangeness in pacing. I don't know if I'm overdoing it.
When Eric woke up he felt very stiff, it was cold and his light had gone out. He rubbed his eyes and tried to see in the darkness. As with all dwarves, Eric could see very well in the dark, but seeing required light, even faint light.
This was absolute darkness.
He suddenly remembered where he was and a sense of direction entered his mind, as if his fear had stopped trying. He let his fingers scan the surface of the floor trying to find his lamp. His fingers suddenly met something sharp and pain shot up through his arm. He quickly retracted his finger and put it in his mouth.
The taste of blood filled it.
With his other hand he slowly inched his way to the spot where he had cut himself. A smooth surface met his fingers.
Broken glass, he thought and swore under his breath. The lamp’s broken, that means no light.
He had to open the hatch to let in some light.
Even though he could see nothing, he tried to picture the room to find the ladder. He cautiously crawled on all fours to where he thought the ladder was. He groped for it without much success. He kept searching until his hand hit something hard, he carefully examined it with his fingertips.
It’s the ladder, he thought. It must have fallen over.
He grabbed the ladder firmly and tried to lift it.
It was surprisingly light for a ladder made out of metal but still very heavy for Eric to lift. After struggling a while he got it upright.
He bent over with his hands on his knees for a while, to catch his breath. While he stood there he became aware that he hadn’t heard a single creak or bang of the engines.
The boiler has run out of fuel, he thought. Of course! There was a siege going on, they wouldn’t have had time to refill the burner. Elevators, pumps and conveyor belts, luxury items, were obviously less important than the very integrity of the fort.
He then climbed up the ladder, opened the hatch and slid the stone to the side. He poked his head out of the darkness.
It wasn’t very light outside, but still light enough to blind and burn Eric’s sensitive eyes, he knew this well, so he shut his eyes hard and crawled out of the hole. He tentatively to o pen his eyes to get an idea of his surroundings.
The light cut into his eyes like a razor.
Now that he had found the light, he thought that maybe he should have stayed in his dark hole instead of subjecting himself to this horrible pain. Every time he opened his eyes he had to throw himself to the floor covering them with his hands and writhing with pain. It was as if a dagger made of fire had thrust itself through his eyes and right into his brain. Bit by bit, the pain relented and he could finally open his sore eyes:
The last red rays of the sun shone in through broken glass windows, soft light painted the world a smooth orange colour.
Was this the thing that had caused him unbearable pain just a few moments earlier?
It seemed petty when he saw what had caused it.
He was caught for a moment in the beauty of the setting sun, as he always was when he had the chance to see it. A slight smile spread across his lips, a smile after much pain and fear. A smile at the silent, ever powerful elegance of nature. He wished there were sunsets down in the Eisenschwärze...
He managed to tear himself from the scene to concentrate on the task at hand: Trying to find the Duke so he could get away from here; the duke would help him, he had to. Eric was an ambassador for a foreign superpower, there might be war if the duke wouldn’t help him.
The throne room, in the keep, he thought. That’s where the Duke must be if the siege is still
ongoing.
But somehow, he doubted himself, he hadn’t heard a single sound not made by himself since he woke up.
If anyone was still fighting, they did it very silently, he thought
He gave the corridor a scrutinizing look, searching for any signs of battle. He flinched violently when he saw the slumped figure of a man sitting in a dark corner in an adjacent room. Eric couldn’t see his face, but his shirt bore the coat of arms of the enemy. Frozen in place, Eric watched the man, thoughts racing through his head:
What if he’s dead? He thought. Oh, gods! What if he isn’t?
The figure did not move an inch.
Slightly assured by this, Eric dared to move slightly to get a better view, he watched carefully for breathing.
No, he’s dead, he thought, not believing one bit of it.
After a while of staring intently at the lifeless figure, Eric worked up the courage to get a bit closer. He carefully left the door open as he went through the doorway. The room was a storeroom of some sort, all but empty and in a terrible mess. Barrels, tables and various tools lay strewn across the room. A carpenters chisel caught Eric’s eye and in a quick motion, without letting his eyes stray from the still figure in the corner, he grabbed it and held it in front of him with both hands, like a broadsword.
It felt like every single muscle in Eric’s body was prepared to make a mad sprint for the door at any minute. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. It demanded every bit of his focus to keep him on the path towards the figure.
Every crack made by his feet made him flinch, every gust of wind running in through the broken windows was the sound of a dead mans breath.
One more step, just one more ste- His mantra was interrupted by a splash. He had stepped in something wet. He already knew what to expect, but risked a lightning-fast glance at the floor anyways.
Of course it was blood, he thought. What else could it have been?
He noticed he had gotten just close enough to touch the man and more importantly, see his face. Eric’s eyes took a second to get accustomed to the dark. He could just about make out his face. He stared to where the eyes should be.
Dead, sunken eyes stared back.
The man’s head was almost severed from his shoulders, a big fleshy wound covered his neck. Eric instantly felt nauseated and would have vomited if he had had anything to throw up.
He had to get away, he had to get the terrible picture cleaned from his mind. Get out. Get out!
He threw away the chisel, grabbed the soldiers dagger and ran out of the room, closing the door tightly after him.
Panting like a maniac he leant against the door, dropping his newly acquired weapon on to the floor, it hit it with a clang. He really, really wanted to get down, back into the machine room now. Back into the comfortable darkness, where there were no dead men and no blood. But he had to push on, he told himself, he had to get to the Duke, the duke had to get him out; he had to help him get away from this place damned by the gods.
This clear goal calmed him slightly.
Author
Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 313139 times)