Hi all,
I initially submitted just the start of this, but now have a fair amount and I'm looking for some feedback - especially from those amongst you who read and enjoy fantasy. What I basically want to know is whether this start intrigues you enough that you'd read on...
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Yirraeth stepped over the border, the invisible line separating his old life
from his new. There were no sudden thunderclaps, no godly displeasure,
merely the hushed sound of wind rippling across grassland. Nevertheless, he shuddered, feeling the innate magic of his homeland slipping from his body like a silken cloak. Its absence left him bereft; made this new land with its stone buildings and godless people feel like a prison. His resolve
wavered - he could not go through with this. Surely his family, his tribe,
would not demand this price from him. He made a motion as if to turn back, but his pride prevented him.
His shoulders slumped. His despair was complete, as he stared back across the featureless, austere plain that made up his homeland. Looking the other way, he could see the tundra change gradually to softer grassland, dotted with stunted trees. Yirraeth had seen trees before, when he had been one of the guardians of the yearly trading parties, but they still left him bemused and in awe - even these tiny specimens. Those traders who had ventured further into the Empire of the Mors told fabulous stories to their kinsmen about trees that five Daomen reaching hand-to-hand would be hardpressed to encircle.
In the far distance, Yirraeth's sharp eyes made out a collection of dilapidated buildings and knew it to be the northernmost outpost of the Empire. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he realised that the outpost was manned - he would have to be careful in order to pass without attracting undue attention. Despite his final destination, Yirraeth had no wish to meet humans as yet.
The Daoman took one more step. Now he was truly within the Empire. He tried reaching for his magic and came up with nothing. The land was dead. It was the first time in three years that he had been without the spark that gave him Magi abilities. He could recall vividly the horror he had felt on the day his latent talents were discovered, but the magic had become familiar. It now defined part of who he was. To have that part stripped so cruelly from him left him desolate.
Yirraeth's keen ears suddenly caught the sound of pounding hooves and a faint neigh. He turned his face to the north, from whence the sound came, and another wave of longing to return to his tribe washed over him. He stumbled northwards two steps and fell to his knees as the magic crackled up through his body from the land. The sensation was both like lightning shocking him into life, and cool water rinsing his skin of the human taint. The hooves swept into view and Yirraeth gazed weakly up at his lifemount, Jihan. The huge black stallion came to a flamboyant stop, his huge hooves planted firmly, mane and tail wreathing around his massive body like smoke. He snorted questioningly at his Daoman partner and Yirraeth rose reluctantly to his feet, looping one arm around Jihan's crested neck. The black horse gave him strength - he could feel the throb of the stallion's lifeblood beating in harmony with the pulsing magic of the land. Together they stepped across the border, Jihan's head close to Yirraeth's own as though in support of the suddenly frail Daoman. Once again the magic was leached from Yirraeth, but this time it was bearable because of the vibrant presence of his dark lifemount.
Once safely across the border, Yirraeth stopped and gratefully patted Jihan. The big horse was supposed to have remained distant from the border crossing, since his bulk on the horizon would be clearly visible to the human guards at the outpost, but the tall Daoman was now relieved that his often disobedient mount had ignored these instructions.
Yirraeth now made his last preparations for his approach to proper human civilisation. He sadly stripped his tangled blonde hair of the red ribbons that adorned it - they were marks of both tribe and rank, neither of which would be required of him while dwelling amongst humans. These went into the horseskin bag that was fastened to the front of Jihan's saddle. The rangy Daoman then removed from this bag the tools of his warrior status - a dagger that he slipped into the sheath within his left boot, and two short swords which he hung at either side of his slender waist. He hesitated before handling these weapons. The Magi training he had received forbid those who carried the magic of the land from bearing arms of any sort, and Yirraeth was loath to break this first rule. He was Magi no longer, however, and needed all the protection he could gain while in hostile lands.
