An untitled, very short story, inspired by a comment I read some time ago in one of the forums. Enjoy or not.
So this was the insipid human cockroach his Enemy has sent to deal the final, crushing blow. A creature so wretched it was shunned by its own kind, so vile that its own body sought to be rid of it. This man, Thomas Covenant, was a monster almost as appalling as the hateful mythos is Enemy’s hounds had propagated about he himself, the one they derisively named “Lord Foul the Despiser”. The warped irony of this titular denunciation shocked but did not surprise – it fitted his Enemy’s perverse sense of humour, and his self-delusions of righteousness. The humans referred to his Enemy as “the Creator”, little realising what it was they credited him with creating. He created them, true enough, as he created this place; but the humans, in their doe-eyed worship, never stopped to wonder why their creator would put them in here with their “Despiser”. But their ignorance was not his concern; always, he had more pressing matters. Too much time had already passed – who could guess how much havoc the Enemy had wrought in the numerous centuries since the creation of the Prison? Lord Foul had once underestimated his foe’s ingenuity, and it may yet cost all the universe its safety. And now, the vile monster petulantly threw this Covenant into the Prison, supposedly to strike the killing blow. The mere stench of the man’s evil clogged Lord Foul’s throat with a film of revulsion. Incensed, Foul prepared to strike a pre-emptive blow against this latest agent of his Enemy; as he roared his defiant rage – “Groveller!” – he fed the flames of his conviction with recollections of all he had suffered, and all that must have been suffered because of him.
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The first emotion was fear, when he realised his Enemy plotted anew; but at once he realised he must prevent this latest plan from reaching completion. After gleaning as much useful information as he could from a distance, he ventured closer, to watch his Enemy at work, and perhaps discover some means to undo his efforts. Closer he stole, expecting his Enemy to detect his proximity at any moment; but by the grace of his foe’s intent labour, Lord Foul was able to gain such nearness that he could peer over the fiend’s very shoulder, into the focus of his efforts…
This time, the first and only emotion was panic. As Foul scrutinized his Enemy’s “secret project” he abruptly comprehended its purpose. He recoiled, but events were already in motion - his closeness to the Prison his enemy had designed for him was enough to propel it into life. The sensation of being pulled down, and pushed in, and compacted to the point of babbling mania, of being changed and distorted to fit into the constricted nature of this thing… He was blinded, and crippled, and finally bound into this unnatural, hellish construction that beat on his strained mind with it’s surreality in a manner that he would have recognised as reminiscent of nightmare, if immortals ever dreamed.
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A procession of centuries had passed since that personal cataclysm; events beyond remembering had transpired. Empires has risen and fallen, fleeting to the constrained near-blindness of Lord Foul’s ageless eyes. Ah yes, perhaps the cruellest of his Enemy’s torments – the mortal creatures. Living things, created within this abominable cell, and so not stunted or reduced like the target of their animosity. The imprisonment would have been an adequate hell, but the “Creator” would never be content with one torture, when others could be added with ease. An entire race of beings whose sole purpose was to assault Foul at every opportunity, and thwart any attempt to escape. They were his keepers and his tormentors, but their capabilities were only limited; for all the apparent completeness of His Enemy’s victory, the Prison had not been finished at its activation. The guards of the cell were under-equipped and ill-informed. So now it came to this. Growing ever closer to escape, Lord Foul now found himself confronted with a creature more soulless and contemptible than any of his gaolers, but with the power his Enemy had sought so long – the power to end him. Ironically, Foul’s prison was now his cocoon, for his Enemy could not strike directly with this wild power, without first unlocking the cell. Instead, he was forced to send this disease-ridden ghoul to do the deed.
Frail and ineffectual though the creature clearly was, he bore a power that could slay the only guardian remaining to the universe. Now Lord Foul must somehow blindly bring his truncated power to bear in defence, for the first time, of his very life.
Through the eyes of the prisoner...
Moderators: deer of the dawn, Furls Fire
Through the eyes of the prisoner...
Last edited by Incognito on Tue Nov 02, 2004 9:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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fightingmyinstincts
- Giantfriend
- Posts: 332
- Joined: Fri Mar 15, 2002 3:39 pm
- Location: Waaah! I just fell off KW!!!!
re
very interesting...A nice concept; I always like the other side of stories.
