Kevin's Watch

Right - you asked for it - some of my work.

This is the opening section of Chapter 1 (2, 3 and half of 4 + a Prologue are done so far).

If anyone wants to read more or has any questions etc - drop me a message thingy (PM as I'd know them).

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mperial Date - 1881
1293 years after the Sundering

Purple and crimson swathes of light suffused the darkening sky, a nightly tableau of wonder out in the wide expanse of the dusty Rackan Plains. The moon shone in diffuse beams, obfuscated by a single cloud, the light filtering the growing dark into a hue of rich colours before true night descended to cloak the earth in encompassing darkness – nature’s ultimate shadow.
Motionless, Sorren stood at the edge of the camp, where the flickering light of the fire ghosted his shadow in fleeting shapes around him. The night was cool, but not as chill as the previous two, when they had been forced to pitch high on a ridge with little protection from the winds that flowed across the harsh region at this time of year. The wind, swirling briskly and laden with eerie portent of unease, whipped noisily about the upper slopes of the rocky barriers.
‘High up for their own protection’, he mused. Those that had stalked them since they’d entered the area would not venture up onto the ridges that crisscrossed the plain, fearing to show aggression in the presence of the wind spirits they revered. Revered? More like feared, as if the extremes of violence they had perpetrated against the scattered border towns of the plain’s eastern edge had been a raid too far, that which even their holy spirits could not condone.
He continued to ponder the sudden change of character of their would-be enemies, who had stalked, yet not seized upon the countless opportunities to ambush or waylay the group as they crossed the plains. Why had they stopped even following them now they had descended from yesterday’s ridge? He could not put his finger on it – yet he had the nagging suspicion that they were being trailed. He dismissed the thought. Hard enough for a group of four to cross the plains without escort. A single traveller would be irresistible to the vicious horse raiders of the Rackan. Still, he could not shift the feeling that there was something else, something to explain this change in behaviour, and he was sure that it didn’t bode well for the group.
Yawning once more, he rubbed his eyes, fighting the tiredness he shared with the others. Fear had kept them awake previously, and now it was uncertainty that kept the exhaustion at bay. Listening to hear the sounds on the air for hints of their stalkers, pausing every now and then on their forced march to survey the surroundings for the slightest signs of pursuit.
A thought, like a passing breeze, a remnant of the wind spirits perhaps. He snorted at that. Wind spirits indeed. He could no more have accepted their existence than he could the mystical powers his younger brother had claimed to possess, until he’d seen them save all their lives scant hours before, a protective shield blossoming out from his outstretched hands, obscuring them from the view of the group of plainsmen that had threatened to ride them down.
I’d thought the Power of the Spires was long gone, but now we’re on a quest to the Monastery where those monks holed up after the Sundering. My Brother, how? where?, his power….too much I don’t comprehend, or maybe I’m just too old to accept change.
Pausing once more to reflect on that sudden thought, what is keeping the plainsmen away? and then he felt it again, more distinct now and yet still elusive in nature. Perhaps it was a wind spirit who’d floated down from the ridge to observe them. Fear flickered swiftly across his face, unknown, unseen, what is it damnit?
Not knowing was the worst bit, he considered. At least he could plan if he knew – the military mind would make its ordered presence felt, with plans, strategies and tactics flowing from the image of the pursuer. Not to be however, a nagging reminder that he had no real idea what it was, save for the feeling that it was probably less hostile to them than to the plainsman they kept behind them.
Coughing nervously at his brief loss of composure, the tall warrior brushed at his mail vest, the uneven jingling of links a reassurance to his troubled mind, and then turned to walk back to the fire and the others seated around it. Surveying the three before him, he smiled deliberately, a brief, wan smile that spoke volumes of the hope and fear they felt. Three similar smiles returned to the faces before him, acknowledgement of the situation, yet clinging to resolve still.
‘What now, my brother? Do we risk sleep and pray the plainsmen do not return, or stay awake another night, and push our fatigue beyond the limits of our fear?’ asked Kalen.
Sorren sighed and closed his eyes; a decision he knew he must make yet had hoped wouldn’t come, before turning to his brother to answer. An agonised pause. ‘Tonight we sleep Kalen. Call it a hunch, but whatever is keeping our stalkers away isn’t likely to vanish with this night. No, we sleep. We’re too tired to stay awake another night. I can feel naught but weariness now, and we are as much use in a fight now as if we were already asleep. Let your nervous horse be our night watchman, he’ll stir if there’s trouble.’ The reluctant leader turned to the other two, relief washing over them as they settled their bodies down by the fire to sleep, finally able to rest. ‘Yes, sleep. Another hard day tomorrow, if we’re to escape these cursed plains with our sanity intact and reach the Monastery of Spires.’ Sorren walked wearily to the far side of the fire, passing his brother, already asleep, and lay down on his bedroll, slowly relaxing his taut and aching muscles with weary exhalations. A few deep breaths more and he hovered on the edge of sleep, listening to the sounds of deep slumber already upon his companions.
Sleep indeed. How we need it after these nights. What keeps them away, does it shield us for protection, or perhaps it but guards its prey, waiting for a cleaner shot? These his final thoughts as the soft and smooth fingers of sleep wrapped around him, sweet envelopment to the troubles outside.

