The Knights of the Four

[Worm of Despite]

Here's the prologue for my sci-fi novel, The Knights of the Four. I've been working on it on and off since 10th grade. Currently, the book is up to 124,000 words and 2/3 done.

This prologue was written about four years ago, during 11th grade, I'd guess, with minor changes made every now and then. Enjoy!


CIRCA
1002050

Prologue I

THE FIFTH WAR

‘Cross the jungle the darkness falls,
Till fear and resolution crawls
Side-by-side.


Beyond the black there lay utter dark, and as the dark came closer it focused and formed charcoal hills. Amidst the hills a human form could be seen. Alone it was, its raiment black and melding with the earthen soot.

Its face was inhumanly healthy and defined and hairless; neither thin nor fat was it, and it held both open youth and ancient dissonance. It possessed neither care-worn lines nor seeable flaws. A breach of wild, raven-black hair marked his forehead, and below that were eyes:

Those eyes--they were most distinguishing; they were black, blunt little empty wells--beads wholly bereft of pupils. A struggle had gone on in them, and it appeared as though the struggled had succumbed, its crumbled form leaving a ghastly footprint. Those eyes, at one time, had held a singularity. It had been effaced.

Further still was a mouth, its lips tight and terse and sparsely planted. The upper lip seemed only to face the bottom in perpetual stare.

And then, for a flash, a sliver of shadow approached the face; it was his hand, black-gloved as it was. There came a cigarette to a sudden, minor split in the lip. The hand elapsed and returned back down.

Not a muscle upon the face moved or twitched, except for the mouth, which languorously sucked its cigarette. It inhaled long, but no smoke came forth.

Slowly, like a glacier, the mouth moved; the cigarette hung.

‘Move out.’

From the foot of the hills bled streams of bodies.

Countless boots marched downward in one, controlled stream. Bodies filtered out with impossible precision, one completely like the other in every aspect. The only difference that betrayed them was the light, as it glinted off their identical armor. In three ribbons they moved out from the hills, flowing as their mass gathered and clotted at the foothills.

Still, the black figure stood above them as an overseer, from forth upon a low cliff of old black-rock. With one deft strike, he ripped the cigarette out and then flicked it downward. It crashed on its side, rolled, and tottered at the edge of the rock, but it stopped, and it was saved.

But a shadow encroached and crept over it, like a black cloud. But the cloud became bigger, became too solid to be a cloud. In one smooth movement as seemly as a ripple, the cloud turned into a shoe sole; it crushed the cigarette, twisted it into fiery ashes.

The pointed, duelist-like pair of shoes stank of a fanciful, medieval epoch. They were the only part that held any semblance of life, any flair. But they, too, were black, and around each shoe’s midsection was wrung a strip of fine gold, as if to hold the audacity in place. The foot hovered back into place perfectly; the other foot strove forward.

Below lay opaque blackness, which only snapped once or twice in a streak of dull white, signifying the well-polished chrome of lightly-armored shoulder pads. Together, like that, the army moved in such unison that they gleamed in blinks, and, at such times, they appeared as a silvery, white rush of forbidden waters.

Above all hovered a starless, faceless night.


At whimsy the overseer, their leader, would walk with them at whiles, or he would recede to the utter back in solitude. At all times there was a thin layer of fellowship and a great swell of quiet respect, for they always looked toward their leader. And even when great leaps became small strides and hard negotiations delivered mixed results, they still turned to him in their immense pride.

But for all his competence, his knowledge, his charisma--it was all for naught. The Fifth War had raged for nearly a year, and that year had harvested naught but loss after loss after loss, till they were no longer millions but a ragged thousand. They were no longer “armies”.

But win or lose, they at least had their own fate to decide. Or did they? Their leader, the man of black raiment, was named Maccabree, and Lord Maccabree spoke at will about “predestination”--his new mantra after black days fell betwixt him and Typhon, his best friend and boon comrade.

Maccabree would often say that awful plights or bold decisions (however bad their effects) were brought on not by him but by a hidden factor. He also often said that they would win no matter how defeated they appeared, for their cause was a noble one--noble enough to pursue till the last Soldier and last Block had been emptied out.

He told them loss after loss would be vindicated time after time. But they were never vindicated. Every loss was an irredeemable one, and every towering hope was now a malleable lump, becoming beat into submission more and more.

Such realizations would have torn the heart of Maccabree, but to perceive with objectivity was not his way. He was blind to hopelessness and was forged a person all the more driven when pressed. He would rage through all despair, and his example spurred others--even if there was but one, last battle left.

And that last battle was nigh.