"Well of course I understand. You live forever because your pure, sinless service is utterly and indomitably unballasted by any weight or dross of mere human weakness. Ah, the advantages of clean living."
TC to Bannor, LFB
TC to Bannor, LFB
A continuation, written today.
A particularly impressive triumph, this one; a feat of ingenuity even his Enemy could not have foreseen. Leading the warders of this eternal prison to recover an item of Lord Foul’s own design, believing it to be one of their own lost artefacts; a great deal of effort expended, but the result was worth the labour. The self-appointed “Lords” were now utterly convinced they bore the Staff of Law, the favoured implement of their past champions, when what they truly carried in their midst was a sliver of Lord Foul’s awareness – a corporeal shard of his own vacillating madness, induced by millennia of confinement. Not since the Ritual of Desecration had Foul attempted such a daring blow against his captors. Given time, the decisions of every High Lord to wield this new Staff would go awry, mounting error upon error, until finally there would be a flaw of sufficient magnitude that Foul could make his attempt at escape. And he believed he could see the makings of that flaw even now: the unborn child of the degenerate serial rapist, Thomas Covenant. There could be only one suitable course for the offspring of the Lords’ latest unholy idol – High Lordship of Revelstone, the keep within whose walls the pestilential humans cowered whenever they grew tired of tormenting their captive. In the hands of such an individual, the “Staff of Law” could lead the Lords into disarray and despair, ever seeking unwittingly to combat their plight with the very same artefact that caused it.
And so the first stage of the plan was complete, and all the pieces were arranged for the next step. Lord Foul had finally located one of the concealed loopholes in the design of this cell, a mere boulder that nonetheless provided an opportunity to mount a decisive strike, aided by the few allies he had found in his centuries here.
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Enshrouded in gloom, the abyssal cavern awaited the illumination of Kevin’s words. The High Lord’s decision to send the Bloodguard and Ranyhyn beyond the reach of his intent was immensely frustrating, but the Ritual had been set in motion now, and its purpose could still be achieved. If nothing else, it should at least buy time. Lord Foul added his voice and power to Kevin’s, and the scourging of the Land began. As the earth churned and screamed, and the wretched, cloying life forms that choked this world withered and died, Lord Foul realised all was not as he had anticipated. The delirious destruction encroached upon his domain, here within the mountain; now it entered, decimating Foul’s allies, ravaging all he had worked so hard to accomplish. Soon it reached him. The High Lord felt it first, shrieking as the Desecration he had chosen visited itself upon him; then he the humans termed “the Despiser” was struck, and he reeled from the savagery he had wrought. Though he reviled his prison beyond all comprehension, never would he knowingly have inflicted this horror on any world. As he failed and faded, his awareness slipping back into the nightmare-fraught shadows it had not inhabited since first he was cast down, he could not help but laugh – a harsh, bitter sound, replete with scorn and derision. High Lord Kevin had come here in despair to destroy Foul, but the Despiser had known himself impervious. He had known. Ah, the price of knowledge could at times be too high to pay… But pay he must, for this folly was committed; Kevin, though he knew it not, had achieved his victory.
Possibly to be continued. Watch this space if you want.
A particularly impressive triumph, this one; a feat of ingenuity even his Enemy could not have foreseen. Leading the warders of this eternal prison to recover an item of Lord Foul’s own design, believing it to be one of their own lost artefacts; a great deal of effort expended, but the result was worth the labour. The self-appointed “Lords” were now utterly convinced they bore the Staff of Law, the favoured implement of their past champions, when what they truly carried in their midst was a sliver of Lord Foul’s awareness – a corporeal shard of his own vacillating madness, induced by millennia of confinement. Not since the Ritual of Desecration had Foul attempted such a daring blow against his captors. Given time, the decisions of every High Lord to wield this new Staff would go awry, mounting error upon error, until finally there would be a flaw of sufficient magnitude that Foul could make his attempt at escape. And he believed he could see the makings of that flaw even now: the unborn child of the degenerate serial rapist, Thomas Covenant. There could be only one suitable course for the offspring of the Lords’ latest unholy idol – High Lordship of Revelstone, the keep within whose walls the pestilential humans cowered whenever they grew tired of tormenting their captive. In the hands of such an individual, the “Staff of Law” could lead the Lords into disarray and despair, ever seeking unwittingly to combat their plight with the very same artefact that caused it.
