Shouts and yells. Heaving to the ground, arrows slamming into the deck. The smell of blood and sea salt unified.
10 years ago, still vivid in my mind.
Royle clasped the brew, white knuckled.
Vision stained red. Nose blessed with the ceaseless presence of sea water; eyes and ears cursed with the persistent fire of arrows. Wood and iron sunk deep into flesh. The enemy ship, bearing down upon them, a noble yet daunting beast. It swept waves away as if they were but insignificant pests, fortunate enough to even behold the ship that was death incarnate.
Surging water thrashed about, held in captivity, as if you could keep a leash on nature.
At the front stood a regal outline, resplendent in robes of office.
High Lord Lliman Yurin.
Royle slumped awkwardly in his chair and smacked his head on the oak table with a resounding thump.
It's happening again isn't it?
No. Don't think like that. Don't think at all.
"Yurin set his eyes on Yoeroy and all of Mouthala, just after the Province of Riran surrendered," a woman was speaking. Royle heard it only faintly; a voice in the back of his mind.
"Everybody knew this day would come, Yurin has to kill High Lord Azmir Duran to start conquest over Mouthala otherwise the One of Ruling won't approve the shifts in power," said the woman, talking to one of the few men who had not fled Yoeroy upon the warning of a sizable group of armed men approaching. "Though he would never do it himself, the tyrannical bastard," she spat upon the floor in loathing.
They were standing in the corner of a subduely-lit room, dressed in unremarkable clothes. The inn was desolate, bare stone floor and vacant chairs clumped disorderly in a pile in the corner. A portrait of a thinning man sitting on a throne rested above a dim yet flickering fireplace, casting intricate shadows that cloaked the far corners of the chamber.
A sole window was barred, adjacent to a sturdy door that led to the depressing streets of Yoeroy. A small town in a pathetic and unimportant province. Yet it was where the High Lord resided and it was here he would challenge death.
YOU ARE READING
Robed One
FantasyThis is a short story of just 2300 words. Is the objective of life to survive until death? Is it something more? Conflicting emotions, despair and isolation have all driven Royle to question such things. In a time where others abandon their duty, wi...