This is the first chapter I wrote for the book. I didn't want to start at the beginning nor the end so I jumped into the middle a bit. I knew this particular situation was coming for our protagonist, Peter, and it was something I was excited about so I wanted to push it out in some form to see if I could actually do it.
Overall, I'm happy with the end result though I know it will change upon eventual revision.
Be warned, there are a few place holders in this chapter. Names for characters and such I've not yet made up. Don't worry about them.
Thanks in advance for taking the time to read my work over. You don't have to yet you're kind enough to do so anyway. It means the world.
The fog was even thicker than it looked when viewed from the hill looking down. It made seeing anything more than a few inches in any direction all but impossible. What was really odd, and something Peter didn’t expect, was just how heavy if felt. His armor already weighted him down some but in the open air it was manageable. When he was moving it was nearly unnoticeable. But here, for some reason, it felt like he was carrying a sack of potatoes over each shoulder and dragging a few more behind just for good measure. For a brief moment he considered removing a few metal plates but then (Knight’s name) words rang in his mind. Suddenly the weight of the armor didn’t matter so much against the thought of nursing a deep gash that could have otherwise been avoided.
The ground made a sucking noise with every step Peter made. Well, a sucking noise when he lifted his foot from the muck on the ground. It was more like a slurping noise when he stepped. It was then that he realized he was crouching for some reason. He was trying to keep his profile low and his movements silent. It was instinctual. Something in his mind knew something and it wasn’t sharing. He didn’t care for that. But this place was supposed to be abandoned. No one came here. And why would they? The Shallows were just a good long hard rainfall from becoming a full blown swamp and it was easy enough for anyone to see you coming and going from the comfort of a dry hill. But logic wouldn’t straighten his spine. He was crouching and gritting his teeth with every slurp-sucking step he made and that was that.
The fog must have lifted some because Peter could begin to make our blackened shapes in the distance. They were long and thin and crisscrossed all out in front of him. When he finally got close enough he reached out and touched on of the strands. It was a vine. Oily, slick and soft. He squeezed it in his hand and it turned to mush. He lifted his glove to his nose and was puzzled that it had no scent. At least none he could detect. He had expected it to smell like rotting celery or something but no, it was completely odorless. If that bothered him more he couldn’t decide at the time but he was sure he was moving forward at it looked like there was a jungle of this stuff to get through. He wiped his hand off on his chest plate, removed the restraint from his blade, and slowly slid it out. The vines offered no resistance and fell with each of Peter’s strokes. In reality it felt like he was swinging at nothing at all. As if he was swinging into open air. But that odd sensation didn’t convince him that letting these sickly black vines rub all over him as he walked was a good idea. So, he crouched, swung, and gritted his teeth with each slurp-sucking step.
Peter felt like he was going at this for hours but he couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t wearing a watch and he couldn’t see the sun. But he knew it had to be getting late. Still, he swung until his sword hit something with a loud chank. Fear gripped his heart and he froze. He didn’t dare move and inch but, instead, opened his ears. If anyone was near there was no doubt they knew someone was with them. He strained to listen. Though they could do him no good his eyes darted every which way and found nothing. He couldn’t even see what he had hit and that was less than three feet in front of him! But he knew to use the one sense that hadn’t been blinded in this place and he listened and he waited. He heard his heart racing in his ears. It seemed almost as loud and when he hit that something. Part of him wondered why anyone else couldn’t hear it so loud it was in his head. The more he thought about it the louder it seemed to get and the louder it seemed to get the more he thought about it! He was getting distracted and he knew it. He forced his mind from his own fears and out into the grey nothingness around. After a few moments his heart slowed and he could once again hear, well, nothing. All was quiet. Once he was satisfied there was nothing out there (or nothing out there he could do anything about for the moment) he slowly drew his sword back.
Then he thought better about it.
His eyes were useless to him and, at least, his sword discovered something for him before he discovered it for himself with his face. And if there was something out here that meant him harm better they are greeted with the tip of his sword than the whole of his arm.
