Time was an illusion as Lyria was crushed beneath the weight of the dead. Unable to breathe through the blood that gummed her nostrils, her chest tightened as she gulped for air that did not exist and was deafened by her heartbeat bellowing through the questionable silence. The vile laughter and heavy footsteps had vanished; the raiders were gone.
Desperate for sunlight and fresh air, she gathered her strength and pulled herself from her morbid cocoon. Her stomach turned in on itself as she inhaled shreds of decay and swallowed her disgust as she clawed through the pile, her nausea rising as she touched the warm, dead flesh of the bodies that bore down upon her, that surrounded and suffocated her, and panicked as her world spun in a kaleidoscope of patterns and colours.
A hopeful gleam of light flickered through the swirling darkness as Lyria fought through the bodies and she gulped for breath as she at last tumbled from the heap, trembling as her exposed limbs screamed with gratitude for their freedom.
The air was heavy but bearable compared to what she had consumed in the confines of her prison, the odours that surrounded her a direct contrast to the beauty of the rainbow skies that shone down through the sunlight and illuminated the countryside, and the pile she had extricated herself from.
Tears clouded her vision as she looked over the slaughter. Her mother’s head hung limp from the side of the heap, the woman’s eyes filled with terror even as she lay within the emotionless cloud of death, and her father now dangled from the middle with a bizarre serenity etched across his face, appearing to be at peace with his unexpected fate.
Attracted by the glint of steel, she glanced down and saw her father’s sword discarded upon the path. The weapon returned the noon-sun of this nightmarish day and her weeping eyes hardened as they met the blinding reflection, an icy glare replaced what had been heartbroken anguish as she grasped the leather hilt and her tears were forgotten as a fury awakened. Her loved ones would be avenged.
She turned back to the pile, oblivious to her heartache, and dragged the corpses from one another, her heart as cool as the ocean’s breath as she hauled the bodies away from the prize she sought: the scabbard that sat about her father’s waist, a snarling plainscat etched deep into the black leather.
An anger thrummed through her as she unbuckled the sheath from his uniform and slung the rehoused weapon over her shoulder, immune to the odours that swarmed her as she stared over the remains of the once idyllic cliff-top village. Houses lay broken, splintered wood scattered as the men rampaged through each building and pulled everyone to the town centre. The slaughtered remains of sheep and cattle dotted the nearby paddocks, the carcasses left to rot beneath the summer sun. Even the horses had not survived the onslaught. It was wasteful.
Lyria drew the scene into herself. She ingrained each shattered structure and blood spatter into a collage of chaos forever painted through her memories and as her roaming eyes once more met her mother’s terrified stare the simmering rage broke free. Her anger erupted and fused itself into her gut and her heart thudded louder and faster with each extended second she wasted as the dead decayed before her. She would hunt the men who had performed these vile acts to her family, friends and home, and they would pay with their Godless lives!
She whipped away from her ransacked village and stalked down the winding path, her pace increasing with every step until she ran full speed down the incline. The few trees before her were left far behind as her legs endured the miles and the landscape passed by in a flurry of yellowed hues. The sun glared down at her, though she took no heed of the scorch it left on her skin and did not pause until she saw smoke on the horizon. Fire. The raiders had not burned her village, the next had not been as fortunate.
Determined to face the men who had torn apart her life, Lyria quickened her pace and headed for the black plumes that rose high over the skyline, her sweat dripped through the blood and dirt caked over her face and she denied her reflexes as she swallowed the muck and breathed the dust, her thirst for vengeance all that mattered as she forced her feet along the path.
The Loren settlement came into view. As silent as her own village, the pungent aroma of death danced amid the sharp scents of smoke and ash, and there was not a soul in sight bar the deceased piled in the village centre. Only the buildings had been burned - the people remained untouched - and she clenched her fists tight, her nails biting deep into her flesh as she looked over the slaughter. The despicable men would not escape!
An agonised groan echoed about the crumbling buildings and she turned on her heel. With a swift pirouette, she removed her father’s blade from the scabbard and brandished the weapon in both hands as she searched for who, or what, had made that woeful sound.
“Young miss…”
Crisp wood crunched loud as the voice rasped from the ruins of a nearby dwelling. A blackened husk stumbled from where a doorway had been, remnants of a maroon uniform in tatters upon his charred body, and Lyria pointed the blade at him as he staggered forward. Her vitriolic voice burned through the dust in her throat, the sound alien to her ears as she disregarded the man’s appearance and demanded, “Which way? Where did the filth go?”
The burnt man coughed and heaved as he struggled to breathe, and fell to his knees with a sickening crunch.
“Please… word must reach… Astana. Lord Andru…”
His pleas did not matter to her. She glared into his weeping eyes and repeated her question, her words oozing with an unfamiliar malice through her hoarse throat.
“Sir. The raiders. Which direction?”
“They are not… raiders. Fiends! Monsters made flesh! Lord Andru… he must be informed.”
He stared into her emotionless eyes, his own pained and pleading, before he closed them and lowered his head.
“Your quarry lie… north. Miss… please…”
Lyria hesitated for no more than a second as she looked down at the charred man prostrated before her, and her anger lessened as she bowed her head in prayer. The man was undoubtedly in the same position her father had been: a captain, a lone protector of an otherwise defenceless settlement, and had deserved better. Lord Andru be damned! Safe behind his city walls, these villages were worthless to him. Her voice rang into the air as she closed her eyes and spoke a brief prayer to both the man and Gods above, words that would normally be wielded by their priests, “By the Three’s gift of light and life, may your Chosen watch over you amongst the Aethya’s eternal skies.” and swung her father’s blade against the man’s neck, unflinching as the steel cut through the bone.
