MadassAlex's Fantasy Novel Thing

The glistening cacophony of steel pierced the air, far, far away from where any could see or hear. In the midnight darkness, only the moon and the sparking of metal lit the combatants. The gloom made it near impossible to distinguish between the two, both in armour, wearing tabards and brandishing long-bladed swords in two hands. One stumbled back into a tree, and the harmony of steel subsided.

“Good, Ser Alistair”, he said, “I see you’ve been at your studies”

The other – Alistair, presumably – didn’t wait for more, throwing a high descending strike, his sword held by the blade so the pommel and crossguard would defeat armour. The other knight threw his arms upward, one hand upon the blade and one upon the hilt, catching the strike between his hands. Alistair’s crossguard hooked the blade and pulled violently down, and the other man’s momentum followed. With animal viciousness, Alistair’s pommel flew up and struck the knight against the helmet, throwing him to the ground upon his back. The man groaned.

“Perhaps I’ve been arrogant. Let a misunderstanding be just that, eh?”, he said.

“Mercy is the judgement of God, not men”, said Alistair with all the warmth of winter, “He will know His own.”

“Pity”, said the other man.

Alistair’s blade plummeted towards the visor of the downed man, who barely rolled out of the way, and managed to stand while Alistair swiftly recovered his sword from the moist earth. With that, the battle was on again much as it had begun, the tones of clashing steel becoming an eerie song. Both were tiring from the fight, and Alistair’s visor was moist with breath. His adversary was worse for it, however, and an opportunistic grapple handed Alistair the advantage once more. This time, Alistair’s blade travelled with his adversary, the point seeking a slit in the visor and ramming down. Alistair pulled his sword from the man’s skull, and it dribbled black blood in the dullness of the night. He cleaned it, first on the grass and then with a cloth, and returned it to its scabbard. His task was complete, and he set off on foot.

The sole observer of the duel waited until he was gone, and then risked a bite of bread. One more for the Order, and then, and a handsome reward.

The assembly hall was a tall structure to one side of the castle courtyard, opposite the barracks. It was made of stone blocks, with windows high up to let the sun inside. Lower town, unlit torches sat upon the walls for night assembly. There were no seats, and the floor was as stony as the walls.

A man stood shackled to the back of the assembly hall; the strangest, most pitiable thing Alistair had ever seen. With skin of dark, ashy grey and exposed ribs, the man was an icon of human ruin. His head was slumped down, shoulders heaving as if he were weeping heavily, but soundlessly. A hatch in the roof ensured he was spotlighted by the sun. An example, Alistair thought, to establish or keep discipline.

After some time in the assembly hall, all of which was spent in hushed silence, another man approached the wooden podium. He was tall, bald, and had a well-groomed, white beard. His shoulders were broad, and he wore sword and dagger on his belt. Most striking were his eyes, the palest blue Alistair had ever seen, and entirely as cruel as ice. Reaching the podium and turning to the prisoners, the man cleared his throat, even though he didn’t have to.

“My name is Harold of Ornstein. My rank is captain, and that is how you’ll refer to me”, he said, his voice booming. He paused. “Well?”

“Yes, Captain”, the prisoners said in some approximation of unison.

“Most of you were deserters. Some of you were murderers, rapists or conspirators against the land. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re all dead men. So do yourselves a favour and die in service to something that isn’t your own life, purse, power or cock.”

The prisoners remained silent.

“We do the jobs the regular standing armies are too fucking cowardly to do. We seldom fight on the frontlines, although the lucky ones among you will. We do the jobs that never make it out of the backwater places, because the problems we solve have to stay in those shitholes.”

Harold drew his sword, and struck the grey shackled man with the pommel. The man began to audibly weep in huge, throbbing chokes, pulling at his chains. Using the pommel once more, Harold raised the man’s chin. Alistair almost gasped.

The shackled man, now that Alistair was properly observant, did not appear to be a man at all. It had no lips, although its teeth were a man’s, so it appeared always to have a furious snarl or grimace. Its eyes were streaming with fetid, pestilent tears, and its arms were elongated like an ape’s. It was also extremely tall, taller than Harold, who must’ve been well over six feet at a guess.

“This is a ghoul” said Harold casually, striking it in the stomach with the pommel of his sword. It tried to double over, but Harold prevented it. “It wants to kill you and drain you of blood. Luckily, this one cannot. Ghouls see well in the dark, but the daylight disorients them. They’re difficult to kill, though”, and Harold slit its throat.

The ghoul entered a wild fury, gurgling and screaming and pulling at its chains vainly. Most of the prisoners cowered, including Alistair. Dark red blood, almost black, pooled underneath it and its feet slipped. It hit the floor, and resumed its horrible, momentous weeping. Minutes passed, and it did not die. Harold kicked it, and it snapped out of the way, cowering.

“The best and easiest way to kill a ghoul is to put a good one between the eyes”, said Harold, although he didn’t demonstrate this time. “There are other ways, such as using fire or piercing its heart, but that is the easiest and most reliable. I might show you, but my friend’s kind are very difficult to catch and domesticate. But you’ll all learn.”

Harold scanned the prisoners.

“Assembly dismissed”, he said, and the prisoners filed out.