The beginning of my fantasy novel

[WardenOfTheNorth]

PROLOGUE

The calm before battle, Teldon Silverthorn thought, is always unnerving. He stood atop Kaeloch’s eastern wall, just above the Grand Gate, gazing upon the army of Tsurinon Tironus. They were camped a few hundred feet away on the side of the road, the lights from their torches flickering in the night like many fireflies. Teldon could hear the upbeat voices of Tsurinon’s men in the distance, laughing as they sat around campfires drinking mead and ale; this side of the wall was as silent as a cemetery.
He took a long swig from his drinking horn, the beer warming his veins in the brisk night air. He shivered; many of Kaeloch’s soldiers had been killed during the battle at the crossing and their chances of holding the city were next to impossible. He took once last drink and a final look at Tsurinon’s army, and then turned away to head down to the guard barracks.
He gripped the hilt of his longsword with a sweat-coated palm as he proceeded down the set of stairs that led down from the wall. His was a fine sword, crafted by the Order of the Forge, as were the arms of all of Avion’s sword-masters. The blade itself was made of strong steel with veins of silver zigzagging this way and that, crisscrossing back and forth over each other as they snaked their way up and down the metal. The scabbard was made of polished, lacquered wood that was painted green with thorn branches made of silver twisting all the way down the sheath. The sword had become a part of him, it seemed; wherever he went, Silverblade went with him.
As he approached the barracks, he could hear the voices of some of the men inside. He recognized one as Jaidor Kelleran and another as Aslo Gantyn. The subject of their discussion made Teldon sick to his stomach.
“What’s this I hear about leaving?” he demanded as he opened the door to the barracks. The men inside simply stared at him, clearly having been caught discussing something Teldon wasn’t meant to hear. This room of the barracks housed twenty men, the highest ranking members of the city guard. The southern barracks had twenty floors, each floor reaching further and further underground. New recruits occupied the lower floors. The men in the room were still staring at Teldon blankly, until finally Jaidor Kelleran broke the silence. He was a large man, larger than the rest of the men in the room. He was nearly sixty but still had the strength of a bull in him. He was a seasoned warrior, having fought in the Slave Wars and being one of the only men able to kill a giant. For this he earned both his nickname, “Giantslayer,” and his helm, which was made out of the giant’s skull. His hair was dark grey with a few remaining streaks of black in it, and there was a scar running from his left eye down to his lips. He had told everyone that this was a wound he suffered in the Slave Wars from a duel he had with a Torgon tribesman.
“You’re a smart man, Teldon,” he began, “so let me reason with you. We are severely outnumbered and there’s little chance of us holding the city for long. If we leave now, we could be at Stoneridge by midday tomorrow.”
“We’re not leaving,” Teldon replied with venom in his voice. It disgusted him to know that the men defending Kaeloch would be ready to abandon it if given the opportunity. “Desertion is a crime punishable by death.”
“That won’t matter when Tsurinon gets through the gates, and by that time there’s a high likelihood that we’ll all be dead anyway. The city will be sacked once they get in; our children will be killed, our wives as well when Tsurinon’s men are finished with them. Think about this: we can take our wives and children with us up north; they’ll be safe in Scarfell. Do you want to die with the guilt of knowing your family is probably going to be butchered and that you could have saved them?”
“We will not cower up in Scarfell while the rest of our men bleed for us. We’ll stay and defend this city; she needs us.”
“Perhaps you’re not as smart as I thought you were.” Teldon ignored Kelleran’s remark and tried to get some rest. He would have fallen asleep easily if it weren’t for Willish Raymore arguing with some young lad Teldon didn’t recognize.



What do you guys think so far? If you want I can post more but I would love for some feedback. Thanks!

[Moonjik]

I love it and would like to see more, sounds like you've got a pretty detailed history and backstory.

[WardenOfTheNorth]

I love it and would like to see more, sounds like you've got a pretty detailed history and backstory.

Thank you I appreciate that! I'll post some more later on.

