The War of Sundering

[Khyrindor he/him]

Hey guys, this is a thing that I wrote in the last couple of days. I designed it to be a short story as well as a prologue or prelude to an epic novel. Criticism is welcome but please be nice.

 

 

 

 

ALVONDIR TALDRIN WAS WOKEN AT A MOST UNTIMELY HOUR, by the servant whom he hated the most.

            “General Taldrin, Sir,” Skanev said urgently, shaking him awake by his arm. “You need to wake up, Sir, the rebels are approaching, and we need orders!”

            What was the fool servant talking about? Alvondir was no general. “What are you waking me for?” he tried to yell, but it came out as a groggy croak. “Get my father, damnation you! I’m not in charge here!” He rubbed his eyes and sat up.

            Skanev took his hand off Alvondir’s arm. He looked regretful. “Sir…” he started to say. “Your father’s dead. Assassinated in his sleep by a Sunderer.”

            Alvondir felt a stab of horror. No. That couldn’t be true. This was a nightmare, he would wake up soon.

            He didn’t.

            “What of Selnavidor?” he asked Skanev. “He’s the successor.” He already knew the answer.

            Skanev looked down. “Your brother’s dead too, Sir. You’re the General now.”

            Alvondir cursed and closed his eyes. “How many?” he asked. “How many are attacking?”

            “We don’t know, Sir, there won’t be a lightday any time soon. There could easily be six thousand.”

            “Engage them. I want their blood!” The Taldrin army had at least twice as many troops as the rebels. What more could they possibly do?

            “Sir! We’re more defensible in the camp. They have a river to cross, and visibility would be limited if we go to their side, but here we can see them.”

            “Fine. Defend the camp, then,” Alvondir sighed, standing up and running his hand through his hair. He had no business leading armies; he could barely command a platoon as a captain! Everyone knew it.

            “Sir, there’s something else. We captured the Sunderer, what would you have us do?”

            “Hold an execution. I will kill him myself.” Both his father and brother had been Fusewardens, with limitless power and endless life. That man had their power, now, even though some had been lost in the transfer. He would reclaim what he could. “Now get out of here, Sunder you!”

            Skanev nodded and ducked out of the blue and black tent, leaving Alvondir alone with his anger and self pity. He realized that he probably shouldn’t think so badly of Skanev, it probably took guts for the man to talk to him. Especially with the news he had delivered. Alvondir didn’t exactly have the best reputation in world.

            He got dressed by himself, even though he could probably have his new servants to help him with that. He looked in the mirror. He was shaking visibly.

 

*          *          *

SOME HOURS LATER- he didn’t care how many- Alvondir stood before the same mirror, this time surrounded by servants who had just finished dressing him in his ceremonial garb. It was nearly time.

            “Anything else, Sir?” one of the servants asked. Alvondir didn’t know the man’s name.

            “Give me my Lightblade,” he tried… and failed… to keep his voice steady; the horrific reality of what had happened had finally begun to sink in. His Lightblade was an expensive weapon made to work like those that the Fusewardens and Glyphwardens wielded. One could replicate their powers with technology, but Alvondir couldn’t create it from thought. His glowed and was incredibly lightweight. Also, the edge never needed to be sharpened and it radiated heat.

            If Alvondir used his Lightblade in battle, the enemy hesitated to attack him, thinking that he was a Fusewarden. And soon he would be. Yes, focus on that, not Father and Selnavidor. Truth be told, he was sometimes envious of their powers. Or… used to be.

            The unnamed servant strapped Alvondir’s Lightblade to his back, where he liked it. How did the man know? “Thank you,” he mumbled.

            It was a rare thing to get a ‘thank you’ from Alvondir, and the servant smiled. “Is that all then, Sir?”

            He thought a moment, then nodded and dismissed the servants; he didn’t want them to see him cry. It probably wasn’t very leader-like of him to show emotions in front of his men. He shuddered as silently as possible- the tent walls were thin- and then wiped his tears off his face.

            Skanev entered without announcing his arrival, “Sir, it’s about to begin.”

            “I’ll be right out,” Alvondir replied, again failing to keep his voice from shaking. He idiot man probably thought him weak. Perhaps he was.