At length, their march led them to the Blue Mountains. Countless these mountains seemed; they rolled on and on, and low clouds, flecked with gray, moved overheard. Under all that slowly arose the Lord Maccabree, and his eye surveyed all before him with a quiet wonderment.

His lieutenants were also with him, and they saw the great peaks that rose and crested downward and disappeared into the black mists of distance. On and on the peaks went till they waned to the clouded brilliance of a small, white orb. And that horizon they could have stared at forever, their thoughts evaporating.

For there it was, among that high, cold starkness that the sun rose. It was the only place where it did. Aside from the Four’s manufactured, cloudless atmosphere, the world was covered over with a shroud of particles and dust; lightless days were the norm.

Indeed, the Four! It was there that a Second Sun--the sun of Anabus--flourished. It eclipsed the real sun, scoffed Maccabree. Thus, the only light that was given to those of the Four was not a real one but a melancholy one: a light in which no plant flowered.

But there she was, Maccabree remarked with quiet pride: the true, First Sun.

It raised up some more, teasing him, it seemed. His eyes flashed back lustily in response.

The sun, Maccabree mused, seemed to implore the dead skies, the wasted plains, to accept its verbose form, to return to life. Its rays came across all peaks, and its hard oranges and bright whites scattered and decried the lifeless countenance it espied. It revealed all the ugliness of the ruined, scorched planet.

Its long ascension continued, and at all times all eyes were bent upon it, for they were immune to its sharp glitter. And neither Maccabree nor anybody else in his weary ranks had ever witnessed such a beautiful sight before--merely heard of it. It was all the proof they needed, though, that Anabus and his “sun“ was a lie. It was all and more. Had they tear ducts, tears would have blurred their stares.

All their lives they had been subjected to the terms and torments of a wholly metallic plane of existence. And to see that sun in its unadulterated glory was as like the fulfillment of a summit with a creator or the achievement of a grandiose pilgrimage or migration. Or the end of a holy war--

Holy war, indeed, scoffed Maccabree within. But his face shone of no contempt and did not move, for it seemed pierced by the many rays of that far-off star. He let them soak in upon his tired face. And though that face bore not a sign of fatigue or age--and it was perfect--there was still no emotion in it.

Whether his emotions had ever been given to him or never, there was a sudden thought that at one time he had been in the progress of their development. But a great tragedy had befallen him. There had been a great loss. It could be seen, writ all over that face, like a red paint stroke. Maccabree was torn. He was beyond the point of any salve that could heal him in the unhappy world. He told himself that, Anabus only knew how many times. And so, for the briefest of moments, under that sun, he felt his old self again with old friends under a braver, brighter world than this one. Then, as he batted his eyelids slowly down over his black orbs, he shifted his head and looked away, denied it all.

Time for war.

The winds began to shift. Clouds fell back and away. At first, this seemed a slow, natural movement or sequence. Neither Maccabree nor any of his lieutenants knew enough of nature to know otherwise.

It was then that it happened.

From one end of the horizon to the other arose a thin, impenetrable black.

And it did not stop.

The sun seemed to be racing against the line, but it was far too slow. Meticulously, the line rose till it became a great, black plate, its arch so long that it threatened swallow entire skyline. As the plate reached up higher and higher still, its jet black blocked out all the sun’s brilliant rays.

At once, shadow fell over the peaks and the air seemed to grow thick and breathless. Dark hues deepened as they came out from their tiny crevices and hidden ledges. The blackness had become a half-circle, and it continued to lengthen.

It was then that all wind died out. In Maccabree’s mind ran one, dry thought: Black Cloud.

With a knowing nod to one side, he dispersed his lieutenants to descend the mountain and eschew orders.


There were not enough to merit them classification as a battalion. Pitiful was their numbers, but the ranks themselves were not. They were the last fanatics of a desperate cause, but desperation was not their trump card; instead, they stared down the eyes of their plight with muteness. All their exteriors were hardened, their faces turned stiffly to the east, where the sun had been and the enemy currently resided.

Still, despite their mastery of desperation, the more basic feelings of fear still held strong. No soul was left unmarred by the doom that was so vivid and encroaching.

And although each body stood statuesque and in perfect file, their hearts beat wildly, red with secret anxiety. Within their innards and behind their pale hides seethed a furnace of self-doubt. As sure as the soft, early morn had been wiped blank by the Black Cloud, they envisioned they would never live to see another light. So was it that all of this ran in a flash through each and every brain, in their own respective manner.

