Warmheart: A Tale of Migol Ironwill and His Nemesis
Spoiler Alert!
“Migol! Here!” Gador gave the slab another shove, but it remained motionless. The rock was too heavy. “Help me!” he cried. Some more rock fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing Gador’s head. He barely noticed it.
Migol arrived, slamming into the hunk of rock that Gador was trying to move. There was a grinding of stone on stone, but still the slab refused to move. A tongue of flame in the room beyond leapt high for a brief moment, and Gador saw Migol’s face in shadowy relief. He was scared. They both were. If Milda was in that room…
Just thinking about Milda gave Gador an extra burst of energy. With one gargantuan surge of strength, he pushed against the stone with all his might, a yell of desperation escaping him as his muscles strained. There was a deep grinding, a sudden shutter, and the stone fell in backwards, landing with an ominous thud of finality.
Migol was in the room instantly. “Milda?” he turned on the spot, searching the dust-ridden air.
Gador staggered in behind him, his entire body weakened from his exertion. He was nearly ready to topple over in exhaustion, but he forced himself to stand as best he could, and examine the room. He prayed that he wouldn’t find anything, and his prayers were answered; Migol found her instead.
“Here!” he cried, lunging through the clouds of dust that billowed in the room. Gador stumbled after him, slipped on something, and fell to the floor with a crash.
It took him a moment to collect himself. When he did, he noticed that he was lying in something wet. He spat the substance out of his beard, and tasted the horrible metallic taste he had been dreading: blood. Dwarf blood.
Gador struggled to his feet and found Migol a short ways away, crouched over a small figure. Gador felt his heart give a small stutter of fear. No… surely not…
As if with a mind of their own, his legs carried him forward, and then dropped him to his knees by Migol’s side. And there his worst fears were realized.
Migol was holding the body in his arms, tears splashing onto her still face, her glassy eyes staring past him, fixed on a point that was no longer there. “Milda,” he whispered, his tears choking his voice. “Milda… Milda…”
Gador was beyond tears or speech. He only felt numb. It struck him as wrong; he should feel something. But all he felt as he stared at his sister’s face was a blank emptiness. There was a void in his mind where Milda had once been.
Gador’s eyes traveled over his sister’s body, the blood still slowly seeping from her wounds, her pallid face which had once been so warm, and fixed on the wall behind her. There was something there: a faint smudge of soot, perhaps. But it was too regular, too defined. Gador leaned closer, struggling to see through the dust…
The imprint of a hand, outlined in a cloud of black. The ink and ashes still warm on the wall.
Gador drew back violently, sucking his breath in as only one word raced through his mind: “Blackhand!”
He must have spoken the name out loud, for Migol looked up and saw the mark upon the wall too. His visage went from sorrow to rage faster than a falling boulder. “Blackhand!” he thundered, leaping to his feet. “They have done this! Those cowardly drimgalams! They dare not confront us openly, so they send The Night Wind to strike behind our backs. To strike at our families! At… At…” Migol sank to his knees, subsiding into grief. He could not finish.
Gador rested his hand on Milda’s face, and gently closed her eyes. The void within him was beginning to fill, but not with what it had once held. Rage was beginning to course through him. As he stared at the terrible symbol upon the wall, fury took him, slowly, surely. Gador welcomed it.
“They must pay,” he said, the quietness in his voice surprising him. “The Blackhand must answer for what they have done.”
Migol was silent now, his tears gone, but he did not reply.
“The Night Wind has slain our sister in her very home! We must end this.”
“No,” Migol said. His voice was so controlled, and yet so forceful, that Gador’s rage cooled instantly. Migol always had that effect on him. He was a natural leader. “I know the Night Wind,” Migol said. “We have met before. I will end this. But you,” he turned to Gador, his face burning with suppressed wrath, “you must keep our families safe. The Blackhand have grown strong indeed to strike us here: you must keep the watch. Let none slip by.”
Gador grasped Migol’s arm. “There are others to guard the gates. I can come with you.” He looked at Milda’s face. “I must come with you.”
“No,” Migol said, gently this time. “This is my fight. I am head of the house. This is not your battle.”
Gador felt his rage returning. “It became my battle when The Night Wind entered this place. It became my fight when she drew her blades, and used them to snuff out the brightest light in my life. This is my fight, Migol, and I will see The Night Wind dead by my hand.”
Migol stood. “Your death cannot be by my word. I am the elder brother. You will stay.”
As Migol turned and disappeared into the dust once more, Gador pressed his face to Milda’s, his eyes closed. “I promise you, sister: I will find The Night Wind, even if it means defying my brother. I will hunt her down and slay her, even as she has slain you. You will be avenged.”