            A moment later Alvondir stepped out into the bright white of the lightbeams that lit up the camp’s roads. They were only on during darkdays, when the Skylands, floating continents thousands of metres in the air, blocked the sun from the view of the Lowlanders. Ironic, how the lands of his people stopped the world of his enemies from burning to ash. Well, half of it anyway. The half that wasn’t covered completely by ice; it was always dark there. He could see the mountains surrounding the large valley they were in.

            The men were considerate enough to set up the execution pavilion just outside his tent. There were few men in attendance; most were on the walls or across the river fighting the insurgents. The battle was close enough that Alvondir could hear battle cries and the screams of the dying. In the pavilion, six tables surrounded a floating platform made, he presumed, from selmium; it was a metallic light blue, and light enough to be brought to his tent from where it normally would have been. 

            The execution would take place on the platform.  On it were three men; the Sunderer on his knees and the two Fusewardens suppressing his powers. His arms glowed with a bright light. Alvondir walked towards him.

            As he reached it, the platform activated and shot a beam of light diagonally to the ground before him. He kept walking, using it as a bridge. He stopped before the man. The Fusewardens, also glowing, bowed to him. “Look at me,” Alvondir said angrily.

            The Sunderer looked at him defiantly and Alvondir kicked his chin, hoping to break the man’s teeth. He cried out and fell back, then put a glowing arm on the ground to stabilize himself, and get back up to his kneeling position. Up close, one could see a design to the light of Sunderers and Glyphwardens alike. His arms wouldn’t have been glowing if he wasn’t trying to break through the Fusebinder’s suppression. It would probably work if he wouldn’t have been dead in a few minutes; though he was outnumbered he more than matched them both in power, especially now that he possessed not only his own power, but a portion of his father’s and brother’s. Alvondir shivered. That power would be his as soon as he killed him.

            “I assume the two of you had no luck interrogating him?” Alvondir asked the two guards.

            “No, Sir.”

            A horrific thought occurred to him. “How many other men did this demon kill when you tried to capture him?” he spat the word ‘demon’.

            The guards glanced at each other, and then one said, “twenty-seven, Sir.”

            Alvondir closed his eyes. He hadn’t even thought of anyone but his family until that moment. He drew his Lightblade. At his touch the blade lit up and warmed his hand. Soon, with this man’s power, he’d be able to summon his own. He pointed it at the Sunderer’s throat, anger boiling up inside him, and he shed a single tear.

            In an execution ceremony the condemned were allowed one chance to convince the executioner to let him live. Alvondir was tempted not to give it to him.

            “So,” he said. “You, who just killed twenty-nine men- including my father and brother-, have one chance to redeem yourself. What say you?”

            The man grinned a bloody grin and then spat on Alvondir. Pity, these were nice clothes.

            Alvondir slammed his blade into the man’s neck, and into the selmium platform, screaming like a beast. The man died faster than he’d expected, not even trying to save his life with the power he possessed. His tattoos stopped glowing, and disappeared.

            Alvondir felt a searing pain, unlike he’d ever experienced, and his arms flashed with a dark light. He felt an evil power, enter his soul. He screamed again, this time because of the pain.

            The amount of power was far less than it should have been; this man had killed two full Glyphwardens and probably several Fusewardens as well. Not to mention his own cursed powers. The light should have outweighed the dark by far. But it didn’t. In fact, the light wasn’t even close.

            This man hadn’t killed his father or brother. He was a decoy, and he had just filled Alvondir with an evil power that would end up dominating him and an eighth of the king’s army that he controlled as well.

            And it felt wonderful. Alvondir’s newfound power pushed him to move. Fight. Kill. KILL EVERYONE!

            No.

            Yes!

            NO!

            Alvondir couldn’t focus. Warmth flooded through his body, pulsing through his veins. Let it out! NO! He had to control it! Force it down. Focus. Focus!

            Alvondir fled, not wanting to kill anyone else, as much as he wanted to. His guards called out to him, asking him why and where he was going. He knew where he was going without thinking about it: the battle. He had to kill something to sate the beast inside of him.

            He was running, he realized. Fast. Faster than anyone he’d ever seen. He wasn’t in control. It was. He could only barely hang on to himself. The gate. Go to the gate! He shouted at It in his head.

            No. The wall. He complied. It was closer.

            Alvondir was there before he thought he would be. He flew over it in a flash of power, the Glyphs on his arms shining darker. His leap cleared the river, and soldiers looked up at him with surprise. His soldiers cheered.