And so the first stage of the plan was complete, and all the pieces were arranged for the next step. Lord Foul had finally located one of the concealed loopholes in the design of this cell, a mere boulder that nonetheless provided an opportunity to mount a decisive strike, aided by the few allies he had found in his centuries here.
-------------------------------------------------
Enshrouded in gloom, the abyssal cavern awaited the illumination of Kevin’s words. The High Lord’s decision to send the Bloodguard and Ranyhyn beyond the reach of his intent was immensely frustrating, but the Ritual had been set in motion now, and its purpose could still be achieved. If nothing else, it should at least buy time. Lord Foul added his voice and power to Kevin’s, and the scourging of the Land began. As the earth churned and screamed, and the wretched, cloying life forms that choked this world withered and died, Lord Foul realised all was not as he had anticipated. The delirious destruction encroached upon his domain, here within the mountain; now it entered, decimating Foul’s allies, ravaging all he had worked so hard to accomplish. Soon it reached him. The High Lord felt it first, shrieking as the Desecration he had chosen visited itself upon him; then he the humans termed “the Despiser” was struck, and he reeled from the savagery he had wrought. Though he reviled his prison beyond all comprehension, never would he knowingly have inflicted this horror on any world. As he failed and faded, his awareness slipping back into the nightmare-fraught shadows it had not inhabited since first he was cast down, he could not help but laugh – a harsh, bitter sound, replete with scorn and derision. High Lord Kevin had come here in despair to destroy Foul, but the Despiser had known himself impervious. He had known. Ah, the price of knowledge could at times be too high to pay… But pay he must, for this folly was committed; Kevin, though he knew it not, had achieved his victory.
Possibly to be continued. Watch this space if you want.
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Iryssa
- Bloodguard
- Posts: 922
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2004 2:41 am
- Location: The great white north *grin*
I'm loving this! Oh, do continue! *smile*
"A choice made freely is stronger than one compelled"
- Stephen R. Donaldson's The Wounded Land
https://www.xanga.com/Iryssa
- Stephen R. Donaldson's The Wounded Land
https://www.xanga.com/Iryssa
Thanks for the encouragement. I'll see what emerges from my head next...
I'll write more as and when the inspiration comes. Perhaps tomorrow Part three of the Chronicles of Lord Foul the Incarcerated, heh. Oddly, my style seems to have changed since I wrote part two, and I'm not sure I approve of the direction it's taken. Nonetheless, here is part three:
As the tattered remnants of the Lords’ army fled headlong into the venomous gloom beneath the canopy of Garrotting Deep, Lord Foul could not suppress a swell of pride. At last, he had gained the upper hand in the ongoing conflict with his keepers. His ploy involving the summoning of the ineffectual but charismatic tactician, Hile Troy, had worked better than he hoped. Using the power of Stone and Staff, Foul had scoured the leper’s diseased and corrupt earth for an individual of just the right character to thwart the Lords; an individual who would be susceptible to the insidious seduction of the Land, an individual lacking both the will and the strength of character to resist acting to appease their conscience and their infatuation with this world. His search led him to Hile Troy, a blind man with an affinity for war games, and delusions of influence and significance. Troy, with his weaknesses of both body and character, was the perfect candidate, and Lord Foul bent the considerable might of the Stone and the Staff to summoning him to this world.
As anticipated, Troy’s conceit and his compulsion to lie about his status elevated him to leadership of the Warward in just a few short years. The witless Lords were effortlessly captivated by his glib charm, the unstable High Lord – misguided by the imitation Staff of Law – still more so, and his unjustified promotion came at the expense of far more capable officers. This all suited Foul’s purposes perfectly. Loath though he was to exploit those not inherently involved, his resolve to free himself and halt whatever wanton destruction his Enemy may wreak forced him to harden his heart. Sacrifices must be made to achieve his aim.