His croaks and gurgles were at an end and she turned from his crumpled remains, her purpose renewed as she strode north. Blocking his raspy voice from her mind, her anger festered hotter than the sweltering sun as she forced her mother’s face to replace the sickening crunch of the burnt man’s ended torment.
The stench of death strengthened as she journeyed though she was now accustomed to the odour as she inhaled it with every breath, each repulsive intake a reminder of all she had lost, her world an unintelligible blur until rough voices drifted through the air. Her heart leapt as she recognised a peculiar chortle and without missing a beat she turned into the forest, her motions calm as her insides raged. Her anger had taken her further than she had thought possible. Her cliff-top home was surrounded by grasslands as far as the eye could reach and the only forests in the region were miles away… an entire day’s journey on horseback, and near the Lord’s city.
She shook away her faint amazement and glided from tree to tree, imperceptible amid the natural cover as she fixed her eyes upon the distant silhouettes and closed the gap between them. The day’s end was near and first moonrise would be upon them within the hour; second moonrise would be her hour of retribution.
A cool breeze swept across her sunburnt skin as night shrouded the land. The rainbow skies were tinged by the low light of the rising moon and enhanced the subtle beauty of the Gods’ creation; the leaves, blades of grass, the smooth and twisted trunk she concealed herself against all shone with an illuminating life, and the sweet, flowery scent of the summer evening was unwelcome as it interwove with the powerful odour of death.
Ignoring the ethereal wonders that surrounded her, she forced herself to remain focused on her hatred of the men who stood mere feet from her, unaware of her presence. Their raucous laughter reverberated about the clearing they had taken as their own, their voices both grating and smooth as they chatted to one another and made light of their deeds this day, cackling as they spoke of more on the morrow. Lyria fingered the hilt of her father’s blade. Her soul and his sword both sang for blood and she would soon deliver their desires.
Hours passed as the first moon rose into the sky and an anticipation stirred as the light of the second danced across the horizon, the iridescent heavens shrouded the orb with an ethereal tinge and as it rose above the skyline her boiling blood burst into life. Small fires had been lit about the camp and cast an eerie glow about the site. All was silent but for the muttering of the lone guard on watch, the men who lay about the campfires slept as the dead and only one crudely constructed tent had been erected. They would be the first to taste her father’s steel.
Lyria edged along the camp outskirts, the scattered shadows concealing her presence as her faithful feet took her towards the structure. Gruff snores grunted within, the coarse wheezes reminiscent of the burnt man’s dying breaths, and she closed her eyes as she faced the twin moons, her sunburnt flesh illuminated by their glow as she silently appealed to Xandur, the God of empathy and compassion, her Chosen. She smiled as her blood stirred with her magic - a birth-blessing that served as both gift and curse - and as her surroundings slowed in response she tore open the fabric and slashed mercilessly at the three slumbering men within.
They fell without awakening. The silence of their absent screams infuriated her and she leapt out from the blood-spattered tent and glided through the air, almost in dance as she paraded through the slowed motion of her world and felled every resting man before they could rise and apprehend her. She glided, twirled, slashed and sliced until she stood behind the final oblivious man; the lone guard who had been muttering to himself, unaware of that which had occurred around him. The matted waves of her hair swirled about her as she struck her final blow and indulged in a primitive satisfaction as his stunned grunt echoed through the moonlit night.
Her quest was complete. Tears rolled down her cheeks as her emotions broke free and she trembled as a sharp pain shot through her limbs, the flickering fires spun in a dizzying whirlwind of flame and a cloud of exhaustion overwhelmed her as her body failed, the collapse reverberating loud in the silence as she crumbled atop the coarse grass and stared into the sky. The world’s colours dimmed as an impossible fatigue took control and she struggled to form one last coherent thought before she allowed the void to take her, as the twin moons became one in the eternal skies the Aethya protected.
‘Mama, papa… ascend in peace…’
This is Chapter One of my first book - Vengeance - which is still being written. I would guess that it's at the 80% mark at the moment in terms of completion, it just needs to be ended. The final chapters are emotion-packed and make me cry just thinking about them, so I am finding them hard to write just yet. I promised myself I would finish this book by the end of the year, and I am still on track.
I am posting this Chapter here for two reasons. One of those reasons is because @thewritersblock is holding a contest at the moment - CONTEST: First Chapter Challenge! - And the other is because I will likely self-publish this book and I was going to post the Chapter One somewhere for people to read before buying it. :) Also, on the off-chance a publisher is actually interested in my work, I am led to believe that posting one chapter is not a deal-breaker.
It is possible that this chapter may seem familiar if you are a fiction-interested conspiracy theorist. I have posted it previously in VERY rough draft form on a forum I used to frequent. I have the same username there as I do here and this work is in no way plagiarised. I have every change I have ever made to this story, in various .doc .rtf and scrivener documents, on two computers and a usb stick. If you were interested in seeing how much I have progressed over the years, you can find the original first draft - Her Vengeance - on AboveTopSecret.
This story means a lot to me. It was borne from the mind of a neglected and lonely child who immersed herself in books to escape reality, and began as a fan-fiction honouring Louise Cooper's stories. I wrote a post about that, also.
Anyway! I am rambling. Thank you so much for reading; if you enjoyed it, it means the world to me.
