Busy. Busy. Busy.
Which about sums up my writing life over the last month. I’m expecting my audio podcast with Pseudopod to come out soon. More info when I have it. I’m also looking to have a short story published in an enhanced e-book about werewolves. Early days yet, but I’ll blog about the process as I learn more.
The last week I’ve been working on a fantasy short story as a welcome break from longer projects. This is the first 500 words for your consideration. No title yet. I’m open to suggestions.
Enjoy!
Ragged holes adorned Henri’s breastplate and marred his family’s crest. His guts slithered about his legs, and his helm was lowered over the fragmented soup of his skull. A gore-soaked spear, marked with a fluttering red banner, poked from his chest, its barbed tip caught in the leather of his horse’s saddle.
The Mastiffs of the perimeter watch barked and strained against their chains, growling at the dead knight’s approach. Sour-faced men-at-arms beat them back with whips, and as each dog passed through Henri’s shadow their snarls turned to whimpers, and their tails drooped between their legs.
Captain Deval appeared from his tent, half-naked, braces around his hips, stuffing his cock back into his pants. His face froze when he saw Henri, then he spat into the mud.
“Get him down,” he said, wiping spittle from his chin, “and bring that banner to me.” His gaze found Gaston’s across the campsite. “You wanted a fight, young lord. Looks like you’ll get one.”
Gaston shoved his way through the crowd of gathered soldiers, ignoring Deval’s remark. Early morning mist dampened his hair and face, and the accompanying chill made his bones ache. He could use another drink. Maybe then Deval’s jibes would blend into alcoholic indifference and the logistics of the coming battle put off for another day. Deval was right though: he was itching to try out his new sword.
By the time he reached Henri, the men had cut him loose from the saddle. The dead knight lay face-first in the withered grass. Chunks of meat slipped through cracks in his armor, and blood drained from his ruined face. The stench of faeces carried on the wind, and the fragmented cloth of his undergarments glistened yellow with dried piss.
Lucas stood before the corpse. A soldier of ten years he nevertheless brought his hands to his face, heaved, and spewed vomit from between his fingers.
His companion, Davius, head and shoulders above the rest, slapped him on the back. “Better out than in, eh?” he said.
Lucas nodded and stood up straight, his face devoid of color. “It’s like he’s been poured back into the armor.”
Davius folded his arms. “Seen worse: men reduced to paste at the walls of Scion.”
“You have not.”
“It’s true.” Davius scratched at three white scars that split his face. “Seen a cannonball go clean through a legion. Naught left except red sauce, an eyeball and one man’s arse.”
Lucas laughed, despite himself.
Gaston listened to the idle banter, amazed at the soldier’s casual approach to death. Still, there was a tightness to Davius’s lips, the laughter forced and contrived. His eyes betrayed a nervousness which he concealed from his companion, but Gaston was noble born of House Trevleni and knew deception when he saw it.
And besides he felt it too. The day was colder than it should be. The sky darker. It had rained for the better part of a week and the ground turned treacherous underfoot. Their aim was to meet with his father’s infantry on the pelfirth fields, but the weather had slowed their advance to a crawl. Each detail of this dead land seemed etched in his mind’s eye, every stunted tree and stagnant swamp accounted for. But there was more. A feeling he couldn’t quite place. The company of knights hadn’t seen another living soul on their ride south, yet he felt as if they were being watched, studied, and . . . despised.