Having readied himself, Yirraeth stepped lithely into the saddle, his sudden weight sending Jihan skittering sideways. The Daoman knew his stallion was merely playing up and so admonished him softly. Quieter now, the dark horse stepped out when urged and they headed for the outpost. With Jihan's abrupt arrival on the horizon, the guards had been alerted to their presence and now stood ready to receive them - there was no hope of passing without drawing attention to themselves.
Jihan's floating trot brought them swiftly within hailing distance of the humans. Yirraeth was reluctant to turn his mount's head towards the collection of rundown buildings, especially when he heard their harsh-sounding voices grating in his ears and beckoning him to stop. Jihan caught his mood and took the bit in his teeth, bounding into a sudden canter that scattered the guards and brought scowls to their faces. A matching grimace crossed Yirri's face, and he slapped his Cavallo's neck harshly - much as he enjoyed the discomfiture of the despised humans, he could not afford for them to hinder his progress. The big black stallion had been disciplined only rarely by his adoring partner and came to an abrupt stop, practically sitting back on his haunches in surprise.
The tall Daoman steadied his mount and then dismounted gracefully. As the guards advanced to enclose him in a wary circle Yirri whispered a command to Jihan, telling him to stay distant but remain attentive to any whistled instructions. Jihan's large jet ears flicked forwards somewhat comically as he digested this command, then he whirled nimbly before the guards could surround him. Despite his large hooves and princely stature, the big horse was spry as a deer and could turn on a sixpence. Yirri had no fear for his Cavallo being captured by the human guards, even were they mounted. The horses bred by the Daomen tribes were more powerful and swift than the smaller human-bred horses - this was why the guards had such avaricious casts to their faces as they looked upon the massive black stallion.
Now Yirri looked imperiously upon the leader of these humans, who seemed extremely disgruntled that he was forced to crane his neck a little to meet this hated Daoman's eyes. Dislike fairly crackled from the two men, and Yirri suddenly had the faintly absurd image of two tundra cats bristling at each other before a maul. A slight smile curled his thin lips and stirred the guard's antagonism, since he believed it was a sneer.
"What are you doing in our lands?" asked the human eventually.
Yirraeth took an age to reply, his clever, slightly-slanted blue eyes darkening as he took in his first encounter with the humans that had indirectly caused his exile. All the guards were shorter and more stocky than the rangy Daoman. He was conscious that his limbs had an innate, supple grace as he moved that was lacking in humans - they seemed inert; rooted to the earth. Yirri, in contrast, was all fire and passion, his tangled hair snapping like a pennant in the light wind that was blowing from the north and bringing him the icy, dusty scent of his homeland.
"I travel to your city of Mordecain." Yirraeth shaped the unfamiliar word awkwardly, lending it an exotic quality. "I seek employment."
The human leader threw back his head, with his untidy coarse hair and rank beard, and guffawed loudly. The rest of his troop joined in dutifully. The sound aggravated Yirraeth's sensitive ears, and a slow anger burned in his stomach. Their laughter mocked him, and echoed the laughter of his fiercest enemies within the Zohar tribe when they heard the verdict of exile from the tribal elders and Magi. His hands closed menacingly with the hilts of his two short swords.
"You touch those weapons, freak, and your head will roll," said the human darkly, whipping his fierce-looking sabre from its scabbard.
Yirraeth almost choked on the rage that surged into the back of his throat, both because of the insult and because this demonstration of skill from a lowly outpost leader showed that he had allowed his prejudice to underestimate the man. He raised both hands into clear view, attempting to quell the hot anger that urged him to seek the death of this man with a lazy, curling smile.
It was the leader's turn to quiver with barely suppressed anger. At a nod from him, the rest of the guards stepped back and started to go about their usual chores, casting dirty looks at the foreigner as they did so. The guard grasped Yirraeth's arm, not realising that the suddenly-still look on the Daoman's face showed that death was imminent if he continued in his present course.