So, Peter slowly made his way forward, using his sword as a feeler. He ran the blade against, what he had decided was, the stone wall and cautiously probed the ground with his feet. It stood to reason that if a stone structure was sticking up out of the ground there might be one laying across the ground and he didn’t wish to find it by tripping over it. When he was close enough to see it, and that was just after two steps, Peter took a moment to examine the stone structure that had made his presence known to the world. It was old, very old, by the look of it. It was made of numerous stone bricks that were at one time, he was sure, handsomely carved. Now, however, the passing of the ages had taken their toll and they were crumbling, jagged, and worn. But now that he had found something solid Peter felt safer. A wall at your back, even a broken one, was better than nothing at all. He slid up close to it and with his sword held out he continued to move forward. It didn’t take long for his feet to hit something solid. Peter looked down saw what he thought could only be the beginning of a stone floor. It was level and pushing with his foot didn’t seem to move it any. What a relief if would be to stop slogging around for a change, he smiled. Balancing himself against the wall, because he wasn’t quite convinced of the stability of the newly discovered floor, he grabbed onto a handhold and pulled himself up. The ground felt sturdy enough. A few quick hops made sure of it. See, he thought, things are getting better. With his sword in front of him he took his first step forward on solid ground.
And with a quick gust of wind the fog was gone and Peter could see as clear as day. Or, rather, a clear and starry night with a full moon. The sudden change understandably startled Peter and he spun around to get his bearings. Behind him, close enough to touch, was the fog but it stayed back as if held by some invisible force. What’s more, Peter didn’t feel heavy any longer. Like the potato sacks were taken away along with the fog. Curiosity ignoring a wiser course of action forced Peter to reach out and push his hand into the fog. The fog was so think his hand vanished but the heaviness returned, if only in his hand. The fog felt like it was something he could tear a piece out of and place in a bag or something. It felt that solid. His curiosity satisfied he withdrew his hand and turned his attention to the puzzle of stone he, almost literally, stumbled upon.
The wall he’d been using as a guide and shield quickly ended just a few feet ahead. Where it should have continued laid, on the ground, a few stones and little else. Like the Keep of the Tree of Ages this place too had come into disrepair and ruin. Grass and moss grew in the cracks of stone on the ground and what few walls remained. Here and there Peter could see where great tapestries once might have hung, where torches would have been placed to light a room, and where small statues or potted plants could have stood. But all that was gone now. This place was like the shadow of death. Something full of life once stood here but that was long ago. All that remained now was a corpse near turned to dust. It saddened Peter at the thought. Here this was all new to him but the time to really enjoy the fullness of it all hand long past. He could only hope to be content with the echo over the voice.
That’s exactly what he would try to do. Here he was; the first human in this place in who knew how long. He knew there were people in the world that would give their right arm to be here right now and he was going to take it all in for all that it was worth. The castles of Europe had all been explored and picked over by thousands of people over the years. There was nothing new to discover in those places but still people went. Heck, he wanted to go too! But this was his castle now. He could take as much time as he wished trying to pry whatever secrets he could from its shadowy crevices. With that thought tickling his brain he took to his task with great zeal.
Making many twists and turns around, over and under the ruins Peter came to realize that this place was more like the Keep than any European castle. While at first thought it odd he could find no ceilings anywhere, or anything that might look like it was built to support a ceiling, it hit him that perhaps there never was a ceiling. This place was an open air temple of sorts. That might also explain the lack of everyday objects. Whatever was here would have been exposed to the elements so such small and trivial things, if there were here at all, would have been packed up after use. Still, all his searching wasn’t without fruit. Here and there he would find the remnants of a carving or mural etched directly into the stone. How beautiful this must have all been when seen in its heyday.
Peter had long since sheathed his sword and was letting his fingers glide along the walls. Great sections of stone jutted high into the night sky as if trying to touch the stars themselves. Slowly, Peter made his way deeper within the labyrinth of rock and mortar and his eyes feasted upon the forgotten glories of old. Only did he finally stop when he came upon something he’d not seen anywhere else: An enormous wooden door. There were rooms in this place he had discovered, yes, but nothing with a door or even looking like it would have once held a door. Not to mention a door of this magnitude! It was over double Peter’s height and at least triple the span of his arms. It seemed like a tank could have driven through it with room to spare. And while time had been cruel to it the carvings on its face were very easy to make out. Peter took a step back to make sure he was seeing what he thought but sure enough it was. There was one man with massive wings standing over another lying on the ground. The man above drove a spear into the other man’s chest. Between the two, in the distance, was what could on have been the Tree of Ages.