“I take none with me. Their absence will be discovered if I do.”
“Your absence will be discovered, Migol,” Forun said. “You’re the head of the house. They will know if you disappear.”
“I will spread about the rumor that I am mourning. It is what would be expected.”
Forun put a hand on Migol’s shoulder. “It is expected, friend. Do not pursue this course. Mourn your sister; that is right.”
Migol raised his eyes to Forun’s face. “I do mourn Milda. Do not mistake my words for anything else.”
“This is not how she would have wanted to be remembered.”
Migol looked at Forun for a space before replying. “I have to do this. The Night Wind has to be stopped, otherwise we may soon have to mourn another.”
Gador had heard enough. He leaned forward across the table the three of them were sitting at. “Migol’s right, Forun. She has to be stopped. She will kill, and continue to kill, unless she is put in her place.”
Migol glanced at Gador. “And your place,” he said, “is by the gate. No one gets through. You are not to go with me; I have already lost a sister. I do not intend to lose a brother as well.”
Gador looked at Migol, not replying. They both knew what the other was thinking.
“Yes, brother,” he said at length, dropping his eyes. “I will stay.”
“Then I must go,” Migol said, standing. “I must find The Night Wind before she reaches the walls of Blackhand, or all will be lost.”
“Winds at your back, friend,” Forun said.
“Expect me on the last day of Sun’s Fall,” Migol said. “If I have not returned… then you know my fate.”
Gador watched as his brother turned and left, exiting the place where they sat. Forun glanced at him. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
Gador’s eyes didn’t leave the doorway where his brother had disappeared. “You’d be a fool if you didn’t,” he muttered. “I mean to follow him. She was my sister as well.”
Forun sat down, a concerned look on his face. “It’s not what she would have wanted,” he said. “I knew Milda well. Always caring, the most cheerful and heart-warming creature I ever saw.”
Gador smiled despite himself. Every dwarf gained a second name when they came of age, and that had been hers: Milda Warmheart. How appropriate it had been.
Forun put his hand on Gador’s shoulder, perhaps to make sure he was listening. “She loved life. You know she did. Paled at the slightest mention of death. Why, I remember it took her years before she’d even eat meat. Insisted on living off of beans. She wouldn’t have wanted this, Gador. It’s bad enough that Migol has gone off to kill The Night Wind before the ashes are cold, but to have both her brothers go? No, Gador. She would not have wanted that, I know.”
Gador closed his eyes and sighed. “There are some decisions that we must make,” he said. “And then there are others that are made for us. I must do this. I follow my brother.”
The family of Blackhand had been at war with Migol’s clan for years. Until now, the war had always been firmly political, the violence being limited to scuffles in the tunnels and minor death threats. It seemed that now, things had finally escalated. Milda Warmheart had been the sister of the varagt, the clan leader. Her death showed that the Blackhand was not afraid to aim high.
This was one of the reasons that Gador stuck closely to the shadows as he followed his brother, Migol. The other reason, of course, was that he knew the kind of rage Migol was capable of. He preferred to save that until after The Night Wind was dead.
The Night Wind was not easy to track, and not only because no one knew her true name. Everyone was scared stiff of her and refused to talk, even if they knew something. She had never been seen, never been caught, and never, ever been survived by one of her targets. And she was the Blackhand’s to command. Anger them, and you were as good as dead. And with the death of Milda, everyone knew it.
How Migol had gotten his information therefore, Gador would never know. He had walked into a tavern serving as a front for a Blackhand listening post, and walked out half an hour later. Now he was in one of the West Tunnels, making for the fortress of Uldamor, Gador behind him, unseen.
Gador was uneasy in the long tunnel, and for good reason. They made excellent locations to murder someone. The tunnel was long, and with the war, someone used it only once a week, or less. No screams would be heard, no body found, until it was too late.
Migol apparently did not share his concern. He had been walking for nearly two hours, his pace never varying from a fast trot. When he suddenly stopped and stood perfectly still, therefore, Gador knew something was wrong. It didn’t take him long to find out what.
Gador had just drawn his axe when a black shadow seemed to hurdle out of the tunnel wall itself, and collide with Migol. The two dwarves tumbled across the floor, fighting savagely.
As Gador leapt from the shadows to intervene, he could see that the assassin held a long dagger, and was repeatedly trying to plunge it into Migol’s chest. Migol had no weapon drawn, but he was still able to block the assassin’s every blow with his arms.
Gador leapt to the battle, his axe raised, the war cry of the Felgar echoing off the tunnel walls. The last action proved to be a bad decision.