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continued in next post............
I initially submitted just the start of this, but now have a fair amount and I'm looking for some feedback - especially from those amongst you who read and enjoy fantasy. What I basically want to know is whether this start intrigues you enough that you'd read on...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yirraeth stepped over the border, the invisible line separating his old life
from his new. There were no sudden thunderclaps, no godly displeasure,
merely the hushed sound of wind rippling across grassland. Nevertheless, he shuddered, feeling the innate magic of his homeland slipping from his body like a silken cloak. Its absence left him bereft; made this new land with its stone buildings and godless people feel like a prison. His resolve
wavered - he could not go through with this. Surely his family, his tribe,
would not demand this price from him. He made a motion as if to turn back, but his pride prevented him.
His shoulders slumped. His despair was complete, as he stared back across the featureless, austere plain that made up his homeland. Looking the other way, he could see the tundra change gradually to softer grassland, dotted with stunted trees. Yirraeth had seen trees before, when he had been one of the guardians of the yearly trading parties, but they still left him bemused and in awe - even these tiny specimens. Those traders who had ventured further into the Empire of the Mors told fabulous stories to their kinsmen about trees that five Daomen reaching hand-to-hand would be hardpressed to encircle.
In the far distance, Yirraeth's sharp eyes made out a collection of dilapidated buildings and knew it to be the northernmost outpost of the Empire. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he realised that the outpost was manned - he would have to be careful in order to pass without attracting undue attention. Despite his final destination, Yirraeth had no wish to meet humans as yet.
The Daoman took one more step. Now he was truly within the Empire. He tried reaching for his magic and came up with nothing. The land was dead. It was the first time in three years that he had been without the spark that gave him Magi abilities. He could recall vividly the horror he had felt on the day his latent talents were discovered, but the magic had become familiar. It now defined part of who he was. To have that part stripped so cruelly from him left him desolate.
Yirraeth's keen ears suddenly caught the sound of pounding hooves and a faint neigh. He turned his face to the north, from whence the sound came, and another wave of longing to return to his tribe washed over him. He stumbled northwards two steps and fell to his knees as the magic crackled up through his body from the land. The sensation was both like lightning shocking him into life, and cool water rinsing his skin of the human taint. The hooves swept into view and Yirraeth gazed weakly up at his lifemount, Jihan. The huge black stallion came to a flamboyant stop, his huge hooves planted firmly, mane and tail wreathing around his massive body like smoke. He snorted questioningly at his Daoman partner and Yirraeth rose reluctantly to his feet, looping one arm around Jihan's crested neck. The black horse gave him strength - he could feel the throb of the stallion's lifeblood beating in harmony with the pulsing magic of the land. Together they stepped across the border, Jihan's head close to Yirraeth's own as though in support of the suddenly frail Daoman. Once again the magic was leached from Yirraeth, but this time it was bearable because of the vibrant presence of his dark lifemount.
Once safely across the border, Yirraeth stopped and gratefully patted Jihan. The big horse was supposed to have remained distant from the border crossing, since his bulk on the horizon would be clearly visible to the human guards at the outpost, but the tall Daoman was now relieved that his often disobedient mount had ignored these instructions.
Yirraeth now made his last preparations for his approach to proper human civilisation. He sadly stripped his tangled blonde hair of the red ribbons that adorned it - they were marks of both tribe and rank, neither of which would be required of him while dwelling amongst humans. These went into the horseskin bag that was fastened to the front of Jihan's saddle. The rangy Daoman then removed from this bag the tools of his warrior status - a dagger that he slipped into the sheath within his left boot, and two short swords which he hung at either side of his slender waist. He hesitated before handling these weapons. The Magi training he had received forbid those who carried the magic of the land from bearing arms of any sort, and Yirraeth was loath to break this first rule. He was Magi no longer, however, and needed all the protection he could gain while in hostile lands.
