He used to love the moon. Once it lit the sky to a soft purple, made the ground run silver and gave the whole horizon a cold halo. That beautiful summer moon seen from the tops of strong stone turrets or out the doors of warm homesteads. Through the dead webs of winter branches, though, it was nothing but sinister; like a lantern under the sea's surface, remote, unreal; like a drowned boy's face.
It was not the only light around; the torches carried by his comrades broke through the night mist though it dulled them and stifled their warmth. Like these men, far from their old home, the fire's spirit was quenched. They trudged on through the dripping woods.
He wondered why the other men stayed. They had followed their ancestral lord, Dreyfast of Rhus, since the last tower of Hilgoth fell four years ago. Though at first many had loudly hoped that they might return to claim again their homelands, none now gave such thoughts credence. Dreyfast himself, once a fine and fierce liege, was now a hunched figure, stooped and silent in the saddle. Certainly there was no spark left in his soul.
Indeed, were it not for Dreyfast's sons, doubtless the company would have vanished long ago - either utterly defeated in some meaningless battle or eroded to a kernal as men slipped away to cling to a few more years of vain hope in the rotting towns and villages they passed through.
But persevere they did in the presence of the young heirs of Rhus - Gamnon, Hiliath and Tane. Truth be told, they had even begun to recruit a few men-at-arms from the dank, desparate settlements in these isolated lands. Mercenaries found much work in evil times and plenty of lads still had power in their arms and that grim desire not to die cowering before the onrushing darkness which might - just - be called courage.
He smiled a little - though the world was surely ending, there was perhaps still time for the flames to blaze bright once more.
It was not the only light around; the torches carried by his comrades broke through the night mist though it dulled them and stifled their warmth. Like these men, far from their old home, the fire's spirit was quenched. They trudged on through the dripping woods.
He wondered why the other men stayed. They had followed their ancestral lord, Dreyfast of Rhus, since the last tower of Hilgoth fell four years ago. Though at first many had loudly hoped that they might return to claim again their homelands, none now gave such thoughts credence. Dreyfast himself, once a fine and fierce liege, was now a hunched figure, stooped and silent in the saddle. Certainly there was no spark left in his soul.
Indeed, were it not for Dreyfast's sons, doubtless the company would have vanished long ago - either utterly defeated in some meaningless battle or eroded to a kernal as men slipped away to cling to a few more years of vain hope in the rotting towns and villages they passed through.
But persevere they did in the presence of the young heirs of Rhus - Gamnon, Hiliath and Tane. Truth be told, they had even begun to recruit a few men-at-arms from the dank, desparate settlements in these isolated lands. Mercenaries found much work in evil times and plenty of lads still had power in their arms and that grim desire not to die cowering before the onrushing darkness which might - just - be called courage.
He smiled a little - though the world was surely ending, there was perhaps still time for the flames to blaze bright once more.
Really nice story. Really evocative, sombre, beautiful.
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