Vyktor of Scarpathia:Prologue
This is a new revision of the prologue I've had since I was sixteen. It was one of the first things I'd written, and I've always been hesitant to change it. This is almost a complete rewrite. Those of you who have read the old version, I am very interested in your opinions. It is difficult to get a clear perspective on something you have read a thousand times. Those of you who have not read this, I am very interested in its first impact. Enjoy!
Vyktor Fortress was in ruins.
In time, all things pass. The thickest walls fall to dust, and the strongest of heroes wither and die like everyone else.
But some things even time cannot kill. Some things the mounting eons can only mar until they are made to shine again in glory.
Some things are eternal.
*****
The fortress stood, at least what remained of its crumbling walls, on a hillcrest overlooking a small, thriving village. Four greying towers, shattered bastions riddled with decay, denied the grandeur of the once mighty fortress. It was for the ancient power and beauty of these walls that thousands had once fought and died, and now they lay in ruin, under siege by the impartial elements, and the unyielding hand of time.
But on this brisk, wind-chilled morning, for the first time in haunted centuries, it did not sit in menacing silence. The clash and scrape of swords echoed through the pockets of mist that clung in the shadows of the fortress’s stone carcass. A battle was being fought here, but not as of old. This was no great conquest for riches or land or glory. This battle had but two combatants, an aging master swordsman, and a dark and quiet youth.
They could be seen on the narrow heights of the foremost wall in the first glows of the morning sun as the elder drove the younger ever backwards.
The grizzled old swordsman drove murderous strokes into the wild parries of the lean-muscled youth. Not a word was exchanged, not a grunt of fury or fear, no sound but tight, controlled breaths, the silent grip of intense concentration, and the deafening rasp and beat of steel on steel.
The old man’s tunic and headwrap were mottled brown and yellow, a solid stain from a lifetime of sweat. His massive arms and legs were weathered and brown, littered with scars and stories.
In his balding scalp, he held the wisdom of forty-eight years, and in his limbs, the memory of having slashed his way through more years of combat than the boy he drove before him had lived. His aging bulk moved with a graceful speed and elegance that matched his effortless expression. Though all concentration was focused on this fight, he exuded no effort. He was simply being what he was, a master of weapons, a tool of war like ten thousand others. He knew what he was, and who he was, and why he was, and had been thus since he was far younger than the boy before him.
The boy before him, though…
The boy was different.
This lad had to force every ounce of will to maintain his fuming focus. He met every one of the master’s blows, but often they landed too close to his body. Often his teeth would bare with the surprise of a near miss, and only rarely did he have the opportunity to return an attack.
Behind that lean glowering face with its dangling black hair, he fought his own constant battle. With every near miss his mind would rail against him, choke him with fears and doubts and questions of his own worth, thoughts that he knew had no place in a duel of blades. And yet his mind persisted, and so he was forced to fight two enemies at once.
There were times when those thoughts vanished, when his mind was pure and unburdened, and at those times he fought like a god. No other boys in their practice games could touch him, and his merciless strokes would bring down whole teams of opponents. But this had happened three times he could remember. He was known otherwise as awkward and hesitant. He fought always to unleash that power, especially here and now, against this opponent, with real steel blade that could cut and kill, instead of the soft wooden weapons of the boy’s training field.
But the boy was beginning to tire. His parrying strokes came at odd angles, frantic jerks of motion instead of the sharp controlled speed of the master before him. His blocks shivered in his hands and jarred his wrists.
Finally he missed one completely, and the sword of the master swept with perfect control and stopped, and ice cold steel touched the boy’s neck.
His mind raked him with insults. The master barked, “Fine, lad! Ye lasted longer’n I thought ye would! Now keep figh’in. Keep fightin’ ‘till ye drop! If ye’d won, ye’d still have men to fight. If ye were ta be a warrior, ye best have strength enough to thump skulls and bust arse’s for best o’ half o’ the hour! Aye!”
The last word still echoed as the old man lunged forward with renewed vigor.
A flashfire of prickles ran through the boy’s scalp as he realized his sudden danger. With a jolt he threw his blade up again to block, neatly blocking the first blow and dodging the rest. His lungs burned. His arms were numbing. His hands were raw in the icy morning air. The exhaustion and fury swelled in him. His abused body begged him to stop. And with that pure physical need clarity exploded in his mind, and he was unleashed.
He suddenly stood his ground and drove his master’s attacks back with bristling fury. He drove the old man’s sword out, away where it could not defend, and would’ve cut the master’s throat had the old man not recoiled in time. The boy hesitated, horrified that he could accidentally have murdered his master atop this ancient fortress. His lack of control clouded his mind again, and again his fury was doused in a swamp of doubt.
The master drove into him.