Having readied himself, Yirraeth stepped lithely into the saddle, his sudden weight sending Jihan skittering sideways. The Daoman knew his stallion was merely playing up and so admonished him softly. Quieter now, the dark horse stepped out when urged and they headed for the outpost. With Jihan's abrupt arrival on the horizon, the guards had been alerted to their presence and now stood ready to receive them - there was no hope of passing without drawing attention to themselves.
Jihan's floating trot brought them swiftly within hailing distance of the humans. Yirraeth was reluctant to turn his mount's head towards the collection of rundown buildings, especially when he heard their harsh-sounding voices grating in his ears and beckoning him to stop. Jihan caught his mood and took the bit in his teeth, bounding into a sudden canter that scattered the guards and brought scowls to their faces. A matching grimace crossed Yirri's face, and he slapped his Cavallo's neck harshly - much as he enjoyed the discomfiture of the despised humans, he could not afford for them to hinder his progress. The big black stallion had been disciplined only rarely by his adoring partner and came to an abrupt stop, practically sitting back on his haunches in surprise.
The tall Daoman steadied his mount and then dismounted gracefully. As the guards advanced to enclose him in a wary circle Yirri whispered a command to Jihan, telling him to stay distant but remain attentive to any whistled instructions. Jihan's large jet ears flicked forwards somewhat comically as he digested this command, then he whirled nimbly before the guards could surround him. Despite his large hooves and princely stature, the big horse was spry as a deer and could turn on a sixpence. Yirri had no fear for his Cavallo being captured by the human guards, even were they mounted. The horses bred by the Daomen tribes were more powerful and swift than the smaller human-bred horses - this was why the guards had such avaricious casts to their faces as they looked upon the massive black stallion.
Now Yirri looked imperiously upon the leader of these humans, who seemed extremely disgruntled that he was forced to crane his neck a little to meet this hated Daoman's eyes. Dislike fairly crackled from the two men, and Yirri suddenly had the faintly absurd image of two tundra cats bristling at each other before a maul. A slight smile curled his thin lips and stirred the guard's antagonism, since he believed it was a sneer.
"What are you doing in our lands?" asked the human eventually.
Yirraeth took an age to reply, his clever, slightly-slanted blue eyes darkening as he took in his first encounter with the humans that had indirectly caused his exile. All the guards were shorter and more stocky than the rangy Daoman. He was conscious that his limbs had an innate, supple grace as he moved that was lacking in humans - they seemed inert; rooted to the earth. Yirri, in contrast, was all fire and passion, his tangled hair snapping like a pennant in the light wind that was blowing from the north and bringing him the icy, dusty scent of his homeland.
"I travel to your city of Mordecain." Yirraeth shaped the unfamiliar word awkwardly, lending it an exotic quality. "I seek employment."
The human leader threw back his head, with his untidy coarse hair and rank beard, and guffawed loudly. The rest of his troop joined in dutifully. The sound aggravated Yirraeth's sensitive ears, and a slow anger burned in his stomach. Their laughter mocked him, and echoed the laughter of his fiercest enemies within the Zohar tribe when they heard the verdict of exile from the tribal elders and Magi. His hands closed menacingly with the hilts of his two short swords.
"You touch those weapons, freak, and your head will roll," said the human darkly, whipping his fierce-looking sabre from its scabbard.
Yirraeth almost choked on the rage that surged into the back of his throat, both because of the insult and because this demonstration of skill from a lowly outpost leader showed that he had allowed his prejudice to underestimate the man. He raised both hands into clear view, attempting to quell the hot anger that urged him to seek the death of this man with a lazy, curling smile.
It was the leader's turn to quiver with barely suppressed anger. At a nod from him, the rest of the guards stepped back and started to go about their usual chores, casting dirty looks at the foreigner as they did so. The guard grasped Yirraeth's arm, not realising that the suddenly-still look on the Daoman's face showed that death was imminent if he continued in his present course.
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continued in next post............
