A Pyrrhic Victory

This is the first draft of the beginning of an epic fantasy adventure that sees Skullah and companions journey across the volcano-riddled land of Northfire on a quest to defeat the invading forces of Nahum Fuhrer. In the process, Skullah will discover much more about both her own and her country's fate and identity; this will be a coming-of-age story about destiny, maturity and self-sacrifice.

Please tell me what you think of this as a beginning. For some reason I found it very difficult to begin this story, even though I already know how it ends... Thanks!

A Pyrrhic Victory: Prologue & Chapter 1

*Placed 3rd in Magnolia Queen’s “Prologue Plus One” contest*

PROLOGUE

A jumbled up series of images – no, series was too orderly a word for what she was seeing. Series implied order, design, planning. It was a collage, a mixture, a mélange; an amalgamation of pictures and presentments with no rhyme or reason to their combination. Or at least, none that she could as yet determine:

A snapshot of a terrified young man, a priest, judging by his distinctive dress, stood in an underground cavern backlit by hellish flames. He was waving his hands in agitation and angry tears streaked his boyish face; he seemed to be trying to tell her something important …

A circular room in a high tower; she was surrounded by a ring of people, and their malevolence towards her was as palpable as the breeze on her face. The face of the man sat at an imposing desk in front of her was blurred and indistinct, but his countenance, she knew, was grim…

She sat on a mound in a vast plain, cradling the head of her dear dead friend on her lap and feeling - nothing. Looking up, the desolate scenery stretched for miles, stretched until it was terminated by a horizon dominated by a large fortress with a tall tower. She realized, with a pang of dread and anticipation like a punch to her stomach, that this was her destination…

In a subterranean cell this time, crouching on a thin bed of straw, while a tall man swathed in a voluminous black cloak and wearing a death's head mask, stood over her. In his hand he held a wicked-looking knife, yet all she felt was resignation to her end…

A volcano was next, clouds of evil-smelling smoke billowing thickly into the midday sky. Two figures trudged up the volcano's side, silhouettes seen from afar; the man firmly grasping the hand of the woman…

But one image dominated, one scene appeared again and again, interspersed between the other images and sights with such frequency that she knew it must be important, although, she did not understand why.

Yet somehow this one epitomized the violence and horror present in all the others, expressed perfectly their essence, until a thick feeling of doom and finality coalesced around the image as a representative of the whole. Its reoccurence portended something of great magnitude, a momentous change, thought what, she could not recognize...

That bloody plain again - a battlefield - with its carnage, all the wreckage and pitiful remains of human life. A small black snake writhed down there, crawling in between the broken bones and shattered skulls.

CHAPTER 1 – Skullah’s Rooms

That night, Skullah had the dream again.

Although the dream's events were crystal clear as she was dreaming them, she never remembered more than fragments, like the charred remains of incinerated paper, after she woke. It was disappointing, frustrating, and more than a little disconcerting that, try as she might, she never could reconstruct it; it was impossible to comprehend the atrocities of deepest unconsciousness in the optimism of wakefulness and daylight.

She was in not overly startled by the nightmare’s recurrence, just surprised that it had taken so long in coming back. It had used to trouble her sleep almost continually after the incident that had triggered it, returning again and again with dismaying regularity in the weeks and months that followed, until at last its frequency began to decrease. Ten years later, aged fifteen, her sleep was not all that troubled by it. She slept through it and, by nature pragmatic and unimaginative, she woke up relatively unrattled by it.

She woke almost instantly, going from sleep to wakefulness in less time than it takes a sparrow's wings to beat once. Customarily vigilant despite the security afforded by peace-time, and despite the fact she had little reason to fear sabotage or other dishonesty, intrigue or tricks, Skullah came awake and first surveyed her surroundings without sound or movement to determine that all was well. It was a procedure ingrained in her since her youngest years, a habit of her people, a retired race of warriors who had known how best to handle a sword before ever they had turned their hand to the softer craft of farming and learnt to wield a plough-share too.

Skullah regarded the familiar landmarks of her bed-chamber and was reassured by the absence of anythng abberent or untoward. She lay on her side on her bed, the curve of the stone alcove in which she slept several inched above her ear.
The soft ambient light of morning entered in fingers of light through the beaded curtain of the door to her balcony and illuminated the room. Wide dark eyes scanned the furniture and walls: all was well.