[WardenOfTheNorth]

“I hear Tsurinon’s got a necromancer on his side,” the young man said fearfully.
“That’s the biggest load of horse shit I’ve ever heard,” Raymore snapped back at him. “There’s no such thing as necromancers, let alone magic.”
“Speak for yourself. I once heard about a magic city of wizards high up in the Rampart Mountains so remote that no one has been able to find it.”
“No one’s found it cause it doesn’t exist. If the gods found it fit to give some group of people magic powers, why not the rest of us? What makes them so bloody entitled? Magic is all a lie. It doesn’t exist and it never has.” The young man looked disappointed, but once Willish Raymore got into an argument, he refused to lose.
The two of them kept hollering back and forth until Teldon was finally able to drown them out by focusing on the candle resting on the table next to his bed. Its wax was a deep scarlet and the flame danced about freely on top, turning the wax into a sea of blood. As each drop of wax dripped down the length of the candle, Teldon felt sleepier and sleepier. The wax began to pool around the candle’s base and the flame continued its carefree dance. Teldon stared at the flame intently, watching all of its movements as it swayed this way and that, going wherever it chose. Teldon’s eyes began to shut slowly as he watched the candle slowly melt. That last thing was saw was the flame, dancing gleefully atop its wax throne, and then came the blackness.
The bells were low and ominous, yet deafening at the same time. Teldon’s eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet. There was a knot in his stomach, as the sound of Kaeloch’s bells meant only death was approaching. Perhaps Jaidor was right, Teldon thought. What if we are only prolonging the inevitable?
His squire, a boy of fourteen named Archon, helped Silverthorn with his armor. The poor boy looked horrified; there was a thin line of sweat rolling down the side of his face and his lip quivered with anxiety. This was the second time Archon had witnessed a battle, the first time being a fortnight ago at the Battle of Kaeloch Crossing. Luckily the gods saw fit to let the boy live, but hundreds of other men were not granted the same privilege. The battle had been a gruesome one, taking place near the town of Elder Ford, on the banks of the Redwater. By the end of the battle, the waters of the river truly ran red.
Teldon pulled his chainmail hauberk over his head as Archon arrived with the rest of his armor. His breastplate was plain and ordinary steel: no engravings or ornate designs, as were the other pieces of his armor. After his breastplate was strapped on, Archon assisted him with his greaves and gorget while Teldon pulled his gauntlets on. He pulled his mail coif on over his breastplate and finally his half helm, just as ordinary as everything else. As Teldon turned to ascend the stairs that led up to the wall, he noticed Archon beginning to follow him.
“Listen, Archon,” Teldon said gently, “you’re a good lad, and an excellent squire, but I don’t want you getting killed today. You don’t deserve that.”
“And you do?” his quire demanded. Teldon looked at him with sympathy in his eyes. The boy is resilient, he thought. This is not the day Archon will die. He then gave Archon an exasperated nod before climbing the stairs.
Archers stood between the battlements on the wall, commanded by Rhema Tanrask, Commander of Arrows. She was the first woman to hold this position, yet Teldon thought she had done a better job than most of the men who had served before her. Not only was she fierce and valiant, but she was beautiful, too. She had long brown hair that fell just above her waist and high cheekbones that made her one of the prettiest women in Kaeloch. As the two passed her, Teldon looked back to see Archon glance at her and blush, then look down at his feet. Teldon gave out a faint chuckle which Archon heard, turning his face even redder.
Teldon saw Aslo Gantyn leaning against one battlement, staring at Tsurinon’s army.
“They have siege engines,” Aslo observed, staring at the large trebuchets resting in front of Tsurinon’s camp. Gantyn was a good man, loyal, too. He was in his late thirties, but showed minimal signs of age. There was hardly a wrinkle in his skin and his short brown hair had no grey in it. He kept his face clean shaven and he was around Teldon’s height, although the two often debated about who was taller.
“Do you think we can hold Kaeloch?” Teldon asked him with a nuance of uncertainly in his voice.
“Do you want my honest answer?” Gantyn replied, to which Teldon nodded. “No. I think we lost too many men at the crossing. Tsurinon’s men will enter the city in a few days’ time.”
“Let’s hope that isn’t true,” Teldon said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. He turned to face his squire and said, “Stay close to me. If you want to be a part of this battle you have to do what I say.” Archon nodded his head obediently and grabbed hold of a sword Teldon handed him. The blade was smaller than most, fit for a boy of Archon’s age. “Do you know how to use that?” Teldon asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, you’ll need it.” He then gripped Archon by the collar of his studded leather cuirass and said, “Don’t die on me, lad. I’ve lost too many friends to this bloody war.” Teldon started to turn away, but his fear of Archon losing his life was too persistent. He turned back toward his squire and added, “Keep your wits about you, as well. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but, most importantly, do whatever you can to keep yourself alive.”
“Here they come!” Willish Raymore shouted, unsheathing his greatsword from its scabbard. A deep, rumbling horn sounded as Teldon watched hundreds of men sprint toward the wall. They look small now, he thought, but once they climb over the wall they might as well be giants. He composed himself enough to issue a command to the brave souls defending Avion’s capital.
“Do not let them over this wall! Not only are you fighting for your city, but you’re fighting for your lives! Let these bastards know that Kaeloch will not fall!”