He didn’t know what exactly it was he was looking at but Peter felt immense sorrow for the being on the ground. Peter stepped closer and he could have sworn that he was reaching out to the Tree as if to protect it. Peter then shifted his gaze up and glared at the man with the spear. He felt cold and angry. A great and terrible sin had been committed and it came to Peter that this place was built to remember that moment. He didn’t understand the enormity of it all but he knew he’d be talking to Genevieve about it when he returned.
When his anger passed Peter continued to examine the door. There were words written all along the outer edge in a language he didn’t know. He regretted going alone into this place just then. He was sure one of the knights could have read it or, at least, have an idea what it all could mean. But there was nothing to be done now. Having satisfied himself that there was nothing else to discover on the door itself he began looking for a way to open it. Why have a door if you can’t open it, right? Problem was, Peter couldn’t see any clear way do that. There was no latch or knob or lever on the outside that we could see. He also didn’t see hinges on the outside so that told him the door opened in. But how? Peter went to the left side of the door, planted his feet into the ground and his shoulder into the wood, and pushed as hard as he could. Nothing happened. He went to the other side and tried the same with the same results. Maybe the hinges were rusted? Maybe he wasn’t strong enough? Maybe a little of each? The thought did come to him that he might use his sword as a wedge under the door to maybe pry it open that way but he threw that out as soon as it came. It wasn’t going to be on his head should any damage come to this place by means outside of nature! But looking under the door did seem like a good idea. So, Peter went to his hands and knees and placed his cheek on the floor hoping for some clue as to what to do next. While he could see that there was certainly something inside the room he couldn’t make out what. Looking at the underside of the door itself he didn’t see anything that might be keeping the door from moving. No bars in the ground indicating that the door was locked to the floor from the other side. Peter worked his way from one side of the door toward the other and when he got to the middle was when he noticed something. It looked like the wood was split. He squinted at the split and saw that it moved up the whole of the door. He wasn’t dealing with one door after all! There were two doors here.
With his newly acquired knowledge Peter stood and took measure of his situation. So fine was the split that even knowing it was there Peter couldn’t see it unless he moved his face right above it. Through the ages nature had warped the wood, softened it, until the two halves had nearly become one. Peter only hoped that the fusing wasn’t strong enough to keep him from forcing the doors open. Knowing now where the doors were designed to open, and assuming they were to swing inward, Peter once again planted himself and pushed. He felt it give just a little but when he let up it was as if he’d never been there. He tried a number of times more but still the same result. The doors were just too fused together for him to force open without assistance. Panting and frustrated Peter paced up and down the corridor. He thought that if he could just find a way to use more strength from his legs to push, rather than pulling double duty by pushing and keeping his feet from sliding, he could do it. He could open the door. He paced back and forth trying to come up with something when he noticed a stone block on the ground. If one was looking at him just then they might have concluded that the inanimate object had just spoken words, so intently Peter store at it. He had it. He knew what he needed to do.
Peter assumed at least an hour had passed before he was done with his work. Hot, dirty and sweaty Peter checked over what he had built one last time before moving into position. From the wall opposite the door Peter was trying to open he stacked a number of stone blocks, three high, five long and three wide, out into the corridor. Peter then lowered himself onto the ground, placed his feet flat on the stack, and pushed his back into the door. He made a quick and silent prayer that the stones wouldn’t fall out of place, took a deep breath, and pushed with all he could muster. It seemed to be working. He felt the door give more than it had. He turned a bit and leaned in hard with his left shoulder while willing his legs to straighten. To Peter it felt like he was winning this particular battle. Off to his right he heard something give. It sounded like metal, the ping noise it made. He wondered if it was one of the hinges. He assumed they probably rusted into position centuries ago. Slowly, far more slowly than Peter would have liked, he felt the door giving way. His knees were coming closer to the floor at a steady pace but they felt like they were on fire. He’d already quickly exhaled and took in and held a breath just as fast fearing he’d not be able to keep pushing otherwise. Soon there was another ping, and another and, finally, a loud crack and the door opened and Peter was spit into the room.