So it was that the unskilled, incapable Troy found himself far beyond the range of his limited faculties, besieged by an army many times the size of the Warward – the army of the Stone. From the first, Troy’s hobbyist skills had been proved feebly inadequate to combat Foul’s assault, and he had taken the bulk of his force west, along the course of the Lords’ previous retreats. The journey brought a few small, desperate victories to Troy’s lackeys, but they were brief and costly. At last, Lord Foul was gaining ground in his interminable, millennial war.
Troy’s frantic flight took his army to the brink of Garrotting Deep, one of the traps the Enemy had built into this prison. The Lords believed their benevolent Creator had formed an immense forest, and that their own ancestors had reduced it to the terrible pocket of murderous intent that now lay to the west of Doom’s Retreat. Foul knew the truth, however; his Enemy had riddled the cell with hazards and dangers in order to prevent his escape and strip him of any allies, and Garrotting Deep was one such snare. As Troy flung the scraps of his army with impunity into the murky menace between the trunks, Lord Foul gave the order to follow. He knew what the consequences would be – his closest allies, the Ravers, had spent centuries attempting to cleanse the Land of this septic boil upon its face, and Foul was well aware that the forest would lay siege to any force he sent. However, he could not allow his adversaries any respite. They must know that he would pursue them to any lengths and make any sacrifice to secure their defeat.
Grimly withdrawing his attention from the smothered cries of his dying army, he turned his eyes instead to Revelstone, the burrow of the foe, and began to formulate the next stage of his plan.
Abruptly, he became aware of a presence; an approaching manifestation of power. Returning swiftly across the Land to his chamber, he beheld a familiar figure before him. The spectre of Kevin raged and fumed, roaring his hatred at Foul, but he did not attack. Kevin may have been arrogant and aloof in life – and little changed in death – but he had never been a fool. His previous conflict with Lord Foul led to his demise, and he seemed reluctant to make another attempt. Foul allowed himself a faint smile of dire satisfaction as he flexed the Stone’s power and sent Kevin’s shade streaming back across the Land. Only one force could have revived a dead Lord: the Power of Command. Of all their various resources, only this had never been used by Kevin’s Council against Foul; the font of Earthblood appeared to be another flaw, another area of incompleteness in the design of the prison. Foul’s premature incarceration had resulted in the unwieldy instability of this formidable power, and Kevin had never dared it, even in his desperation. Now it seemed someone had; the false Staff’s effects were finally coming to fruition, and the High Lord was walking her last fatal steps. Clamping his Stone-enhanced will over Kevin’s, Foul sent the dead Lord to the bowels of the mountains, there to visit doom upon Elena and the parasitic Covenant. This distraction removed, Foul rested momentarily, then watched battle and awaited the outcome with interest.
As melenkurion Skyweir exploded, disgorging its secrets upon the land below, Lord Foul watched his intended nemesis fade, returning to his own tortured world. The tremulous Lords may yet make another attempt to summon the quarrelsome wretch, but for the time being Foul’s victory shone clearly on the horizon of the future.
As the tattered remnants of the Lords’ army fled headlong into the venomous gloom beneath the canopy of Garrotting Deep, Lord Foul could not suppress a swell of pride. At last, he had gained the upper hand in the ongoing conflict with his keepers. His ploy involving the summoning of the ineffectual but charismatic tactician, Hile Troy, had worked better than he hoped. Using the power of Stone and Staff, Foul had scoured the leper’s diseased and corrupt earth for an individual of just the right character to thwart the Lords; an individual who would be susceptible to the insidious seduction of the Land, an individual lacking both the will and the strength of character to resist acting to appease their conscience and their infatuation with this world. His search led him to Hile Troy, a blind man with an affinity for war games, and delusions of influence and significance. Troy, with his weaknesses of both body and character, was the perfect candidate, and Lord Foul bent the considerable might of the Stone and the Staff to summoning him to this world.
As anticipated, Troy’s conceit and his compulsion to lie about his status elevated him to leadership of the Warward in just a few short years. The witless Lords were effortlessly captivated by his glib charm, the unstable High Lord – misguided by the imitation Staff of Law – still more so, and his unjustified promotion came at the expense of far more capable officers. This all suited Foul’s purposes perfectly. Loath though he was to exploit those not inherently involved, his resolve to free himself and halt whatever wanton destruction his Enemy may wreak forced him to harden his heart. Sacrifices must be made to achieve his aim.