At the sound, the assassin disentangled himself from Migol with all the swiftness of ale pouring from a mug. Gador only had half a second to block the dagger that appeared out of nowhere as his momentum carried him right over the assassin. He felt a sudden punch to his ribs, landed a moment later on the hard stone, and felt his axe leave his hands.
Dazed, Gador was only aware of the sounds of battle. Metal clanged on metal. Stone was ground underfoot. Grunts echoed off the walls as Migol and the assassin fought. By the time Gador regained his breath and looked up, Migol had won, and had the assassin pinned to the stone floor via the point of his sword.
Gador scrambled to his feet, his ribs stinging painfully. “Should we kill him?” he asked as he collected his fallen axe. “Or maybe press him for information?”
Migol turned his head, thinking. “Neither,” he said after a moment.
“What do you intend to do then?”
Migol did not raise his sword. “I intend to let him go.”
It was a moment before Gador found his voice. “Let him go! He just tried to kill us, Migol. If you let him go, there’s no telling how many others he will kill in their sleep.”
“He’s failed,” Migol said calmly. “It is unlikely the Blackhand will employ his services again, now that he’s been discovered.”
“Unlikely?” Gador echoed. “You want to leave this up to chance? And what if you are wrong? What will you say to the family of his next victim?”
Migol raised his sword without warning, and brought it down, the hilt striking the assassin’s head. The dwarf fell limply to the floor, unconscious, but still very much alive. Migol then turned against Gador, and in an instant, had him pinned to the tunnel wall.
“Wars are not fought between soldiers, little brother, but between leaders. If I had killed that assassin, another would have come. I save no one by killing a mere pawn. Only by removing the pieces of value is the game won.
“And you; you have followed me, against my orders. I told you to guard the gate.”
“And you knew perfectly well I never would.”
“I had hoped that a little more sense had lodged in your head since the last time you disobeyed me, brother.”
“Sense?” Gador repeated. “I just saved your life! If that was but a pawn, how do you think you will fare against The Night Wind?”
“A lot better without you to worry about,” Migol growled, letting Gador go. “Now I tell you for the last time: leave. Keep our cities safe; leave this to me.”
“You know I will not leave you.”
Migol thrust his face to within an inch of Gador’s. “Did you know our sister so little? Is this how you would honor her memory? If she were alive, she would never want you to seek vengeance.”
“If she were alive,” Gador said calmly, “there would be no need for vengeance.”
“Do not defile her name with your need to satisfy your own heart,” Migol hissed. “Killing The Night Wind will not bring her back or alleviate your suffering.”
“Then why do you do it?” Gador spat back.
Migol didn’t answer. “This is not what she would have wanted, Gador, and you know that. For once in your life honor our sister without thinking of yourself. Go back.”
With a final shake of Gador’s leather jerkin, Migol stood, and turned away. Without another word, he resumed his fast pace down the tunnel, and was soon consumed in the darkness.
After a moment, Gador picked himself up. If anything, Migol had deepened his resolve to follow him. It was true that Milda would never have wanted any of this, and part of Gador’s mind hated himself for continuing. But the fact that Migol knew that as well and still sought The Night Wind was far more worrisome to Gador. His brother had always been the selfless one. This sudden need for revenge was not like him, and Gador was afraid it would get him killed.
Unbidden, he saw Milda’s face again. She was smiling, happy. His heart turned cold when he thought of what she would say if she could see him now, bent on another’s destruction. But Migol needed him. Nothing could persuade him to go back now.
It took nearly a week for Migol to track down The Night Wind. There were narrow escapes, more tangles with agents of the Blackhand, and much searching, but eventually he tracked her to the very outskirts of Uldamor, Blackhand’s fortress, in an abandoned council hall.
Gador had remained hidden from his brother all this time, resolved to enter the fray only when The Night Wind was found. The element of surprise can be everything in a battle, and if she was focused on dueling Migol, she would never expect an attack from behind.
Dwarven council halls were semi-circular shaped, consisting of benches that rose up to the ceiling, and fell to the floor below to end in a flat space or kvesta, usually reserved for the offender. It was not the best place for hand-to-hand combat. Especially if The Night Wind was at the top of the benches.
Migol entered the kvesta, Gador keeping well behind him in the entrance hall. He would attack when The Night Wind was distracted.
Migol walked to the middle of the kvesta and stood still, scanning the tops of the benches. Gador waited in the shadows.
“I know you’re here, Evena.”
Gador blinked. Migol knew The Night Wind’s name?
A voice drifted down from the benches, cold, but curiously soft. “How did you find out, Migol Ironwill?”
“I study my enemies. The Blackhand concealed your identity, but they could not hide the little girl I once taught to use the sword. Evena Fairwind. That was your name, before Blackhand found you.”
There was a pause. “And you think to unsettle me with this knowledge?”
