Sure, once...but that was a long time ago
I shall be the first to test these frigid waters of July with a story that I posted in June, but quickly revoked. It needed some finishing touches. Now, here is the first section of a little number that I've affectionately named "The Lord of the Glistening Plains." (The name may need some work.)
The White Sun, the first and brightest of the four daytime suns of Zephyrian 6, beat down on the planet’s largest and richest city, Myriad. The dark red banners of the city’s leaders and the surrounding country’s warlords shone brightly, framed and divided by stripes of white and the natural metallic-iron color of the material itself. There were no cloth banners on Zephyrian 6, for the planet’s winds would devour any fabric faster than a soldier does liquor.
The massing war-banners roused some concern within the lower townsfolk of Myriad, partly because to them, it was another perfect day. The wind was a mild 134 miles per hour (inside the city’s walls, the wind speeds shrank considerably, almost to thirty miles per hour), and the White Sun was completely unhindered by clouds. They had no idea of the hovering spacecraft orbiting the planet, or of the alien war-band approaching fast from the air.
Even when the palace guard herded the townsfolk behind the citadel gates, shouting metallic words through bullhorns, they did not suspect the danger that approached on the wind. Several small warrior clans had attempted to siege the city in the past, and all had been successfully repelled. Some villagers had even refused to be taken behind the fortified palace walls, not sensing any threat.
Those villagers died first, though some would argue that they had the quicker, more humane deaths. Compared to those who burned to death, or who were crushed by falling stones from the roof, many welcomed complete and devastating obliteration.
For those not destroyed in the alien onslaught sought answers as to how their peaceful, fortified city had been turned to a pile of bleeding, burning rubble, and how the country’s first line of defense had been completely wiped out.
King Bellinghall and his advisors had no answers for the homeless, orphaned masses. The attack had come from the air, they said, and they were totally unprepared. Alone in council, they sat with stern brows and pained grimaces. Finally, the old man at the head of the room cleared his throat, and there was silence in the chamber.
“How do we prepare ourselves for when this sort of thing happens again?” He rasped his question with the voice of a man either very old, or laden with worry. In Bellinghall’s case, both were true.
A man with Bellinghall’s age and burdens rose from his position at the head of the councilors. “Lord, the way I see things, we have two options. One: We can tunnel ourselves underground, under the great mountains of the High Plains.” At once, a great murmur arose out of the assembly, shushed quickly by Bellinghall’s outstretched hands.
“I will not flee the place of my birth, my father’s birth, and the birthplace of every king to reign over this country for a thousand years.” The king squinted his eyes at the councilor, “And I will not live in a hole, like animals. Dafydd, what is your second suggestion?”
“Well, milord, we could always fight them.”
Another man rose from the head of the room, not a councilor this time. “We have already tried that, Councilor Dafydd. They are quite impervious to our attacks.”
The old war leader bowed his head to the speaking royalty, then addressed him: “Your highness, Prince Reezer, the aliens repelled our ground attacks, yes. But if we match their forces in the air, then there is a chance for victory.”
A small chuckle rose from the depths of the congregation, but the glint in Bellinghall’s eye allowed Dafydd to ignore their mocking.
“Councilor Dafydd,” Reezer resumed, “we have no air ships, as you well know. The planet’s climate does not allow for them. Why, the last crackpot to design an air ship was torn to pieces when the wind destroyed the hull and sand blasted away half of the engine, bringing it flaming to the ground.”
Dafydd and King Bellinghall exchanged small, knowing grins, then Dafydd spoke to the crowd. “When I was a young man, fresh from the Academy, there was a man so bold, so fearless, that he flew upon the wings of the air; he let the air propel him. He was a scourge in battle, soaring overhead with leather wings the size of a full-grown man lashed to his back. He would swipe the heads of his enemies with a sword six feet long. And when his silhouette flew against the early rays of the White Sun, he appeared as a bird of old.”
The gathered men shot sardonic smiles at one another, and the young prince was about to rebuff the foolish old man before the king himself chimed in.
“The Hawk Lord. No battle was ever lost to the forces who possessed his skills.”
“Father,” Prince Reezer impatiently addressed the king for the first time, “that story is just a myth. Even if the Hawk Lord did live at one time, he would be dead now, or at the least he would be an old man, and otherwise of no use to us.”