Even as she looked, relief flooded her that the dream was over and she had made it back, unscathed, to the world of the living. The blind panic and paralyzing fear, an immense pressure, had lifted and she could breathe easily again. The constricting tightness across her chest, like the hoops of a barrel, had melted away, and the terror in her throat receded. Skullah swallowed with difficulty, moistening her parched throat and suddenly realized how hot she was.

The fringes of her hair clung tiredly to her forehead and her skin more than glowed. The bedclothes were sticky with her sweat, not uncommon in Northfire's humid climate, but it was much worse than usual. Perhaps she hadn't needed the extra blanket she'd added to her bed the night before. In any case, she couldn't continue to lie in such a disgusting bed - she would have to get up. Skullah felt a nasty inkling that even getting out from under the pile of bedclothes wouldn't make her much cooler; she suspected a change in the weather had come overnight. She had slumbered while the heavy storm-clouds rolled in from the south-west, and thus woken to the long-predicted heat wave. Merchants and travellers returning from the south had brought reports of excessive, unusual heat -along with other, more ominous news that she didn't particularly want to think about this early in the morning.

Got to here!

Skullah peeled back the thin bed-covers with clammy fingers and staggered sleepily out of bed, managing somehow in the process to trip up over the covers and crumple to the floor without a sound. Skullah scowled and disentangled herself from the limp bedclothes, unwinding them like a cotton adder from around one ankle and chucking the unruly end back on the bed. She clambered up from her ungainly sprawl across the patterned floor, and that’s when she saw it.

Skullah couldn’t have explained why the discovery of a missing piece for her mosaic floor alarmed her so much. Perhaps it was the remnants of the horror of her sleep that she otherwise so effectively shut out of her mind seeping back in and alarming her in the waking world as in the other land. Perhaps it was the strange fierce heat and strange weather of late, so unseasonable and so unnerving, or the unsettling news from the south of marauding foreign forces. More likely it was because someone she loved had given her the floor mosaic and, more than that, Skullah was upset by what it meant. The roughly circular floor of Skullah’s bedroom was covered in the pattern of the compass in tiles of cerulean blue, vibrant healthy green and peachy terracotta tiles, especially shipped in from Mt. Miras up north near the coast. In addition there were dotted among the other rainbow of tiles little squares of a transparent material that caught the morning light and refracted it a thousand, thousand times in their inside: real, rare diamonds. The floor had been built for her by her father on the occasion of her fourteenth birthday, the Folkaner age of adulthood, and Skullah thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The envy of all her poorer friends, it used shades and textures unknown in the south of the country, and the coloured tiles were produced in a process that equally was not replicated down south. Nobody knew where the diamonds had come from; they were an unheard of commodity in Northfire at that time. Her father must have imported them from somewhere abroad, but he never would tell her where. Skullah loved the mosaic because it was exotic and foreign and expensive, but also for its calming and soothing properties. Just to gaze on it was to be quietened in spirit, because it represented balance, safety and direction in Northfire folklore and tradition.

And that was the reason the damage of even one little tile bothered Skullah so.

-> Flustered, she bent down and picked up the missing piece, scooping it up in the palm of one hand. Skullah held it up to the brightness of early to mid-morning and watched it sparkle as she briefly turned it and twisted it in the light. She blinked and then shivered despite the warmth, at some recollection of an uneasy shadow and broken glass, and then frowned and shook her head. The tile was not chipped. Somewhat reassured but still agitated, Skullah darted to her wooden cabinet, created from costly wood imported from Westearth’s abundant, fertile woods and plentiful forests. Trees and big plants were rare in the arid lands and thirsty climate of Skullah’s homeland; any water there was to spare was used for the forging process, and dry old bracken and brittle snake-wood gathered off the hillsides did for fuel. No-one in all of Northfire would waste proper wood in a fire. Skullah crouched by the wooden cabinet and went through it until she found a small pot. Unscrewing the lid, she satisfied herself that it was in fact glue, and knelt to mend the mosaic and repair the magic of its circular pattern. Using a copious amount of glue and squidging the tile down rather forcefully, Skullah put the diamond tile back in place. All at once a slight pressure lifted. Skullah sat back on her bare heels and wiped tacky fingers down her flimsy night-shift, smearing glue on the dirty grey cloth. All was quiet and secure; peaceful. Circles of mosaic within a circular room, rings within concentric rings like the ripples on a pool when you’ve just thrown a stone in. The tension disappears with a plop!