“No,” Migol said calmly, “unless of course you have forgotten who you once were. That would be unsettling in the extreme.”
Soft laughter reached Gador’s ears. “You always played the game with your mind, Migol. It has served you well.”
“This is no game,” Migol said, a slight edge to his voice. “Do you know what you have become? What you have done?”
“I know I have changed. Evena Fairwind died nine years ago with my parents. The Night Wind is all that remains.”
Migol climbed atop the first row of benches. “Why, Evena? Why have you chosen this path?”
A figure moved out of the shadows at the top of the benches. Gador stifled his gasp of surprise as he saw the figure, illuminated from below. The Night Wind was clothed in black, a black veil obscuring her face. Black leather was her armor, sewn with thin plates of metal. Two long knives hung at her hips, and her hands, covered in black cloth, rested on their hilts. A cowl was drawn over her head, and combined with the veil, nothing of her face could be seen, save for a deep, velvety blackness. Gador had not been seen, but he moved deeper into the shadows nonetheless.
“This path chose me,” Evena said, a slight quiver to her voice.
Migol ascended the second row of benches. “You know that’s not true, Evena. No path chooses us. Not one as dark as yours.”
“Mine did,” Evena breathed. “Blackhand came. My heart was empty. He filled it with hate, hate that has fueled me ever since.”
Migol moved up to the third row. “It’s not too late, Evena. You can end this, now.”
“I am no longer Evena! The person you once knew is gone. Gone, Migol! I died that day nine years ago. Who I was stayed behind in that burned down home. Who I was escaped through the tears I shed. She’s gone. Blackhand created me, and it is them that I serve.”
Migol took a step down. “I believe you,” he said quietly. “Not because any of what you say is true. But because the girl I knew, the girl I trained, could never have done the crimes you have committed. Do you see them at night? Your victims? Alver? Vorad? Keldar? … Milda?”
With a cry of denial, Evena leapt at Migol. No one could possibly leap from such a height, but she did, falling towards Migol with her blades drawn. Migol side stepped her, drew his sword, and leapt after her. They landed on the kvesta, blades locked.
“They were targets,” Evena hissed, as they each tried to break the lock. “Names on a paper.”
Migol spun backwards, breaking he lock and evading Evena’s counterattack. “They were people, Evena,” he said. She leapt forwards, but he deflected her blow. “People with lives. No one is just a name on a paper.”
“I was!” Evena screamed. She rushed at Migol and let loose a furry of slashes, but they were all blocked by Migol’s shield. She ducked his sword and retreated out of range. “My parents were! They were targets. I was a footnote. That’s all I ever was. That’s all anyone ever is, in the long passage of existence.”
Gador caught sight of Migol’s face in the glow of a torch. It was filled with anger and sorrow, but not hate. “Alver was a blacksmith and a friend. He had a wife and two daughters. His metals were worked with precision and love. The children of Vurag came to him at the end of the day to watch the metal flow in the trough. He would show them how to work the metal. And when you killed him, the people of Vurag mourned in the square. A great man had been lost.”
“He was a name supplying the enemies of Blackhand with weapons. I did what was necessary.”
Again Evena leapt forwards, and again Migol deflected her blow downwards, this time sending her crashing to the floor. He did not press his advantage.
“Vorad was a herder. He was the youngest of two sisters and two brothers, and he was thought delicate of heart and mind. In reality he was the kindest and wisest man I ever knew. He played the old songs on his flute when the children asked, and when there was a dispute to settle, his word was respected by all. When he was found murdered in his bed, his brother swore vengeance on you and set out for this very place.”
“He was a spy, inciting the people against Blackhand. I killed him quickly.” Evena scrambled to her feet and threw a hidden dart at Migol. He blocked it with his shield, even as she charged him a third time. This time he side-stepped her and knocked her legs out from under her with his foot. She fell to the floor.
“Vorad’s brother was Keldar. He was a warrior, but a warrior with a heart. He kept the old tales alive, even when no one else believed in them. He knew bloodshed, he knew suffering, and he knew their full weight. He wove stories for the children that warned them against war and fighting. He was the mightiest dwarf for miles, and he was known as one of the greatest peace-makers to ever live. It took three of you to bring him down. His body was never found.”
“He died well,” Evena said, getting to her feet. “But he was an old enemy of Blackhand, and was dealt with accordingly.” She did not attack Migol again, but rather stayed out of reach, slowly circling.
Gador got a better grip on his weapon. This was it. Any moment now, they would clash for real, and he would have his chance.
“And Milda?” Migol asked. “Do you even remember her? She bandaged your arm when Belor hurt you in training. She brought you stew when you were sick. She walked with you when you were alone. She comforted you when you were sad. What do you remember of her?”