Peter just laid there for a long while, his legs burning, gasping for air. Not even thinking he reached into his chest plate, unclasped the fasteners, and flung the piece of armor to the side. The sudden release of hot air and ease of breath felt wonderful, like standing in front of an air conditioner after a long day in the blistering sun. Feeling better he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his knees.
The room was round and much larger than Peter expected. It was open to the sky like everything else here but, somehow, it didn’t seem as worn by time. He almost expected someone to come out from the shadows and attend to a matter of business that may have one been conducted here. Along the outer edge of the room, wrapping its entire circumference, was a great mural carved into the stone. From his vantage Peter could make out scenes of battle, celebration, and mourning. A lot was obscured by shadow and had this room been empty Peter would have surely investigated more deeply but something much more magnificent held his gaze. On either side of Peter were four white pillars that marked the path to a grand staircase of white marble with gold veins. The stairs themselves were accented with golden stands that at one time held a flame each. At the top of the stairs, on a dais, was a sculpture unlike anything he’d seen in all his life. It was of a man sweeping down from the heavens, arms spread and wings coming out of his back, the tips of each stretched to each side of the room. The man’s face was stern yet serene. To Peter it almost looked like he may have been trying to crack a smile. The figure had to be, Peter guessed, over 20 feet tall with a wingspan double that. And whatever white stone he was made of reflected the light of the moon so well that he seemed to glow. All this aside what really grabbed Peter was the fact that the figure was floating. There was nothing coming up from the dais holding the massive statue aloft. It was literally floating in the air, its toes just a few feet from the dais.
Peter’s mind reeled. He’d seen a lot in his time in this land but nothing like this. Nothing so overtly magical. But with that word he heard a gentle chiding within his mind. There was nothing magical about it at all. It was the natural order of things. It only appeared like magic because he wasn’t used to it. Had he grown up with it, as was the original design, it would seem as normal as running water. The debate in his head notwithstanding, he allowed himself to be enamored with this appearance of magic for the time.
Peter picked himself up from the ground and brushed the dirt from his legs and arms. He decided to walk up that grand staircase and get a closer look at the man floating in the air. For a reason he didn’t understand he felt the need to fidget with his appearance before moving one inch first. He pulled down his shirt, straightened the sword at his side, and quickly ran his fingers through his hair. Later he would admit he felt as if he were readying himself for a meeting with royalty. Like he was in a place he had no business being but since he was there he might as well put on the best show he could. Right now, however, he just felt really nervous. His mouth was dry and his fingers felt tingly. Exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding he took his first step forward. And stopped. He suddenly felt self-conscious. Instinctively his hand went to the hilt of his sword and he spun on his heel to see what was coming up behind him. Nothing. There was nothing here but a slight breeze. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the statue. No one comes here, he reminded himself. No one but the paranoid apparently.
When he got to the first step he looked up at the winged man above him and suddenly felt small. Sure, the statue looked larger now that Peter was closer to it but he also saw that it was leaning forward. Halfway up the staircase Peter looked up again and saw that he was standing directly under the statue’s chin. He also took a moment to glance back at the door he came in. The feeling he was being watched hadn’t left and an uncomfortable shiver went up his spine whenever his attention shifted from the statue. Again, there was nothing though. It was getting to be a pattern Peter didn’t much enjoy but there was nothing he could do about it. No sense swinging his sword at phantoms. Then a terrible thought hit him, what if there were phantoms? Ghosts? (Knight’s name) never talked to him about those. And where better for ghosts to haunt than ancient ruins surrounded by a suffocating fog?
As soon as he entertained the thought he shook his head and wrote it off as childish nonsense. There were plenty of real threats in this world without having to imagine more. Besides, Peter thought it was just dumb luck he found this place anyway. He doubted he could find it again once he left and he doubted more that someone else would share his luck. After a quick glance around the room, just to be sure, he forced his nerves to relax.