[WardenOfTheNorth]

Thank you for the review #Nutty! Didn't see it until now

[Moonjik]

Only saw the second part just now, still loving it.

[WardenOfTheNorth]

This part has been written for a while, I just haven't remembered to post it.


A cheer left the mouths of the soldiers atop the wall; he even heard Archon yell. The confidence in Teldon’s voice was merely a façade. He knew, however, that Kaeloch would stand less of a chance than it did now if the men protecting it were nothing more than frightened children.
“Archers,” Rhema Tanrask shouted at the men she commanded, “nock your arrows!” Tsurinon’s army was closely approaching the base of the wall, all of them shouting war cries that Teldon couldn’t quite understand. “Draw!” Rhema commanded; the archers did as they were told and pulled their arrows back on their bowstrings. With every fleeting second the men laying siege to the city were even closer to climbing Kaeloch’s eastern wall. Teldon’s heart beat rapidly in his chest as he felt a bead of sweat drip down his temple and onto his cheek. “Loose!” screamed Rhema, followed by the sound of arrows being released into the sky, raining down upon Tsurinon’s men in a deadly arc. He watched as some arrows struck the ground while others found their mark, turning the men they hit into lifeless, misshapen corpses. Almost every second he heard the thrum of an arrow leaving its bow and sailing into the air, not knowing what it would hit.
“Trebuchets!” Teldon heard a man yell to his left bellow. He looked over the men assaulting the wall to, sure enough, see three of Tsurinon’s trebuchets hurl their projectiles towards the city.
“By the gods,” he muttered, before taking in as much air as his lungs could hold to scream, “Take cover!” He dove behind a battlement, covering his head with his hands before looking up to see Archon still standing. The boy’s face was in shock as he watched the trebuchet’s projectile soar right at him. Damn the boy, Teldon thought, grief already beginning to overtake him.
“Archon, get down!” Teldon shouted, but it was too late. He felt the boulders’ impact and he saw bits and pieces of shrapnel dart into the air and dance on the ground next to him. He watched as he saw a few men fall off of the wall and into the city, but Teldon wasn’t spared the sight of what happened to Archon. His ears ringing, he brought himself shakily to his feet and gazed upon Archon’s fallen body. He looked like a ragdoll; his limbs were bent into shapes Teldon had previously thought unimaginable. His squire’s head was nonexistent, reduced to nothing more than a pile of bloody meat and bone. He looked away from the boy’s corpse as he silently cursed himself for letting this happen. He remembered a thought he had earlier: this is not the day Archon will die. Perhaps this was a cruel jest played by the gods to toy with Teldon. He was brought out of his daze once his ears stopped ringing and the sounds of battle replaced the painful, high pitched shriek.
“They’re putting the ladders up!” shouted Willish Raymore. Tedlon was brought back into his role as the commander of Kaeloch’s troops and tried to forget about the untimely death of his young squire.
“Bring the oil up!” he demanded as he watched the men begin to climb the ladders. Oil was poured down on the men like a burning black rain; they screamed as it engulfed them and plummeted off of their ladders and onto the ground. Some of the men on the wall had taken to throwing rocks down onto the climbing men; Teldon watched as a large rock caused a man’s head to burst into gory chunks. The man on Teldon’s left was hit by an arrow in the eye, sending blood spraying out of the wound. He brandished Silverblade as the men on the ladders were getting closer to the top and shouted, “This is it! Show them no mercy!”
The first of Tsurinon’s men leaped onto the wall, a sword in his right hand and a studded hide shield in his left. Teldon turned to face him and deflected a strike from the man with Silverblade. The man moved to charge at him, making the mistake of raising his shield above his waist. Teldon slashed at the man’s thigh and sent him screaming in agony to his knees. He was then ran through by Teldon and kicked aside while the sword-master stood ready for the next attacker.
Wave after wave of men climbed onto the wall with Teldon and the rest of his men doing their best to hold them off. More men were dying up here than he could count and pools of blood littered the top of the wall. He then felt a hand on his shoulder and he quickly spun around to face the man, sword pointed outward. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized it was only Willish Raymore.
“You need to get off the wall,” Willish told him. “You’ve done all you can to help up here. They need men down at the Grand Gate when they break through.”
“I’m in command here,” Teldon responded. He knew, however, that it was only a matter of time before Tsurinon’s men broke through the gate and into Kaeloch.
“And you’ve done a bloody good job of it, but once they’re through the men down there will need someone to lead them.”
Teldon nodded curtly and said to him, “Be careful up here.” Willish simply nodded in reply, and then turned his attention to the men climbing the wall. Teldon began to descend the stairs that led down to the city as he had the night before.