Both dwarves stopped moving and stood still, watching each other.
“I remember,” Evena whispered, her face impossible to read, “that she was there when my parents died. She dried my tears. She held me close. She sang to me until I fell asleep in her arms.” She was speaking in a monotone, as if she couldn’t stop. “And when I woke, I remember what she said to me: she said it was a terrible thing that had been done. She said how the people who had killed my mother and father were bad, and how they had to be stopped.”
Gador had heard enough. He stepped out of the shadows. “And I’m here to fulfill that wish,” he said. Evena whipped around even as Gador launched himself at her, axe held ready.
He was no match for her. She side-stepped him neatly, landed a blow on his arm, twisted away from his axe, snuck under his guard, and sliced both daggers across his chest. The wounds were not deep, but they seared like fire and caused Gador to fall to the ground, his axe gone from his grip. Evena knelt on top of him, her knives pressed to his throat.
Migol spoke before she could move another inch. “There was one thing more that Milda said.” Gador couldn’t understand why his voice wasn’t hurried.
Evena paused, listening.
“Blackhand drove it from your mind with their ill whisperings, but I was there too. I heard. Milda said the men who had killed your mother and father had to be stopped, to be made to see what they had done. Not to be killed.”
Evena flinched, and Gador saw why: the tip of Migol’s sword had appeared right next to her throat. He could kill her in an instant.
“Do you know what you have done, Evena?” Migol whispered. “Do you know the light you have robbed the world of? Who is to measure the worth of a life? Who are we to say who must die and who must live?
“We are not nearly smart enough to pass judgment on any life. Milda understood that. She never wanted to kill those men that ruined your life, Evena. She wanted to stop them at their core, make them see that no one is just a name on a page.”
Migol reached down and pulled Evena up so that she had to look right at him. “You have ended lives, Evena. Even the darkest person has a story to tell, something to impart. Even the lowest dwarf is far more valuable than any amount of payment. No single word can ever describe a person, no paragraph or volume can show truly who he is. All we can do is catch glimpses of people, of how rich and full their lives truly are. This is what you have taken from the world.”
Evena dropped her blades. They clattered against the stone floor of the kvesta, and then lay still, unnoticed. Evena still stood over Gador, and he could feel her legs against his, trembling. Gador waited. Would Migol now end The Night Wind, the one who had taken so much life without a thought as to what it meant?
Migol lowered his sword. “You have taken much from the world, Evena. If anyone deserves to die, it is you. But even one as dark as you, whose heart is corrupted and mind twisted; even you do not deserve death. For even you have a life, and every life is precious, no matter how dark.”
Epilogue
Spoiler Alert!
Evena returned with Migol and Gador. She renounced the name of Blackhand, and laid bare the family’s dark dealings. With so much evidence, the dwarf clans united against Blackhand, and drove them from their caverns without a drop of blood being spilled.
Evena of course had to go into hiding. She had killed too many people, hurt too many lives. She would never be safe among those that knew her, no matter what Migol told them. She left one day, shortly after Milda Warmheart had been laid to rest in stone, and was never heard from again.
Gador never found it within his heart to forgive The Night Wind for what she had done. She had struck at his friends and family too often for that. He counted her as dead though, slain by Migol on the floor of the kvesta. All that remained was a dwarf who had once been lost: Evena Fairwind.
They were never friends. But Gador saw the change Migol’s words had wrought in her, and he knew that she was truly sorry for what she had done. No amount of remorse could undo the deeds, or make the pain of them any less, but Gador knew that Milda’s wish had been carried out: The Night Wind had been stopped.
On the day that Evena left the dwarves, she left also the name of Fairwind. Evena Fairwind had too much darkness within her, too much pain and suffering. It was Evena Fairwind who had created The Night Wind, not Blackhand. She took instead a different name, a name that both Migol and Gador approved of:
Evena Warmheart.
My thoughts:
Spoiler Alert!
I like the idea of this one, but it's probably one that could have been a lot better if I had spent more time on it. I don't feel like you really got the full impact without truly knowing the lives Evena had slain. Even Milda isn't addressed the way I wanted her to be. I feel it's passable, but could certainly be better.
And there you have it. Remember to keep the prompts coming. I'm thinking the next one might be NGS/gardening, but I have no other ideas after that.
~TGRF, noting that 4114 might soon postpone all weekly challenges.
So this died off during my inattentiveness I see. From what I can tell NGS/Gardening and Heirloom/Empire were the only two unanswered suggestions. Idk if you want to resurrect this or not.
So this died off during my inattentiveness I see. From what I can tell NGS/Gardening and Heirloom/Empire were the only two unanswered suggestions. Idk if you want to resurrect this or not.