Skullah smiled to herself and got up to straighten the bedclothes, when there was a sharp knock at the door. She jumped in spite of herself and glanced once, nervously at the drying glue around the translucent tile. On a sudden urge, she stamped it down harder with her foot and crossed to open the door. Dust motes danced in the air streaming through the bead curtain to the balcony and the light glinted on the diamond tiles cemented firmly in the pattern.

~ ~ ~

Skaadi was at the door, with a white smile on her face and a metal breakfast tray balanced on her palm.

“Morning, you sleepyhead. Were you planning to doze all day?”

Immediately on the defensive at the hint of criticsm, Skullah opened her mouth to reply, and then remembered who she was talking to. She shrugged:

“Well… No, not all day” she said, somewhat brittley. “What are you doing here so early?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

Skaadi didn’t immediately reply but waltzed straight through Skullah’s bedroom and over the tile. Skullah followed her friend through the bead curtain onto her private balcony, batting the beaded curtain out of the way to get out. The tin tray clattered on Skullah’s outdoor table as Skaadi slid sideways into the seat, picking up a pastry and beginning to munch. Skullah took a seat next to her friend and clasped her hand round a mug of imported coffee. She looked out over one of the most spectacular views in the Mt. Urisaz area while she waited for Skaadi to reply. Over the iron railings of the balcony, the scenery stretched for miles in either direction. Looking down, you could see the sheer rock-face of crumbling rocks and easily dislodged boulders that ran until the foot of the mountain met the valley edge, where the ground became more alive, with grass and scrubby plants and bushes adorning the lower slopes. The tribe managed to cultivate some of the land here, but Northfire had to exchange for food and crops most of the time. An arid and infertile land, only the patches of irrigated land in the valleys were hospitable, but Skullah and her community lived in dry caves and tunnels, natural and man-made, that wormed into the lower and cooler flanks of the massive volcano.

The River Serpentine laced its way down the valley, going from left to right, and if you leant out dangerously far over the railings and were the possessor of good eyesight, you could even espy the point at which the Serpentine fractured into many tributaries, each splaying out in a different direction like a many-fingered hand. Skullah could hear distant shouts and laughter down in the valley as the day’s agricultural got underway. Teams of oxen yoked to padded metal ploughs lowed and a horse whinnied far away and to the south-east. Skullah squinted. The volcano home five miles away across the valley was rather active today. Smoke billowed from its mouth, charcoal grey and filthy. As she looked, the heavy air in the valley seemed to pulse. Her eyes widened and her hands reflexively gripped the bench. Then, viciously, the whole world lurched. Skullah’s head richocheted off the door frame behind her and she swore sharply: “Ow! Fuck!” Skaadi’s pastry slipped out of her grasp and splattered stickily on the table-top. There was an ominous grumbling sound and a fresh wave of grey smog jettisoned out if the mouth of Mt. Aron across the valley.

And then the world was normal again, and still again.

“Whoops! That was a bad one.” Skaadi exclaimed. Skullah nodded. She’d bitten her tongue, and now sucked blood away silently. Tremors were common in this land of fire and fury, where the tribes’ very survival was at the grace of the volcanoes, and yet the majority of them were in fact very placid. Many volcanoes, in particular those down south, were for the most placid and of even temper. The ones up north, in particular the Northern Line, were well-known for their horrendous tempers and their inhabitants were far warier, their homes more temporary so that if need be, a speedy evacuation could be made. But bigger tremors were more uncommon. Skullah frowned. And Mt. Urisaz was known as a relatively sleepy volcano. As another ominous rumble split the valley, Skaadi turned to Skullah and spoke, her face suddenly serious and sober.

“Since you were late up, I thought I’d come and get you. That’s why I brought you breakfast… I know you don’t like mornings. But Airon said he wants to speak to you - urgently.” Skaadi leant closer, with a conspiratorial air, and whispered “And Redd’s in the stables. Moriah says he came in delivering a message last night, very late. An important message too. But he won’t say what. Anyway, he’s off soon - another message to deliver – but she said he was asking for you to come before you see your father.”