So it was that the unskilled, incapable Troy found himself far beyond the range of his limited faculties, besieged by an army many times the size of the Warward – the army of the Stone. From the first, Troy’s hobbyist skills had been proved feebly inadequate to combat Foul’s assault, and he had taken the bulk of his force west, along the course of the Lords’ previous retreats. The journey brought a few small, desperate victories to Troy’s lackeys, but they were brief and costly. At last, Lord Foul was gaining ground in his interminable, millennial war.
Troy’s frantic flight took his army to the brink of Garrotting Deep, one of the traps the Enemy had built into this prison. The Lords believed their benevolent Creator had formed an immense forest, and that their own ancestors had reduced it to the terrible pocket of murderous intent that now lay to the west of Doom’s Retreat. Foul knew the truth, however; his Enemy had riddled the cell with hazards and dangers in order to prevent his escape and strip him of any allies, and Garrotting Deep was one such snare. As Troy flung the scraps of his army with impunity into the murky menace between the trunks, Lord Foul gave the order to follow. He knew what the consequences would be – his closest allies, the Ravers, had spent centuries attempting to cleanse the Land of this septic boil upon its face, and Foul was well aware that the forest would lay siege to any force he sent. However, he could not allow his adversaries any respite. They must know that he would pursue them to any lengths and make any sacrifice to secure their defeat.
Grimly withdrawing his attention from the smothered cries of his dying army, he turned his eyes instead to Revelstone, the burrow of the foe, and began to formulate the next stage of his plan.
Abruptly, he became aware of a presence; an approaching manifestation of power. Returning swiftly across the Land to his chamber, he beheld a familiar figure before him. The spectre of Kevin raged and fumed, roaring his hatred at Foul, but he did not attack. Kevin may have been arrogant and aloof in life – and little changed in death – but he had never been a fool. His previous conflict with Lord Foul led to his demise, and he seemed reluctant to make another attempt. Foul allowed himself a faint smile of dire satisfaction as he flexed the Stone’s power and sent Kevin’s shade streaming back across the Land. Only one force could have revived a dead Lord: the Power of Command. Of all their various resources, only this had never been used by Kevin’s Council against Foul; the font of Earthblood appeared to be another flaw, another area of incompleteness in the design of the prison. Foul’s premature incarceration had resulted in the unwieldy instability of this formidable power, and Kevin had never dared it, even in his desperation. Now it seemed someone had; the false Staff’s effects were finally coming to fruition, and the High Lord was walking her last fatal steps. Clamping his Stone-enhanced will over Kevin’s, Foul sent the dead Lord to the bowels of the mountains, there to visit doom upon Elena and the parasitic Covenant. This distraction removed, Foul rested momentarily, then watched battle and awaited the outcome with interest.
As melenkurion Skyweir exploded, disgorging its secrets upon the land below, Lord Foul watched his intended nemesis fade, returning to his own tortured world. The tremulous Lords may yet make another attempt to summon the quarrelsome wretch, but for the time being Foul’s victory shone clearly on the horizon of the future.
This one is something of an aside. It doesn't really fit with the flow (such as it is) of the other instalments, but I felt it needed writing. In any case, a brief historical account for your perusal (in that modified style again. Hmmm):
The armies of the Queen faltered as the cloud descended upon them. Coalescing his intangible nature into a stifling miasma, Lord Foul blanketed the masses warriors, the drab grey fog wreathing itself around the huddled figures. He witnessed the Queen’s champion, Berek, squinting through the coils of vapour, seeking a visible foe. Silently, Foul scoffed at the general’s simple-minded aggression; without an enemy to smite, Berek was at a loss, and the King’s forces, under Foul’s indirect command, prepared to make their sudden decisive strike from the cloak of the grey cloud.