The lieutenants were with them. But Maccabree was not. It was only a matter of time when he joined them at the forefront. His appearance would signal like a clearing bell that the foe was very present, very real. And so, they secretly dreaded his descent from the mountain.

For they had positioned themselves as far from the foothills of the mountains as they could. But they were still a great jaunt from the charcoal hills to the east, at their backs. They would need that space, if they were to sprint back or make a quick retreat. It would brook no good favor if a Black Cloud were before their faces and an array of hills at their heels.

Maccabree’s form came out like a mirage. His black clothes did not tussle in the wind, but black-gray dust twisted about him in wisps that cycled up from the ground about his footsteps.

At once hearts caught, and fear swelled in each and every belly like a gaseous bubble. Maccabree stood there, in solemn survey of them. It could not be seen if he viewed them with pride or in the light of inadequacy. But nonetheless, his minions beamed back at him. They would follow him, yes. They would follow him to--

At the back of Maccabree rushed an echo. It sounded like a deep, low bass, welling from underground. In a silent gasp, heads shot up to the sky. But there was no sky.

The Black Cloud had come. Below it could be seen, amidst the reeks of agitated dust clouds, a myriad of silhouette forms. Slowly they came, crawling onward, the Soldiers of the Four. Maccabree and his followers had once been a part of that, those Soldiers of the Four. He immediately turned away from them, denying their existence and his past. They were but a small barrier now.

The ground shook as the Cloud grew closer. It seemed the sky was too small for it. It looked bloated, like some hellish wall that closed in over all joys and in joy’s place birthed all pains.

It was under those fell, black moments of quiet tension that Maccabree joined his ranks, his footsteps hard and stark. A long-drawn column of one hundred rows of ten bodies his men formed, and Maccabree was the final row, alone at the front.

On crawled the Black Cloud, and, one hundred yards behind its front was the army, its true girth very much hidden under boundless shadow and preternatural night. They deliberately marched and did not increase their tempo, as if they intended to remain below the Black Cloud’s nest.

The tension raised to a crescendo, and like a mortar that whistles down but its harried victims know not where it will land, Maccabree raised up his hand. When it lowered--

It lowered.

In high step, with their knees up close to their stomachs, they marched to meet their destiny with some dignity. Boots crunched against the firm sands that were the lifeless plain. Dust grew about them as their pace quickened marginally.

And then, the Black Cloud split at its front. From the spilt no light showed forth and no object eschewed forth from it.

The armies of the Four strangely stopped all movement and stood still beneath the Black Cloud.

The single slit widened. A dull, white glower spread out from its length--a length which circled the Black Cloud’s whole front circumference.

Without word, Maccabree’s column sprinted. Legs broke into a flat heat and arms pumped to their maximum ability. Striving, striving--

The Black Cloud let loose.

At first it felt like a small breeze. The column gasped at it, spit its dry air out in disgust.

Then it became more. Its force built harder--

And harder--harder, till a great, endless gust it became. It stopped the column in its tracks, and, despite how hard they strove, the wind held them down in a stooped position. While others crippled to their knees and groaned and yelled in defeat, Maccabree solemnly pulled strength from deep down, where he had never reached before. And he used it as he unsheathed his unused sword. With all his force, against the wind, he raised it over his head and struck it hard into the ground. He gripped the hilt with all his remnants of power and bore his heels down against the ground.

As if caught in the barrel of an empty air gun, with darkness about him, Maccabree and his column were shot continuously by a hurricane blast, mixed with dust that choked all. And there were soundless screams.

Those who had stood throughout had long ago succumbed and were gone. But there were those who had used correct instincts. But alas; limbs that could no longer bear their grip upon flat surface were torn from the earth and carried up like sparks that spout forth from an agitated fireplace. And they continued their ascent, became far-off specks, and were devoured by the seas of distance.

Maccabree did not know how grievous the loss to his own had been, nor if he would make it himself. In that bedlam, he knew not at single, solitary thought. All he felt was his past wounds as they were torturously stretched under a humid, surgical light of malevolence. In a flash, he lost his long, inner conflict. Defeat.

Sudden despair rocked his wrists.

His grip slowly loosened, and naught but his scrunched-up fingertips were upon the sword hilt. His right foot snapped under the pressure, and, subsequently, the leg flew up to meet the squall’s beck.

He further accepted the blast as his left hand undid its clasp. It yielded. All that was left was but a right hand. It was then that Maccabree’s left wrist, as it bucked to and fro in the wind in its submission, felt a foreign hand grip it tight and steady it. How?

Impossible--

Through his vision, garbled by erratic rushes of dark sand, there appeared a face--

Typhon? How, dear friend?