Ehh... likely not. I made this because I thought It would allow me to be constantly writing. Instead, it allowed me to be constantly developing. I need to have time to develop my novel, so that won't work.
Venoc Warlord/Rambo was next up if I recall, but I never got that one to come out right. NGS/gardening is there - I know how I would do it - but it's missing the middle and end.
I'm going to reboot this challenge, for the simple reason that I need practice. Currently I need practice in creating and writing character arcs, but I imagine that what I need to practice will shift over time as I focus on new things.
For right now though, I wanted to get down to that Venoc/Rambo story. I've done some cursory research on Rambo and I think I have a general idea of what the name implies as a concept. And the concept actually works pretty good when plugged into my character arc process, so I'm using it.
In the meantime, if there are any new requests, feel free to field them. Remember I'm not obligating myself to write them. When last I looked, we had these prompts:
Heirloom/Empire
Tul-Bak-Ra/Outcast
Ne-Gok-Sa/Gardening
I currently have no idea for any of those, but I don't think it would be hard to get some (even for gardening). So if there's one you'd rather I do instead (after Rambo), put in your challenge now.
To reiterate the OP, I want you to challenge me with a character from the HS world (so 'Drake' and 'Jandar' work equally well), and a word which can be literally anything. It's up to me to try and combine them into a story. All requests using the word 'floorwax' will be disregarded.
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Writer notes, which mean nothing to anybody else, but which I will include anyway because it make me feel like I'm making progress :
Rambo: 3/6 Bases, 3/12 Beats, 0/3 Stakes, no complications, no twists, no escalation. Medium interest. 1 Deviant.
Just read the Migol store and loved every minute of it! I feel you were being a little hard on yourself with your analysis. I feel you captured the heart of the Night Wind's victims perfectly. I especially liked the one of the warrior who required three assassins to take him down.
I'm back. I've been studying character arcs and the 3-act-structure, and I wanted something to test them on. I think the short stories this challenge outputs will be great for that.
I wanted to do that Venoc/Rambo story, and it's kind of there, but it has character arc issues. (For writers: the Lie is too close to being believed to allow me to solidly put the story in one of the two character arcs.)
So I went to the Tul-Bak-Ra/Outcast story. I outlined that and actually started to write it, but I quickly realized that it would be a bit longer than I anticipated, and I therefore needed more development to match its size.
I considered the Heirloom/Empire story for a bit, and I'm intrigued by it, but I feel like it too could be longer, and needs a bit more thought before I dive into the outline.
That left the zombie/Buoy story. I knew this story would be about as bare-bones-short as the 3-act-structure allowed, so it was the perfect thing to test with while I whack out how to plug details into outlines. So for that reason, here it is:
Weighing in at just over four pages and 2341 words, I give you: Zombie of Morindan/Buoy
WARNING: While there is no blood/gore, some of the actions might be somewhat on the violent side of things. Also, this was written very quickly, and might contain typos and such.
Spoiler Alert!
Verin heaved himself out of the water, his tired muscles shaking and failing, and climbed onto the buoy. He rolled onto his back and lay on the hard metal surface, staring up at the night sky, his breath coming in quick gasps. The bitter wind sliced at his wet skin and soaked clothes with all the chill of a Valhallian winter, but Verin didn’t move. The water was warmer, but he wouldn’t get back in it. If he had his way, he would never get back in any water as long as he lived.
Verin closed his eyes. The memory was still too clear. Dark shapes in the water as he swam, arms and legs bumping against him in the cold wetness, something grabbing his leg and threatening to pull him under.
Verin forced his eyes open. He wouldn’t let his mind sabotage him like that. He couldn’t afford it. Later, he could sleep. He could rest. But right now, he still had to escape.
Verin didn’t know where the zombies of Morindan had come from, or how they had overrun the elven command post so quickly. All he knew was that he was the only one left. Terror lapping at the edges of his sanity, he had run for the only thing which was not a writing mass of decaying bodies: water. And now he sat in the middle of the Bay of Sorrows, atop a floating buoy, in the dead of night, for all he knew surrounded by zombies.
Verin looked up at the sky. Help would come. A command post wasn’t overrun without it being noticed by someone. Eventually, a squadron of kyrie would fly over the place, scouting it, and they would see Verin. He just had to avoid freezing to death until they came. As long as he was quiet, the zombies would never know he was here.
Thump.
What was that?
Thump.
The buoy swayed slightly in the water. Verin gripped it harder, the coldness of metal seeping into his already-chilled hands.
Thump.