The boy’s arms were slowing with every stroke and every jarring impact. His lungs and heart, long past burning exhaustion, were pierced with every rasping breath of the icy air. But he did not complain. He did not stop. He was fighting the demon in his mind.
He fought until his body quit. His knees unhooked and he fell. Vomit geysered up his throat, and the world exploded in vibrant colors. His sword scraped the ancient stone as his limp body fell across it.
The master dropped his own blade dropped to the boy’s side and rolled him over. Panic left his face when he saw the boy had not hurt himself on his own blade. He flung the boy over his shoulder and walked on down the length of the wall.
As he walked, he laughed. “Good work boy! Ye did yer damndest.”
*****
Freezing water trickled down the boy’s face, and his eyes opened to the bristled leather face of his master.
“A fair figh’ young warrior. Ye pushed yerself over the edge ta beat yer ole’ master. Aye! We’ll make a master of you yet. Now eat up, boy. We’ve a long march today.”
The smell of the warm crackling woodfire mingled with the beans boiling in the pot above it, and the boy’s stomach turned with both hunger and nausea.
He sat up on the hard stone, cradled his throbbing head in one hand, and took a dry swig from his water-skin. Water would drive out the sickness.
He stood like a drunken man, every muscle in his young frame pumped and sore. He stumbled to the lip of the tower on which they were camped, and looked up over the mounting hillscape to the harsh beauty of the Blackstone Mountains looming above him to the west. The rising sun behind him cast the fissures of those ebony peaks into yawning absence, and threw his own shadow menacing and long over the hills below. The crisp wind whipped his rough tunic cool with sweat over his burning muscles. His aching chest filled with breath as his eyes filled with contentment.
He knew not what drew him to views like this, but he could not see them enough.
He flexed his blistered hand on the familiar hilt of his training sword, relishing its fine, clean blade, now chipped and spurred by combat. A smiling sigh emptied his lungs.
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the mighty stone beneath him. Generation after generation had this stone stood, defying the powers of nature with its blatant man-made strength. This ancient fortress had once served the boy’s ancestors, for thousands of years long past, and once bore the name the boy now used, passed on by generations of firstborn sons. It was a name of warriors, heroes, legends of times otherwise forgotten. He imagined the stone of this place building itself inside him, tempering the unbending steel of his soul.
Like this fortress, he would stand for countless ages.
Like this fortress, his name was Vyktor.
Vyktor Fortress was in ruins.
In time, all things pass. The thickest walls fall to dust, and the strongest of heroes wither and die like everyone else.
But some things even time cannot kill. Some things the mounting eons can only mar until they are made to shine again in glory.
Some things are eternal.
*****
The fortress stood, at least what remained of its crumbling walls, on a hillcrest overlooking a small, thriving village. Four greying towers, shattered bastions riddled with decay, denied the grandeur of the once mighty fortress. It was for the ancient power and beauty of these walls that thousands had once fought and died, and now they lay in ruin, under siege by the impartial elements, and the unyielding hand of time.
But on this brisk, wind-chilled morning, for the first time in haunted centuries, it did not sit in menacing silence. The clash and scrape of swords echoed through the pockets of mist that clung in the shadows of the fortress’s stone carcass. A battle was being fought here, but not as of old. This was no great conquest for riches or land or glory. This battle had but two combatants, an aging master swordsman, and a dark and quiet youth.
They could be seen on the narrow heights of the foremost wall in the first glows of the morning sun as the elder drove the younger ever backwards.
The grizzled old swordsman drove murderous strokes into the wild parries of the lean-muscled youth. Not a word was exchanged, not a grunt of fury or fear, no sound but tight, controlled breaths, the silent grip of intense concentration, and the deafening rasp and beat of steel on steel.
The old man’s tunic and headwrap were mottled brown and yellow, a solid stain from a lifetime of sweat. His massive arms and legs were weathered and brown, littered with scars and stories.
In his balding scalp, he held the wisdom of forty-eight years, and in his limbs, the memory of having slashed his way through more years of combat than the boy he drove before him had lived. His aging bulk moved with a graceful speed and elegance that matched his effortless expression. Though all concentration was focused on this fight, he exuded no effort. He was simply being what he was, a master of weapons, a tool of war like ten thousand others. He knew what he was, and who he was, and why he was, and had been thus since he was far younger than the boy before him.
The boy before him, though…
The boy was different.
This lad had to force every ounce of will to maintain his fuming focus. He met every one of the master’s blows, but often they landed too close to his body. Often his teeth would bare with the surprise of a near miss, and only rarely did he have the opportunity to return an attack.