Maccabree opened his mouth, but the wind’s howl only allowed him to distinctly form the words:

Hold on.

Through the initial shock, Maccabree tried to achieve his former balance, but he failed. His right leg still swung free to the whim of the wind, and, for all his wild strength he could not put it back down. All he could do was further settle his left foot against the unsure ground, bend his free leg’s knee, and simply hope the blast ended.

Hold on, old friend.

As if in answer, the left wrist snapped with a spark, and it ripped from the arm. It was sucked up with the sands, and the image of Typhon faded with it, into a silhouette and then nothingness. Shards of metal and loose gears tumbled up and out of the wrist’s empty, hollow socket.

Stunned beyond any reaction, Maccabree passed out unconscious.


For a long time, Maccabree lay still upon his belly.

He did not know for how long he had been out. He did not open his eyes, but he knew his senses were back. His ears ached with howls from the past. His life would never be the same, he reckoned. He would be discovered. He would be killed instantly.

Maybe they had forgotten him. Maybe they thought him to be dead, had passed his body by. He further reckoned that his clothes were tattered, and none would recognize his signature black, caked in sand like it was. They would also see the wrist gone.

Funny, that, he thought quickly. He felt no pain from it.

Then he thought again: Typhon! How had he arrived here? He had been slain years ago. Was it a figment? How? An imaginary friend? Impossible!

Maccabree at last opened his eyes, and he gently batted the sand that clogged them. With a cracked motion, he slightly turned his neck and then shot his black, empty eyes at his wrist. Impossible. Had he been so incensed with the figment of Typhon--a product of his mind--that he had manifested it real enough to do that to his wrist? Had he that much power over his body with his own mind? Something told him it was not numbness; it was not just absence of pain; it was a nothingness, a loss of all sensation and its definition.

No matter, Maccabree thought. He knew well where he was--a battlefield. It was then his mind jumped at the thought: the thought of the armies--the enemy. Truly, are they gone? Have they bypassed? At least give me that, he told himself. He screamed that mantra over and over within his self and at all the past injustices, all wrongdoings.

Then, he turned his head slowly; he drew his black eyes up.

No.

He had only been out for but a few, quaint moments. The armies of the Four were still there, but both they and the Black Cloud were motionless. What a taunt, seethed Maccabree. Now they just go home, yes? Valiant souls! They were but a backup plan. They were--

No.

They--

His face shook. His pupils died out. With his one hand he squeezed his face, as if he would gouge holes in it. He gritted his teeth.

He broke.

He rose to his feet in one motion.

He stood up, and it could be seen that his face had been stripped of all life; his skin was reduced to a deathly pale, squeezed cold of all its juice.

In his right hand he held his sword.

Alone, he strode rapidly forward.

On he came, till he passed beneath the front of the Black Cloud. On he came, till the vanguard of his enemy sprawled in great waves that went on and on, longer than he could possibly see or fathom or imagine. The sun was beyond his sight as well.

He wanted to see it.

I will. I--

He strode up to the front ranks of the army; he neither lengthened his stride nor shortened it. They were both confused and in awe of his lone approach; they did not draw forth their guns.

Will--

As he came within swing of the first line, he bent his right arm over his chest, sword in hand.

With all puissance, his sinews pitched forward.

In shock, five bodies crumbled down under the harsh strike.

Instantly, his enemies encompassed him.

They bent their hatred at him with all their vastness. In mere seconds, bullets literally crushed him down. There, upon his shattered knees, he made a few, small, child-like efforts to swing again, but his sword was spitefully torn from him and swallowed up by the sea. Then, after a sporadic, blind struggle, he was beaten by fists until his face caved in and rejoined the ground and he lay once more upon his belly.

He died. He was weak.
He was a Soldier, then.
Later, he would be a Knight.


795 YEARS LATER


THE KNIGHTS OF THE FOUR
by David Williams

[I'm Murrin]

Well, this is - quite impressive, actually. I like it. I like it a lot.

[Warmark]

Wow, very good.

And that last battle was nigh.

Love that line.

With all puissance

You know theres a famous writer who uses that word often...

Very imprssive Lord Foul.

[Worm of Despite]

Heh heh heh, well, that's the only time I used puissance, I think. I suppose it's tribute. We're all standing on the shoulders of our influences, anyway.

[I'm Murrin]

Damn, I forgot to put 'crepuscular' into Faith.

[dennisrwood]

nice. i am intrigued and would sit down to read this. when the hell you getting published and famous so you can ignore my letters?

[Worm of Despite]

Before I finish college, if I'm lucky!