The buoy shook again. Something was down there, below it, bumping into the chain. Verin scrambled to the very middle of the buoy. The buoy was small, just a cylinder of metal about as long across as Verin was tall. But there was a metal pole in its center which extended up above Verin’s head, carrying a tattered orange flag. Between the small surface area and the pole, Verin didn’t have much room.
Thump.
He clung to the pole tighter.
And then something, something black and slimy, something which reeked of rotten flesh and which was still alive, reached up and grabbed the edge of the buoy. It was the hand of a zombie of Morindan. Verin’s fears were confirmed: they were in the water.
The zombie hauled itself up onto the buoy much as Verin had done. Bits of skin and flesh scrapped off on the metal as it dragged its limbs over the side, but it seemed not to notice. It took one rattling breath, and locked its soulless eyes – devoid of anything but black hunger – on Verin. And then it stood, and took a shuffling step towards him.
Verin was a soldier of Ullar’s ninth elven division. He was perfectly capable of simply kicking the zombie off the side. But he couldn’t. His mind was locked into a survivor’s terror. Even if he did strike the zombie down, it would just get back up again. It would keep coming until he ran out of energy. The water must be full of them, so escape was no option. But he had to escape. He must! Verin’s panicked eyes watched the zombie slowly shuffle closer.
Verin circled around the pole, keeping it between himself and the zombie. Its putrid stench smote him in the face as it drew closer, its arms outstretched now, eagerly grasping for him.
Thump.
It ran into the pole. Clearly, night vision was not a zombie’s strong suit. Verin backed away from the pole, getting as close to the edge of the buoy as he dared. But it wasn’t enough. The zombie pressed its body to the pole, and reached out for Verin with arms which seemed too long to be allowed.
Verin was out of options. The zombie’s arms were on either side of him. The water was behind him, lapping against his heels in a cruel imitation of fingers clutching at him. Before him was the zombie’s waiting mouth. He shielded his head and curled into a ball, terror overcoming him.
He felt the icy touch of fingers on his arm. The fingers closed in with a grip like a soulborg’s cyberclaw. And then the zombie began pulled him towards the center of the buoy, where he knew it stood, mouth hanging slack.
For a moment Verin was limp. For a moment panic ran rampant in his mind. Then pure instinct took over.
Verin’s free hand shot out, almost of its own accord, and grabbed the edge of the buoy. Verin ignored the water lapping against his fingers, and held on with all his might. For a moment nothing happened. Zombie strained against elf, and the buoy bobbed gently up and down as the silent struggle raged upon it. Then the zombie changed tactics. It inched forward, keeping a grip on Verin’s arm, and latched onto one of his legs with its other arm.
Verin immediately shot his free leg over the edge of the buoy. Any human would probably have cried out in pain, but all elves were double-jointed anywhere their skeletal structure permitted it, and Verin was able to maintain the precarious posture. He hooked his free leg around the underside of the buoy, anchoring himself against the renewed pull of the zombie.
Slow and decayed as it was, the zombie was surprisingly strong. Its grip never weakened; its inexorable tug never slackened. It simply kept up a constant pull on Verin’s side, while Verin kept up a constant resistance on his other. Behind the zombie, the sky began to turn gray.
Verin knew he couldn’t stay like this forever. His strength would wane. The zombie, fed by dark arcane magics, would never give up. Ultimately, Verin would tire, and, too weak to resist, would be hauled in by the zombie, like a defeated fish caught on a line.
No.
Verin looked up. He was able to see the zombie’s face now, half eaten away by rot. The sky was just barely light enough to make out its decayed features.
No.
He had survived the Kinsland campaign. He had shaken off the chill touch of a Shade of Bleakwoode. Injured, he had dragged himself halfway through the Volcarren to safety after the Obsidian Massacre. He wasn’t going to die here, to this half-eaten remnant of a warrior, on a buoy in the middle of the water. He couldn’t escape the zombie. But he could still kill it.
Verin loosed his grip on the buoy, and unhooked his leg, swinging it around to the front. The pressure from the zombie instantly pulled him in.
Just as the zombie’s mouth opened wide, Verin planted his foot on the pole, stopping his forward motion. The zombie blinked for a moment, trying to use whatever was left of its mind to understand what had happened.
Verin gave it no time, but locked his free leg against the pole, and reached up with his free hand and grabbed the pole also. He had to move fast. It would only take the zombie a moment to realize that it had Verin in a very precarious position. If the zombie moved to the side, or released its grip, Verin would have no chance.
Verin got a better grip on the pole, and then snaked his free leg around it, and kicked with all of his might at the zombie’s legs. They gave way with surprising ease. The zombie crashed to the surface of the buoy, and its grip on Verin slackened. Verin instantly pulled his other foot and hand free, and stood. This was a battle he could win.