“Do not forget, boy, that you are still a subject in my court, and my rule is absolute.”
The White Sun, the first and brightest of the four daytime suns of Zephyrian 6, beat down on the planet’s largest and richest city, Myriad. The dark red banners of the city’s leaders and the surrounding country’s warlords shone brightly, framed and divided by stripes of white and the natural metallic-iron color of the material itself. There were no cloth banners on Zephyrian 6, for the planet’s winds would devour any fabric faster than a soldier does liquor.
The massing war-banners roused some concern within the lower townsfolk of Myriad, partly because to them, it was another perfect day. The wind was a mild 134 miles per hour (inside the city’s walls, the wind speeds shrank considerably, almost to thirty miles per hour), and the White Sun was completely unhindered by clouds. They had no idea of the hovering spacecraft orbiting the planet, or of the alien war-band approaching fast from the air.
Even when the palace guard herded the townsfolk behind the citadel gates, shouting metallic words through bullhorns, they did not suspect the danger that approached on the wind. Several small warrior clans had attempted to siege the city in the past, and all had been successfully repelled. Some villagers had even refused to be taken behind the fortified palace walls, not sensing any threat.
Those villagers died first, though some would argue that they had the quicker, more humane deaths. Compared to those who burned to death, or who were crushed by falling stones from the roof, many welcomed complete and devastating obliteration.
For those not destroyed in the alien onslaught sought answers as to how their peaceful, fortified city had been turned to a pile of bleeding, burning rubble, and how the country’s first line of defense had been completely wiped out.
King Bellinghall and his advisors had no answers for the homeless, orphaned masses. The attack had come from the air, they said, and they were totally unprepared. Alone in council, they sat with stern brows and pained grimaces. Finally, the old man at the head of the room cleared his throat, and there was silence in the chamber.
“How do we prepare ourselves for when this sort of thing happens again?” He rasped his question with the voice of a man either very old, or laden with worry. In Bellinghall’s case, both were true.
A man with Bellinghall’s age and burdens rose from his position at the head of the councilors. “Lord, the way I see things, we have two options. One: We can tunnel ourselves underground, under the great mountains of the High Plains.” At once, a great murmur arose out of the assembly, shushed quickly by Bellinghall’s outstretched hands.
“I will not flee the place of my birth, my father’s birth, and the birthplace of every king to reign over this country for a thousand years.” The king squinted his eyes at the councilor, “And I will not live in a hole, like animals. Dafydd, what is your second suggestion?”
“Well, milord, we could always fight them.”
Another man rose from the head of the room, not a councilor this time. “We have already tried that, Councilor Dafydd. They are quite impervious to our attacks.”
The old war leader bowed his head to the speaking royalty, then addressed him: “Your highness, Prince Reezer, the aliens repelled our ground attacks, yes. But if we match their forces in the air, then there is a chance for victory.”
A small chuckle rose from the depths of the congregation, but the glint in Bellinghall’s eye allowed Dafydd to ignore their mocking.
“Councilor Dafydd,” Reezer resumed, “we have no air ships, as you well know. The planet’s climate does not allow for them. Why, the last crackpot to design an air ship was torn to pieces when the wind destroyed the hull and sand blasted away half of the engine, bringing it flaming to the ground.”
Dafydd and King Bellinghall exchanged small, knowing grins, then Dafydd spoke to the crowd. “When I was a young man, fresh from the Academy, there was a man so bold, so fearless, that he flew upon the wings of the air; he let the air propel him. He was a scourge in battle, soaring overhead with leather wings the size of a full-grown man lashed to his back. He would swipe the heads of his enemies with a sword six feet long. And when his silhouette flew against the early rays of the White Sun, he appeared as a bird of old.”
The gathered men shot sardonic smiles at one another, and the young prince was about to rebuff the foolish old man before the king himself chimed in.
“The Hawk Lord. No battle was ever lost to the forces who possessed his skills.”
“Father,” Prince Reezer impatiently addressed the king for the first time, “that story is just a myth. Even if the Hawk Lord did live at one time, he would be dead now, or at the least he would be an old man, and otherwise of no use to us.”
“Do not forget, boy, that you are still a subject in my court, and my rule is absolute.”
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