Once Peter made it to the top of the stairs and stood on the dais he noticed that the statue was floating over a pool of water about three feet in diameter. What was remarkable about the pool was just how clean and clear it was. It was like looking through glass. A strange find, he thought, in a place as old as this. One would have expected the pool to have evaporated by now or, at the very least, have some kind of debris floating at the surface. But there was nothing like that here. Just like the rest of the room this pool appeared to have been meticulously maintained and cared for very recently. He kneeled and reached his hand into the pool and found the water to be cool to the touch. Realizing how hot he’d grown moving those many stones just a few minutes ago Peter thought splashing a bit of water on his face would do him some good so he did. The water was surprisingly cold, enough to give him goose bumps, but very refreshing and welcomed. What’s more his dry mouth prodded him for relief and he obliged it with several handfuls of water. It was delicious and even more he felt his strength renewed and the aching in his limbs fade from memory. Reinvigorated and feeling bold Peter dunked his entire head into the pool, shook it a bit, and then sat back up with a sputtering exhale. The water running under his armor and clothing felt wonderful and he was immediately glad he did what he was sure at once time was probably considered an egregious breach of etiquette. Peter was in the middle of standing when he realized something more peculiar with the pool. His gloves and head were full of dirt, sweat and grime. There was none of that now in the pool. It looked as though he never touched it. Just another mystery about this place to file along with all the others, he supposed, and he came fully to his feet.
Now was the time to get a good and proper look at this floating masterpiece that dominated the room and, Peter was sure, was the point of the entire structure once upon a time. From this distance Peter couldn’t help but appreciate the level of detail that went into the work. Fine lines where the muscle under the skin took shape were fully realized, subtle folds in the skin created from years of use in a real person were all here and, though high above, Peter could even make out the detail put into each and every feather in the figure’s wings. It seemed as though some giant of a man was covered in white paint and ordered to stay motionless, so lifelike the details were. Peter circled the pool, staring up in amazement at the sculpture, and stopped when he got to the front. He didn’t realize his mouth was open but we can be sure if this was because of the extreme angle at which he was looking up or general awe.
Just then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his mind screamed for him to defend himself. Peter reacted quickly and pulled out his sword and turned just in time to block a blow coming down at his neck. Without looking he rammed his shoulder into where he felt his attacker’s chest should be, hoping to knock whoever it was off balance and give himself the space he needed to mount a proper defense. It worked, he felt the figure stumble back and Peter took a number of quick steps back and placed his sword between himself and his opponent. This also gave Peter the time he needed to see what he was dealing with. It was a Gethren. The man caught himself before actually tumbling down the stairs, strengthened his spine, and stood tall. Peter recognized him immediately. It was the same Gethren that led the slaughter of (different Knight’s name) scouting party. This close, though, he looked much more menacing than before. At that time Peter the only identifying feature of the beast, other than his pitch skin, which was a common trait amongst all the Gethren, was the blood-red stripe across his chest. Peter had yet seen another Gethren with similar markings and he assumed, rightly so, that it made this particular Gethren a force to reckon with. It also didn’t help that he also stood a full head taller than Peter. Another feature obscured by his distant first encounter.
The Gethren stood motionless for a time, his eyes closed, and then spoke. Peter never heard the voice of one of their kind before. It was tight and gravelly. Like someone was trying to talk while being choked. What made it all the more unsettling was that the Gethren didn’t feel he needed to open his eyes when addressing Peter. Even though he knew Peter had his blade drawn. Peter couldn’t decide if it was pride on the part of the Gethren or, perhaps, the Gethren knew something Peter didn’t. Neither option felt more appealing than the other.
“You come to the place of (name of statue figure). You move like him,” the beast smiled slightly, exposing his gnarled and broken teeth, “I wonder if you understand what this means.”
Peter didn’t dare tell the Gethren he didn’t. He didn’t seem the type to indulge Peter’s curiosity.
“What do you want with me?” was all Peter could think to say. He hoped the shaking he thought he heard in his own voice was just in his mind. The training (Knight’s name) gave him with the sword seemed adequate enough at the time but faced with the prospect of fighting the very creature that so handily defeated a number of seasoned knights, well, that wasn’t something high on Peter’s list of things to do.
“You have involved yourself in things beyond your understanding, Peter. Yes, I know what you are called. I know a great many things about you. Do you believe me?” The Gethren cocked his head leaned in a way that looked to Peter like he was honestly expecting an answer. First this thing wanted to kill me and now it wants an interview, what’s going on, thought Peter. He decided to play this game for the moment but maybe not how the Gethren wanted it.