[Turtlesauce]

I like this a lot, it's real quality writing.

[WardenOfTheNorth]

I like this a lot, it's real quality writing.

Thank you sir

[WardenOfTheNorth]

The final part of the prologue! If anyone wants me to post Chapter 1 as well, I'd be happy to.



When Teldon finally reached the bottom, his eyes darted towards Kaeloch’s eastern stables, which were situated to the right of the Grand Gate. That’s where he knew his destrier Whitewind would be waiting for him. He pushed his way through the group of anxious men in front of the gate, watching as they clutched their weapons harder with each hit the gate took from the battering ram outside. The gate shook violently every few seconds, the wood splintering into small shards. He could feel each tremor as he made his way to the stables and he tried to block out the shouts of Tsurinon’s men outside.
“Heave!” they yelled as the battering ram struck the gate, causing the ground to quake underneath Teldon’s feet.
He found Whitewind secured to a post right outside of the stables, his saddle already equipped from when Teldon had done it the night before. He stroked the destrier’s silver coat with a gentle but shaky hand and whispered, “Easy, boy.” He climbed up on top of his steed, put his feet in the stirrups, and held the reins with both hands. Slowly Whitewind trotted to the gate amongst the men ready to defend themselves and the city once Tsurinon’s men finally broke through. Teldon counted each second in his head and waited for the gates to fly open, letting in a vicious tidal wave of steel and blood crazed soldiers. One, he counted apprehensively, two, three, four, five. He saw eight men on horseback among the men on their feet; the man next to him had his hands folded and was looking toward the skies, his mouth moving stoically in a desperate prayer to Salga and Digo. Teldon could make out the words, “Save our souls from darkness and carry us to -”
Teldon never finished the prayer. The doors of the Grand Gate flung open violently and Tsurinon’s army spilled in. The battering ram was dropped by the men holding it and replaced with swords and axes. Teldon snapped Whitewind’s reins and unsheathed Silverblade, riding into near-certain demise. He swung his sword at Tironus’s men, slitting one’s throat and cutting off the hand of another. Teldon’s vision was now a blurry amalgam of grey, white, and red. He watched as the man riding next to him was hit in the neck with an arrow, knocking him off of his horse and onto the bloodstained ground.
A man on horseback galloped towards Teldon, holding a spear in his right hand while his left held the reins. Silverthorn gritted his teeth and swung his blade sideways, slicing open the poor horse’s side. The animal’s insides slid out of it and Teldon saw one of Kaeloch’s men bury an axe into the man’s skull.
He looked to either side of him, seeing men die and arrows fly from both directions. He never saw the war hammer that smashed into his breastplate, knocking him off of Whitewind and sending him sprawling onto the ground in agony. He could barely breathe; with every inhale his ribs stung and with every exhale blood seeped out of his nose.
So this is how it ends, he thought, defeated and broken, lying helplessly on the floor of the battlefield outside of Kaeloch’s gates. This is how the great capital of Avion falls. May the gods save us all; our souls are damned. He saw the hammer arc down, deadly and unforgiving, and then came the blackness.