The zombie slowly got its arms under it, and began to push itself up, but Verin kicked at its elbows, sending the dilapidated corpse back to the metal. And then he lifted his leg and stamped as hard as he could on the zombie’s head.
The zombie let out a gurgled screech, but otherwise appeared unhurt. Verin, on the other hand, staggered backwards, as barbs of pain shot up his leg. The zombie’s skull was incredibly thick. Still, there was no other option. He had to reach the brain. Nothing else would kill the zombie.
Determined, he moved forward, and stamped on the zombie’s skull once more. Again, the zombie screamed, and again, pain shot up Verin’s leg, rendering it numb for a moment. Verin stamped again. And again. But the only change was that he could no longer feel his leg.
Finally, limping, holding onto the pole for support, Verin had to admit that killing the zombie might not be as easy as he had thought. Both of his legs were shaking, and one was completely useless and devoid of feeling. The zombie slowly began to sit up.
Verin wasn’t standing for that. He let go of the pole and fell towards the zombie, tackling it back to the metal. But now the zombie fought. Perhaps it at last sensed that Verin’s own skull was close at hand, but it wrapped its long limbs about him, even as Verin fought to keep them off. They struggled, first one with the advantage and then the other, until Verin finally found himself beneath the zombie, at the edge of the buoy.
Almost without thinking, he shot his arms upwards, straight into the zombie’s chest (he thought he heard a rib crack), and locked his elbows. The zombie was thrown off of him at the impact, and Verin quickly rolled, launching the zombie into the cold gray water. He quickly scrambled back to the middle of the buoy and pulled himself upright.
The water was still. It lapped gently against the buoy, and the buoy bobbed up and down slowly, up and down, up and down. Verin waited for a vibration. Anything. Any sign that the zombie was coming back. But nothing came. He had won.
The first rays of the sun broke the horizon to the east, and the sky, covered by clouds, was lit with a fiery golden light. Verin allowed himself a breath of relief, and sank to the metal of the buoy, cradling his numb legs and sore arms.
And then in an instant everything changed.
The zombie launched itself from the water, much like a whale breaching for air. It landed fully on the buoy and scrambled for Verin. Gone was the slow shuffling. Now the zombie raced towards Verin, its black eyes locked keenly onto the back of his skull.
Verin rolled out of the way, and the zombie skidded to a halt. However, its momentum carried it too far. It slipped off the edge of the buoy, and almost fell into the water. It gripped the slick metal, dead fingernails scrapping as it dug into whatever it could. It came to a halt, head and shoulders out of water, and immediately began to pull itself up.
But Verin had decided. He had dragged himself halfway across the Volcarren after the Obsidian Massacre. If he could do that, he could kill one lone zombie.
He launched himself at the zombie, and landed on its hands, pinning them down. The zombie immediately opened its mouth, trying to get at his head, which was only inches away, but Verin shot out his own hands, and grabbed the head on either side, holding it securely. For a moment the zombie struggled, but it was stuck.
And then Verin pulled the zombie’s head back, and slammed it full force into the side of the buoy. If his foot couldn’t crack the zombie’s skull, maybe the buoy could.
The zombie let out a piercing scream. Verin slammed its head into the buoy again, mostly just to silence it. The zombie’s cry lost some volume, as if something had broken. Again, Verin struck the buoy with the zombie’s head, as if he were striking a gong with an oversized mallet. He thought he heard something crack.
The zombie thrashed, splashing water over Verin and over the buoy, making it slippery. Verin found the pole with one foot and hooked his leg around it, securing himself. And then he slammed the zombie against the buoy again. And again.
He could feel the zombie’s arms writing beneath him, muscles constricting and pulling, tendons popping, but they were pinned beneath him. He could see the zombie’s legs beneath the water, propped against the buoy, trying to pull itself free of his grasp, but he held its head too tightly. Once more he smashed the zombie’s skull into the buoy, and the long cry which had been issuing from its mouth suddenly ceased.
Verin didn’t stop, but smashed the zombie’s head three more times. Finally, when he could see that the head had clearly been caved in, and the skull fractured, he let go. The zombie’s head lolled back in the water, its black eyes now truly devoid of life. It was still, save for the motion caused by the water eddying about it.
Verin lifted himself up, and the zombie’s arms slid into the water, allowing the rest of it to quickly sink out of sight.
Golden light struck Verin’s side. The sun had risen. He took a shaky step backwards, towards the center of the buoy, and forced himself to take a deep breath.
He had done it. He had won.
Behind him, flying out of the sun, three dots emerged. Verin turned, saw them, and knew them to be a kyrie scouting party.
He had dragged himself halfway across the Volcarren. He wouldn’t be defeated by a little zombie apocalypse.