“I saw you the other day. I saw you kill (different Knight’s name) and his men. You fought like a coward,” Peter spat. He piled all the indignation he could into his voice. The Gethren, for his part, tilted his head and straighten his posture.
“What does Peter know of war? Safe in his bed at night. What does Peter know of war?”
“I know evil when I see it, monster.”
The Gethren tilted his chin down and brought his sword up. “Peter knows nothing of war.” He then opened his eyes and they were red like blood. At that moment Peter wondered what kind of demon he was truly dealing with and would he live long enough to find out. The Gethren frowned and shifted his weight to his back leg. “I will teach you!”
The Gethren launched himself forward with greater speed than Peter anticipated and easily covered the distance Peter put between them in a single bound. The Gethren wielded his blade like it had not weight and slashed mercilessly at Peter. All Peter could do was bring his own blade up as quickly as possible before the next blow landed, and the next, and the next. Staying on the dais offered Peter limited defensive options and no cover. The two combatants circled the pool and if Peter wasn’t tied up with parrying blows he’d have realized that the Gethren backed him to the edge of the stairs. Knowing he had Peter where he wanted, the Gethren feinted to the left and when Peter moved that way he slashed upwards at Peter from the right. Though Peter’s sword wasn’t in position to parry his reflexes were fast enough that he leaned back and narrowly avoided the blow aimed at his face. Unfortunately this made him off balance and the Gethren knew it. A hard kick to Peter’s unprotected stomach was more that enough to send him tumbling down the stairs. Peter hit the ground face first with enough force that the wind was knocked out of him and he was seeing stars. His sword skidded across the floor and into the shadows. Though dazed, Peter fully appreciated his position and the peril just at his back. Gasping for air and trying to keep the black at the sides of his vision from consuming him, Peter limply crawled to where he thought his sword had landed. But it was already too late. Peter felt the Gethren’s hand at the back of his neck.
“Do you understand now, Peter?” The Gethren’s mouth was mere centimeters from Peter’s ear. Peter could smell and fell its putrid breath on his face. “In the crumbling ruins of a palace built to a dead god do you come to understand.” The Gethren dug his fingers into Peter’s neck and pulled him up enough to get a view of the room. “You follow in the shattered footsteps of a god too weak to stop the inevitable. Look!” Peter’s head was jerked in the direction of the angelic statue. The black was getting closer now and Peter felt his stomach churn. “Look at the pile of rubble your god has become. Worthless. Soon, nothing more than dust.”
Though his mind was hazy Peter wondered if he had drifted so far he was hearing the Gethren wrong. Rubble? Dust? What was he talking about? This place looked as new and vibrant as any he’d seen in all his life. Death never visited here.
Suddenly the room spun and Peter was on his back. Again, the Gethren was on him.
“Too late do you understand. If you were wise you would have run from her house. It’s no good now. There’s no saving yourself. No saving your friend.” The Gethren reached down to his belt and slowly withdrew a long knife. He looked it over for a moment then moved his face close to Peter’s. Peter couldn’t see where the knife was now. A lump was growing in his throat. The Gethren was right, Peter admitted to himself. He didn’t know what was going on. He thought he did. He thought he was special but he knew he wasn’t. And now he was going to die. He knew it with every fiber of his being. And he knew Kate was going to die. He could see it now. He could see this same Gethren on top of her, her neck in his hand as Peter’s was now, and the same look of satisfaction on his face. Peter clenched his jaw and pulled his lips back in a snarl. No, he wouldn’t let this beast touch her. Not Kate, never.
Peter reached down and grabbed the wrist of the Gethren holding the knife. For a moment Peter thought he might come out of this okay. For a moment he was able to hold back the knife. But the moment was short lived. The Gethren wasn’t about to let his prey win that easily so he gripped tighter onto Peter’s throat and slammed Peter’s head into the floor. Peter went limp. His moment of clarity was gone and the black in his vision nearly had him. The Gethren was a faded mass and felt more like the figment of a dream than real. Then there was the sharp burning pain in his side. It was more excruciating than anything Peter felt in his life. His body convulsed and his throat closed. He was gasping for air. Everything was so fuzzy now. Peter thought he felt something get off him. He thought he heard someone say something but it sounded like a distant echo.
Stranger still, before the black took him for itself, he thought he saw a white light sweep over his body and a terrible scream in the distance.