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Clutching his bloody, maimed hand to his chest, Berek stumbled higher up the uneven slopes of Mount Thunder. Foul could see the strain on the champion’s face, his breathing ragged and frayed, and the Despiser watched intently as the King, guided by a Raver, whipped his troops into a frenzied pursuit, his strident bellow carrying faintly to even Berek’s altitude. The wounded warrior was barely ahead of his foes now, and his failing strength struggled to carry him over the rocky ground of the higher slopes. The baying of the bloodthirsty mob resounding in his ears, Berek plunged weakly to his knees and cast his gaze, forlorn and desperate, to the peak above. As Foul watched and waited with distaste for the gruesome killing blow, he felt a change in the texture of the air. The earth itself seemed to tense, as if to spring, and the sudden release of tension moments later brought a colossal flare of incandescent flame from the summit of the mountain. Lord Foul sensed the vitality of the Land pouring forth from the pinnacle of Mount Thunder, and his gaze was torn from the fallen Berek by leaping, arcing conflagrations descending the mountainside. Momentarily stunned, he could only stare as the flame-wreathed forms approached his troops; upon regaining his composure, he turned to see the Raver-King gaping aghast at this sudden reverse of fortune. Foul mentally screamed at the Raver to order the retreat, but the figure of the King remained immobile, simply watching as the leading soldiers of his army were blasted to ash by the furnace heat. The others turned and fled, heedless of the dangerous terrain or their stricken King. At last, as the leonine shapes bore down on the King himself, the Raver relinquished its grasp for its own preservation, and the beleaguered King ran from the mountain, the backs of his followers before him, and the ravening heat at his heels.
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That was the day Foul realised the hidden depth of the prison his Enemy had crafted. The warders were not merely fragile flesh shells he could overcome with force and blunt might – they had allies of their own. If the earth itself is compelled to aid them, escape may prove far more difficult than expected. Thwarted by his Enemy’s cunning and foresight, Foul retreated to safety, to plan anew. This defeat was not the end. Indeed, it would prove to be only the beginning of the war…
The armies of the Queen faltered as the cloud descended upon them. Coalescing his intangible nature into a stifling miasma, Lord Foul blanketed the masses warriors, the drab grey fog wreathing itself around the huddled figures. He witnessed the Queen’s champion, Berek, squinting through the coils of vapour, seeking a visible foe. Silently, Foul scoffed at the general’s simple-minded aggression; without an enemy to smite, Berek was at a loss, and the King’s forces, under Foul’s indirect command, prepared to make their sudden decisive strike from the cloak of the grey cloud.
-----
Clutching his bloody, maimed hand to his chest, Berek stumbled higher up the uneven slopes of Mount Thunder. Foul could see the strain on the champion’s face, his breathing ragged and frayed, and the Despiser watched intently as the King, guided by a Raver, whipped his troops into a frenzied pursuit, his strident bellow carrying faintly to even Berek’s altitude. The wounded warrior was barely ahead of his foes now, and his failing strength struggled to carry him over the rocky ground of the higher slopes. The baying of the bloodthirsty mob resounding in his ears, Berek plunged weakly to his knees and cast his gaze, forlorn and desperate, to the peak above. As Foul watched and waited with distaste for the gruesome killing blow, he felt a change in the texture of the air. The earth itself seemed to tense, as if to spring, and the sudden release of tension moments later brought a colossal flare of incandescent flame from the summit of the mountain. Lord Foul sensed the vitality of the Land pouring forth from the pinnacle of Mount Thunder, and his gaze was torn from the fallen Berek by leaping, arcing conflagrations descending the mountainside. Momentarily stunned, he could only stare as the flame-wreathed forms approached his troops; upon regaining his composure, he turned to see the Raver-King gaping aghast at this sudden reverse of fortune. Foul mentally screamed at the Raver to order the retreat, but the figure of the King remained immobile, simply watching as the leading soldiers of his army were blasted to ash by the furnace heat. The others turned and fled, heedless of the dangerous terrain or their stricken King. At last, as the leonine shapes bore down on the King himself, the Raver relinquished its grasp for its own preservation, and the beleaguered King ran from the mountain, the backs of his followers before him, and the ravening heat at his heels.
-----
That was the day Foul realised the hidden depth of the prison his Enemy had crafted. The warders were not merely fragile flesh shells he could overcome with force and blunt might – they had allies of their own. If the earth itself is compelled to aid them, escape may prove far more difficult than expected. Thwarted by his Enemy’s cunning and foresight, Foul retreated to safety, to plan anew. This defeat was not the end. Indeed, it would prove to be only the beginning of the war…