My first short story

Into the mouth of hell.

         “It is said that life has a meaning, but this is not true. Life has no discernible meaning. It changes, shifts, day to day, person to person, warping tendrils of possibility. It is what we make of life that counts. It is also said that time will tell, but no-one ever has enough time. Eternity is to short. You’ll never know what it all means, until its too late. You’ll see.”

Writings of the Seer in his last days.

         Scrawny. Silent. Solitary. All these described him. Small and unnoticed . The gutter child, lurking in the corners of your vision. Shadows, quiet, unknown. This one was special. His parents killed in the beginnings of the tyrannical wars, innocent bystanders in a greater story. He grew on his own quietly lurking and remaining an unseen ghost of a child. 13 he was when he walked calmly from the city its centre a ball of rolling flames, no-one ever got that story out of him. Out into the desert he strode taller than most his age but still undernourished. Amid hundreds of thousand of fleeing citizens he walked, not even bothering to look back at the beginning of his revenge.
         When we found him he was drinking the blood of a soldier he had killed, just to stay alive. I swear, the first time I looked into those eyes, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, he scarred me and even in the heat of the desert it made me shiver to look into those eyes, it still does. Taking the sword from the body, who I now saw was a captain, he wiped his mouth with his ragged left sleeve and assumed a casual defensive stance. No fear showed in his eyes and he was as tense and ready as one brought up in the ways of war.
         Now as we fight for our lives, across desert sands so baron as to rival that of any, I have seen men cower before him and beg for mercy to get only death and a mercy to them that they never knew, at least he didn’t make them live. No-one knows what happened to him in those first years and I hope too hell I never find out. Strange that one so quiet can be that brutal.
         Today was the toughest fight yet a full five of us dead and at least fifty of them killed. Decoranus must have accounted for nearly twenty of them himself, whirling and slashing through the air. An artist at his work. He seemed to be toying with them, as a cat plays with a mouse. Aware of everything around him it was an intricate ballet, flowing from one kill to the next, only one put up any kind of resistance against him whatsoever, the first one I ever saw. He was the commander of the strike group and must have been a master of combat to even block one blow against him. That first strike, from Decoranus, put him off balance and the second sent him spiralling towards the gritty sand, but he never felt himself hit it, somersaulting above him Decoranus blade came swinging down while still in mid-air it severed his head clean off. Their commander down they tried to flee, but that was no longer an option.
         Now I watch him search the bodies of the dead. He doesn’t seem to care that all of them must have families friends, it doesn’t matter to them when they kill us they don’t hesitate and think about our children and our parents so why should we care.

* * *

         I, also, watch him and as he reached to pick it up I glimpsed it, folded neatly into a small rectangle of heavily fingered parchment, a notice taken from the body of a courier that was to change all our lives. Unfolding it he read carefully through the hurried text. Even the tiniest hint change of expression alerted me to the seriousness of it and the quick glance at his surroundings ending starring straight into my eyes just enhanced my suspicions. Stealing into the Captains tent behind him I Listened in on the conversation.
         “It makes it perfectly clear,” he said in hushed tones, “Were being hunted. A small task force just North of Regalia Plateaux, perhaps a hundred or so men.” The captain looked on un-surprised and said,
         “So what shall we do about it?” only the slightest waver of fear showed in his voice, but this was enough. Outnumbered almost 4 to one it would take everything we had to overcome this.
         “We split into 3 parties and create a kill zone at the plateaux.” This plan was formed on cold hard logic, splitting into 3 groups to reduce the odds of capture and give us a better chance of doing some damage. “We’ll position the groups here, here and here.” he said pointing to 3, rubble covered, positions on the map with cover enough to hide 10 men in each .
         “Good.” replied the captain, slowly “Who else knows about this?”
         “Me, you and Elyia, who can come out of the shadow now.” At the sound of my own name I gasped and, seeing that there was no longer any point in hiding, sidled up to the desk and saw more clearly the candle light flickering, delicately on Decoranus’ face and the absolute lack of fear in his dark eyes, no emotion, no hesitation, noting. Cold

* * *

         He woke up to the screaming of one of his comrades and stumbled outside, still fully clothed in the beige rags that had once been combat fatigues. He instantly saw the trail of blood soaked sand the screaming, hysterical man dagger expertly placed through his chest, slanting upwards, puncturing his heart and lung. Knowing nothing could be done for the man Decoranus drew his own dagger from its concealed location in a ankle sheath and made sure the mans passage was a swift one.
         Prometheus, for that was the mans name, had taken a small group out on patrol early that morning and this proved that none of the 3 scouts would be back.
         10 dead in that one days march seamed to indicate a larger force than had originally been expected. The 17 survivors trudged on through the night, hardly daring to breathe. It was not just because of the cold that they were shivering.