Skullah nodded, taking the information in. Her earlier sense of unease threatened to make a reappearance. Redd had come in late last night, with an important message that he would tell no-one and that only he knew, and her father wanted to see her urgently this morning about something. Skullah made the link and swallowed nervously. Airon was a hard man, demanding as much from everyone else as he did himself, a man of unbending moral principles, great bravery and military expertise. A difficult father to please. What could she possibly have done – or not done - this time? A wayward and stubborn daughter, Skullah was often in trouble. With a sinking heart she smarted at the familiar feeling that she would never be able to make him proud, whatever she did. The two of them just were not enough alike. She was selfish and self-preserving; he was generous and self-sacrificing, always putting the good of the clan ahead of his own desires. A clash of personalities; that was what happened when you determined family units by lots-drawing. *** interrupted her reverie.

“Are you alright?”

Her head jerked up: “Yeah. I’m fine. When did you say I’d be there?”

Ashadow of doubt crossed Skaadi’s face like a passing cloud. Her eyes met Skullah’s then guiltily flicked away to analyse the sky, the quality and direction of light, which would tell her the approximate time of day. “Uh… well at the Hour of the Oxen but then I got talking to Moriah – you know she’s a terrible gossip-“

“Skaadi! Now I’m gonna be late for my meeting with Redd and my meeting with Airon – and I can’t be late for that.” Disappearing into her bedroom mid-tirade, Skullah yanked open her clothes’ chest and extracted a couple of garments, slamming the expensive wooden lid on sleeves which poked forlornly out like tongues. Skaadi followed her angry friend around the room, miserably picking things up after her, chastened but angry all the same and waiting for her chance to interrupt. Both girl’s notorious Northfire tempers blazed, neither willing to admit her wrong.

“Bugger, I’m gonna have to wear a dress. I haven’t got time to get dressed properly.” Skullah wiggled into a coarse shift and belted it round her waist with a silver belt. Shoving her feet into woven grass sandals, Skullah dashed to the wash basin and gave her face a quick rinse, grumbling all the while. “Honestly, why couldn’t you have come down here earlier. Even if you’d brought Moriah with you – much as I dislike her… Hand me that towel.” Skaadi passed her it. Skullah used it and discarded it on the floor. Picking it up, Skaadi complained:

“Honest to god you’re so messy. Why don’t you put things away after you’ve used them… And I’m not your maid-“

“Shut up. It’s my room” Skaadi glowered at her friend’s back as she made herself up: thick smoky eyeliner smeared on, eyelashes coated as if in tar. Black-rimmed eyes checked to make sure Skulah’s tawny braided hair was at least smooth and none of the plaits had come loose in the night. Skaadi’s hand self-consciously went to her own hair, dark brown braids knotted straight as corn-rows close to her skull and a tight bun-shaped mound of hair on the back. Folkaners pay scant attention to personal hygiene but cosmetics and appearance are all important for the aggressive image of a warrior tribe. Most women (and many men) wore their long dirty hair in elaborate hairstyles; braids, plaits and knots are all popular, as is dying and incorporating beads and jewellery into the style. Skaadi also had a small, off-white ribbon tied around her bun, designating a doctor or field-medic in training; the same symbol her mother and father wore pinned in their hair. Skaadi eyed her friend’s hair with a certain amount of pity: scruffy autumn coloured braids that changed from auburn to gold to rust in the light, with a short tail at the back that bobbed and danced as Skullah ran around the room like a whirlwind. But no other adornments: sixteen and no sign of job or occupation, no indication of purpose or direction in life. Most Folkaners chose their career path early in life, by the age of about fourteen or fifteen, whether scholar, smith or soldier. Or doctor.

“Come on, let’s go.” Skullah had added an amber pendant and ring to her ensemble. She shook her head, one last check in the polished surface of the mirror, and her earrings, the line of silvery hoops and studs that punctuated her ear from top to bottom, jangled in a discordant tune. In the distance, there was a rumble of thunder. Skaadi thought she felt the earth shiver under her sandaled feet, but Skullah had already disappeared out of the door, going towards the stairs that lead to the Great Hall. Skaadi glanced down at the mosaic on the floor. So expensive, and had it worked? No. She huffed tiredly and, letting the towel fall to the floor, exited the room in hot pursuit of her angry friend. The towel landed in a mound on the mosaic floor, hiding the drying glue of the diamond tile beneath its folds and coils.

CHAPTER 2 – The Great Hall

To be continued...