The slow steady beat came back to him as he recalled playing as a youth, struggling as he always did, not to race away with the music. Similarly, the steady crunching underfoot of deadfall branches, marked the movement of the demon lord. A demon that he was sure was marching ever closer to his hiding place suddenly stopped.
In its absence the silence stretched so loud, he could hear his heart racing away, beating rapidly at the prospect of being found. Even hiding deep down as he was, even though it was as dark as the bottom of a well-used tinkers un-cleaned frying pan. Fearing the unknown he suddenly wondered if the pursuing demon lord’s hearing, or olfactory ability was such that he would easily be found.
Would I be sniffed out, he thought, or would the rushing of my blood through the intricacies of my body be heard? He knew that nobody knew, as any person who came across a demon lord on their own never lived to tell. Never alive to say what gave them away, was it sight, sound or smell he didn’t know.
Gradually moving ever so carefully and pulling his cloak closer, wrapping himself tight like a caterpillar. A caterpillar spinning a cocoon protecting itself from predator. Like me, protected down here, he thought, as he gingerly hunkered into the spear thorn thicket.
Praying to the Power that the decaying smell of its blossoms would cover his own fear tinged sweat. He prayed that the droplets of water from the heavy mist, sliding as they were off the finger long thorns. Dropping onto the stony ground would mask the sound of his own heart beat from the demon.
That the water would cover the smell of his own fear. Ricard felt a chill as an oppressive cloud of darkness rolled from the demon, obscuring even the starlight which normally reached the ground, even as far beneath the spear thorns, its light was now non-existent.
All the while the smell of its breath both smoky and acrid, was over powering Ricards own senses, causing the taste of bile to rush into his mouth. If only I could find my weapons, he thought, I would have a chance, no matter how slim, but I know not where they have gone. Puzzled as he never let them out of his sight he couldn’t remember where he last used them but he couldn’t worry about that now.
Everything was silent as he held his breath, he could hear his heart loudly in his ears yet even straining he could not hear the demon. Perhaps it had gone, given up he hoped and prayed, or it had gone back to the hells it had come from.
He wondered about relaxing ever so slightly until the sound of thorns scratching against armour broke the silence. He was sure it was the demon pushing into the thicket causing his heart to beat faster, felt his muscles tense and twitch ready to react.
A wave of panic rushed through his blood as he began struggling to free himself of his cloak so he could slip deeper into the gloom then as sudden as it started the sound of the screeching thorns stopped. Unable to see he sensed a pressure over his head his mind pictured the clawed hand about to snatch him from his hiding place.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
When a snapping crash which his highly strung mind realised was falling books in somebody’s room woke Ricard with a start.
Groaning he gingerly tried raising himself from his pallet where almost three bells previously he’d crashed out after a night spent celebrating his passing out of his course. Struggling to free himself, for his blanket was wrapped tightly around his body, while his pillow partially covered his head, the smell of strong drink, tobac smoke and something remarkably like sick assaulted his nose.
Cracking one eye he blinked a couple of times before he noticed his garments strewn in a haphazard line from the door, around a small centre table toward the garderobe, to his pallet. It felt as though every muscle was on fire as every movement caused them to burn as though he'd been exercising, he was certain that his bones were now split bamboo canes such was the pain he was feeling.
That twisting splintering sound bamboo makes as it fails under a load reverberated in his ears as he struggled free of the blanket and considered making his way to the edge of his pallet.
Relieved it was only a nightmare, yet knew that while asleep a demon lord's magic had ripped out and replaced his stomach with a bubbling cauldron, leaving his old stomach on the floor at the side of his pallet.
The cauldron was bubbling merrily causing the poor fitting lid to rattle, the contents lipping at the edges ready to escape. Suddenly the contents rose coating the back of his mouth again before he mentally removed the lid forcing the cauldron contents to settle; yet the taste lingered in the back of his mouth.
With the feelings of bubbling sickness and split bamboo sounds in his ears he also had the mare of all headaches, threatening to put him back into his pallet as each beat of his heart pounded like a hammer hitting a nail into the back of his eyes, flashing light spread from the point of the nails each time his heartbeat.
A harsh light was creeping around the shutters casting the room in a weak sepia wash; thankfully they were closed earlier by the cleaning staff while he’d been out celebrating; any brightness would have made the headache far worse, even the sepia wash was bright as he opened his other eye.
Finally untangling himself and tossing the blanket and sheet aside he shuffled down the pallet so he didn’t stand in the sick. Groaning as he struggled to stand, then through the slits of his eyes he stumbled into motion aiming for the garderobe.
Feeling as though something was wrong as he took a few tentative steps he looked down at his feet, he realised even though he slept in the nude he still had on one of his boots, with his small clothes hanging limp caught on the pulling lug at the top. Grimacing he struggled across the room with an uneven walk toward the garderobe, eventually leaning against its closed door; where taking care in moving his head he managed to remove the offending boot and small clothes, where his sock was he didn’t know.
Reaching up he took his woollen robe off the rusted coat hook catching the back of his little finger for the hook was fastened by three screws and a nail to the front of the garderobe door and in wasn't the first time he'd caught his hand; tentatively wrapping it around himself he sucked on his little finger. Here he was at seventeen, in record time, being the top of his cohort he had completed his training as a War Magji, graduating from Kepzohely, the academy for all Magji.
Larger than most men topping out at nineteen hands, his formidable frame was broad shouldered and covered with sculpted muscle, shaped over the annis of training yet he moved with the grace of a lithe dancer. His prowess with all types of weapons along with the use of tactics was the talk of the fighter’s school, while his skill with any sword was akin to dancing as he moved with a balance of grace and strength.