* * *

         After a short, restless night, squeezed into a cave barely bigger than himself Decoranus awoke and searched the valley at a glance to find the 4 other, surviving, members of his party. They had now split into the 3 groups outlined in his plan and were keeping in contact using palm held, but extremely high quality, mirrors and Morse code. As the other members of his party awoke he ticked them off mentally and planned his next move. His was the smallest of the 3 groups and as such would find moving into position somewhat easier, but might have a harder job when it got up close and personal.
         Elyia, Ventris, Othar and Veemis were all there and he quickly formulated a plan.
         “Othar, Veemis, you’ll take the West ridge. Me and Ventris will take the East. Stay sharp. Elyia you’ll take point, scout ahead and check for trouble. Report ‘anything’ suspicious via mirror.” They quickly stowed there gear and moved off silently to vanish into the clammy shadows of the gritty rock face.
         Late that afternoon Elyia, moving silently through the sparse undergrowth of a small oasis, looked up to see what she at first thought to be light glinting off a rock. But no, there it was again.

… Dot, dot, dot … Dash, dash, dash … Dot, dot, dot …
… Dot, dot, dot … Dash, dash, dash … Dot, dot, dot …

         Suddenly realising just what it was she was seeing, and what it meant, she fumbled for her own mirror and signalled Decoranus.
         Sprinting the few hundred yards back to him she was able to give a fragmented explanation of the situation,
         “SOS……Captain……Something……wrong…trouble.”
         “There’s nothing we can do.” replied Decoranus, with the kind of calmness that would make a dragon shiver, “By the time get there they’ll all be dead anyway.”
         The next morning a similar signal came from the second party and soon enough screams came to Decoranus’ ears from the Western ridge. Of the 31 that started only 3 were left.
They marched in dismal silence, not daring to speak. They were the only ones left. Ventris patrolled the area that night, the cold desert night chilling him to the bone. Several dark, robed shaped stepped out from the shadows, cast by the pale blue moon, and surrounded him. Drawing there long swords they swiftly disposed of one more heretic.

* * *

         Waking up in the concealed crack in the rock wall he had already realised that something was wrong. Ventris was gone and the slow drip of his blood falling from the ledge above him made him come to the obvious conclusion.
         Gently waking Elyia, Decoranus explained the current situation in a voice unusually soft. They were the only ones left. Time seemed to pass quickly as she starred into his dark eyes and lay there quietly, in the path of the oncoming storm. Nothing seemed to matter. Stumbling into the greenery of and oasis together everything was a blur and they lay down together knowing death was now inevitable, they could never outrun what came ahead, and tears ran down her face as she kissed him.
         The haze of dust rose along the horizon as they lay there, oblivious, and as it grew and grew you could see the line of miniature figures at its base, dark armour glinting in the sunlight and when Decoranus saw them all he did was smile. As they grew closer he stood up now knowing what must be done.
         “Run.” He said too her, the one word drawing her attention to the inevitable onslaught.
         “But you’ll die. I’ll not leave you.” Looking into her eyes he was able to see the fear in them, the grief and the pain.
         “You must.” He said, his voice powerful, resonating.
         “No.” She pleaded, reduced to her knees and crying again.
         “It’s only when you stop looking for a way out that you can see the way through. Now I know what it all means. Its the only way.” His voice a prophecy of death. Standing up slowly she wiped the tears from her eyes and paused for a moment starring at him as if to that last image of him in her mind, so young to know so much. Then she fled crying. He paused to watch her go and then turned drawing the sword, taken from the body of the Captain all those years ago, and walked calmly toward his doom.
         It is said that as he walked to his death the sky darkened in the noon heat, nobody really knows if it’s true. Surveying the thousands of men ahead of him he paused raised his sword in the same casual posture as a thousand times before and charged. Sword arcing like that of death’s scythe he swung and parried, the blood of the dead staining his skin.

It is said that as he walked to his death the sky darkened in the noon heat, nobody really knows if it’s true. Surveying the thousands of men ahead of him he paused raised his sword in the same casual posture as a thousand times before and charged. Sword arcing like that of death’s scythe he swung and parried, the blood of the dead staining his skin.

         “As you march into the mouth of hell you no longer need look for a way round, only then will you look forwards. Death is what you decide it is. When there’s nothing left, no-one too turn too, nowhere to run, those are the moments that make us who we are, only then will you understand.”

Scriptures of the Seer.

         The desert sand had turned red around him as he stood there, sky dark, floor littered with bodies. As far as the eye could see all was death. Blood seeped down his chest as he stood there surveying his revenge. Clothes torn and frayed he stood there in the eerie limelight, sword stuck through his chest.
         He woke up to the screaming of one of his comrades… It started.