Behind that lean glowering face with its dangling black hair, he fought his own constant battle. With every near miss his mind would rail against him, choke him with fears and doubts and questions of his own worth, thoughts that he knew had no place in a duel of blades. And yet his mind persisted, and so he was forced to fight two enemies at once.
There were times when those thoughts vanished, when his mind was pure and unburdened, and at those times he fought like a god. No other boys in their practice games could touch him, and his merciless strokes would bring down whole teams of opponents. But this had happened three times he could remember. He was known otherwise as awkward and hesitant. He fought always to unleash that power, especially here and now, against this opponent, with real steel blade that could cut and kill, instead of the soft wooden weapons of the boy’s training field.
But the boy was beginning to tire. His parrying strokes came at odd angles, frantic jerks of motion instead of the sharp controlled speed of the master before him. His blocks shivered in his hands and jarred his wrists.
Finally he missed one completely, and the sword of the master swept with perfect control and stopped, and ice cold steel touched the boy’s neck.
His mind raked him with insults. The master barked, “Fine, lad! Ye lasted longer’n I thought ye would! Now keep figh’in. Keep fightin’ ‘till ye drop! If ye’d won, ye’d still have men to fight. If ye were ta be a warrior, ye best have strength enough to thump skulls and bust arse’s for best o’ half o’ the hour! Aye!”
The last word still echoed as the old man lunged forward with renewed vigor.
A flashfire of prickles ran through the boy’s scalp as he realized his sudden danger. With a jolt he threw his blade up again to block, neatly blocking the first blow and dodging the rest. His lungs burned. His arms were numbing. His hands were raw in the icy morning air. The exhaustion and fury swelled in him. His abused body begged him to stop. And with that pure physical need clarity exploded in his mind, and he was unleashed.
He suddenly stood his ground and drove his master’s attacks back with bristling fury. He drove the old man’s sword out, away where it could not defend, and would’ve cut the master’s throat had the old man not recoiled in time. The boy hesitated, horrified that he could accidentally have murdered his master atop this ancient fortress. His lack of control clouded his mind again, and again his fury was doused in a swamp of doubt.
The master drove into him.
The boy’s arms were slowing with every stroke and every jarring impact. His lungs and heart, long past burning exhaustion, were pierced with every rasping breath of the icy air. But he did not complain. He did not stop. He was fighting the demon in his mind.
He fought until his body quit. His knees unhooked and he fell. Vomit geysered up his throat, and the world exploded in vibrant colors. His sword scraped the ancient stone as his limp body fell across it.
The master dropped his own blade dropped to the boy’s side and rolled him over. Panic left his face when he saw the boy had not hurt himself on his own blade. He flung the boy over his shoulder and walked on down the length of the wall.
As he walked, he laughed. “Good work boy! Ye did yer damndest.”
*****
Freezing water trickled down the boy’s face, and his eyes opened to the bristled leather face of his master.
“A fair figh’ young warrior. Ye pushed yerself over the edge ta beat yer ole’ master. Aye! We’ll make a master of you yet. Now eat up, boy. We’ve a long march today.”
The smell of the warm crackling woodfire mingled with the beans boiling in the pot above it, and the boy’s stomach turned with both hunger and nausea.
He sat up on the hard stone, cradled his throbbing head in one hand, and took a dry swig from his water-skin. Water would drive out the sickness.
He stood like a drunken man, every muscle in his young frame pumped and sore. He stumbled to the lip of the tower on which they were camped, and looked up over the mounting hillscape to the harsh beauty of the Blackstone Mountains looming above him to the west. The rising sun behind him cast the fissures of those ebony peaks into yawning absence, and threw his own shadow menacing and long over the hills below. The crisp wind whipped his rough tunic cool with sweat over his burning muscles. His aching chest filled with breath as his eyes filled with contentment.
He knew not what drew him to views like this, but he could not see them enough.
He flexed his blistered hand on the familiar hilt of his training sword, relishing its fine, clean blade, now chipped and spurred by combat. A smiling sigh emptied his lungs.
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the mighty stone beneath him. Generation after generation had this stone stood, defying the powers of nature with its blatant man-made strength. This ancient fortress had once served the boy’s ancestors, for thousands of years long past, and once bore the name the boy now used, passed on by generations of firstborn sons. It was a name of warriors, heroes, legends of times otherwise forgotten. He imagined the stone of this place building itself inside him, tempering the unbending steel of his soul.
Like this fortress, he would stand for countless ages.
Like this fortress, his name was Vyktor.
Submitted by MythWind at 9:01 PM
1 Comments:
I like the thematic elements... the fortress and the naming. I like the history that the boy's name implies in relation to the fortress, it gives the historic context of the story a validity. It's a little omniscient for my tastes. It seems like we're being let inside these people and knowing too much about them before we've had a chance to get acclimated to them.
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