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Hope that appears alright in the viewing window - Technology Bah!!!

Good stuff, I look forward to the next instalment.
You will be posting a next instalment right?

Ok....continuation of Chapter 1....

Silent, calm, essence of night itself the group’s protector rested against a boulder just short of the camp’s margin. The sleeping group behind him hadn’t really considered the reason for their comparative safety, alluding too much perhaps to the wind spirits they had felt the nights before, not thinking of perhaps a more tangible aid behind them. Let them sleep, he thought, even as I too must recover my strength. Deep breaths, arms folded across the chest, long bladed knives resting on the lap. The familiar pose of the Zanar Assassin in meditation, deep in relaxation, as beneficial as sleep, yet a heartbeat from readiness should danger suddenly appear. The lean, wiry killer had trailed them for a week now, not interfering until satisfied that these were the ones he sought. Too silent for the trailing plainsmen even, as they found to their cost as he rose amongst their discarded packs like a vision from a dream of doom as they camped one night. Five of the group killed with efficient strokes before anyone else had noticed, and then two more taken down as he exited the camp as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving the remaining two to flee on their horses in terror, cursing the vengeful wind spirits as they went. Swift and silent violence had always scared the superstitious plainsmen and herders far more than a charge of heavily armed Imperial cavalry could, and yet still they send out the ‘patrols’ in the name of protecting the border towns, repeatedly wondering what could possibly overcome such elite troops, before sending another squad out to their deaths, he sneered to himself.
The night darkened to a deep indigo now, scant moments from full night. Deeper breaths and more passing thoughts, Would that I were trailing less sophisticated thinkers. Their leader displays great patience and resolve in planning their movements. A lesser group, even perhaps an Imperial squad would have marched straight across the plains, easy prey for the plainsmen raiders. Keeping a squad of narrow-minded, arrogant troops alive would be rather easier in these hostile conditions, just let them go onwards and guard their backs from the inevitable attacks.
Reflection, detachment – the products of deep meditation and relaxation taught to all of the Zanar from the beginning of their investiture. Only by this controlled process can true physical recovery be started, as well as allowing time for correct analysis of recent actions. The most skilled students, it is said, could control the repair of many wounds and injuries, some serious, whilst in this state of oneness, directing blood flow away from certain areas, whilst speeding nutrient supply and skin repair in others. Like a complex diagram of lines and nodes can the body can be viewed, the nodes at risk assigned colours, the pathways set up along routes from the body’s reserves to allow damage to be healed in a co-ordinated manner. Proper sleep is only necessary once or twice for every cycle of the moon, to allow the mind to dream and fulfil its basic need for total rest.
Time passed in the small camp of rocky scrub, the moon’s arcing passage across the night sky the only measure. A study in silence, the Zanar remained as still as a statue, a deadly sculpture as homage to the barren and often dangerous lands in which it rested. In the camp the four questers rested, deep snoring and relaxed expressions testament to the exhaustion from which they recovered. Even their horses and pack mule rested, grateful of a night without constant checks from the humans, the unspoken fear of pursuit temporarily banished.
As the first glints of dawn peeped over the nearest ridge, the Zanar drew one deep breath and then unfolded his arms, eyes opening to take in the surroundings. He sheathed his knives and then stood, before facing the light and assuming a fighting stance. The sun’s rays poured into the clearing, warmth flooding into the assassin’s bones as he began his morning rituals. To be observed after each period of meditation and at the break of day if possible, the rituals consisted of slow flowing body movements, eyes closed, mind gradually focusing on the energy coursing through the body as it awakened to its full potential once more, swift and efficient, instrument of subterfuge and guile shaped from the willing mould of youth to form a Zanar, the name of Death itself to those who merited retribution. Few were their number, shrouded in secrecy, the very unknown itself an extra weapon to the assassins.
As the sun cleared itself above the ridge, a full disc rising imperceptibly in the air, the Zanar slowed and then stopped his movements before taking a few breaths while he looked around, scanning horizons for signs of movement. Satisfied that the camp had not been approached during the night, he moved over to a large boulder that lay between his previous position of meditation and the still sleeping questers. Feeling just above head height for suitable purchase, the Zanar slowly pulled himself off the ground, to where a lip protruded just above his chest. With consummate ease he raised his left leg level with his arm and angled the foot to grip in a hollow just above the lip, and then with strength borne of iron-hard muscular conditioning, rotated his body upwards to raise himself over the lip. Still in utter silence, the assassin worked his way up to the top of the boulder, fully three body lengths from the dusty floor of the plain. An alcove behind the top portion of the boulder provided a suitable hiding place, the stone’s weathered surface shaded from both light and heat by the jutting peak. The assassin settled himself into the darkened alcove and consumed some of his trail rations, a hard bread covered with dry, tough meat and tasting of little else but whatever herbs the maker could provide to alleviate the tedium of the fare. Raising an eyebrow briefly at the thought of the considerably improved rations that the slumbering group would later consume, he mentally chided himself for the momentary weakness and resumed his patient vigil, mind clear as the expansive sky.

Excellent. More coming soon I hope?

More? ....not had any feedback on this lot yet!

You'll have to be patient!

Isn't a request for more enough feedback?

No? *raises eyebrow...*