            They died anyway.

           

*          *          *

 

ALVONDIR SAT IN HIS ELEGANT TENT, crying his eyes out. He felt sick. It was like he’d forced down poison, and it was trying to come back up. He couldn’t let it. He tried not to think of the lives of the men he’d just destroyed. His once beautiful attire was now crimson with blood not his own.

            Think. Kill more.

            Alvondir had tricked It. In that moment flooded with power, It could control him. But when he’d fed the thing, he was able to force It out of his head. Mostly.

            I almost had you, you know. But you have a strong mind. The other one, Hetesik, I had him. Alvondir tried to ignore the ever-present voice in his head.

            I just have one question, Alvondir thought back. Why weren’t his Glyphs darklight? They were glowing as if he were a Glyphwarden.

            That was me, It replied. I had to make sure you took his power.

            Alvondir knew why. It thought he would be controlled, but he had forced it down.

            For now…

            Alvondir had something to do. He had to leave fast. He would travel Sunward, to the temple which housed the two essences, and he would scatter them. He had no idea what would change if he did so, but if this…this thing ended up controlling him, it would mean death for his army. He had a responsibility to them.

            Skanev entered suddenly. “Sir, they want to know what happened.”

            “No, Skanev. I will leave this place. You can choose someone to take my place until I return. I know how we can win this war.”

            “Sir…”

            “Skanev, I must do this. Make ready to storm the Citadel to the south of this valley. Contact some of the other armies and tell them to assist you. I will meet you there.” Alvondir stood up, facing him down.

            “Alright,” Skanev spat.

            Alvondir left the tent and walked to the stables to get a horse, not his own, because the trip would probably kill it. He rode out as fast as the horse could. Though it was still a darkday, he could see orange sunlight on the mountains in the distance, and just past that was where the Skylands ceased to protect the land. It was a desert.

            You shouldn’t go there. You should go kill more. Alvondir figured that whatever the voice said, it was best to just do the opposite. It was the enemy.

            As he rode, Alvondir argued with the voice. He knew it was futile; mostly he did it to pass the time. He reached the Mountains the next morning, but got rather annoyed that it was still dark. His homelands spun too slowly.

            He decide to camp for a few hours. He didn’t need to eat or sleep; It sustained him, though he suspected he should still sleep anyway. Mainly he stopped so that the horse could rest.

            Alvondir knew where to go because he had seen this world from above, but he had not seen the centre of the desert, just the edges. It was amazing to behold, even the edges. There was steam in the air from the oceans and rivers that he could see from the mountain. He was going to get boiled alive if he went in there!

            You will be fine. I help. USE ME!

            Was that an option? There was no one around to kill…would he turn around if It began to control him again?

            Is it possible to use just a part of you? Like turning a faucet? Alvondir asked.

            It hesitated. No.

            Alvondir knew he was lying, unless It was trying to trick him again. He looked to the south, to the glows of burning cities and camps, smoke in the air. He even saw armies themselves, large masses of light, obviously battling forces of dark that remained hidden by the dark. He realized then that it wasn’t the people who were rebelling against the Skylands; it was this darkness inside of him, controlling their leaders. He knew the thing inside him was enhancing his sight. It was one of the side benefits of holding it, much like healing and resisting pain. Ironic how Alvondir, of all people, the second son of a general, holder of the evil power of his enemies, would be the turning point in all of this. What was it that allowed him to hold back the power? Did he really hold it back?

            Uuuussssseeeee mmmmeeeeeeeee!!!

            The temptation was overwhelming. The air around him darkened slightly.          No. The air turned back to normal.

            What was that other voice? It wasn’t Alvondir or the thing. Then he remembered. The man, Hetesik or something had had some light power from Fusewardens he had killed. He reached for it.

            His tattoos turned to a bright light from the glowing black they had been.

            Ah, good. You’ve found me. It was a female voice. Do not let him tempt you. While you can use it like a faucet, he will begin to warp your mind. You cannot trust anything he says. He can only destroy.

            Thanks for the warning, Alvondir thought back as sarcastically as he could manage. Am I on the right course to scatter the power?

            The other thing inside him hesitated. Yes. It is for the best, I suppose. You must keep going. He must not be allowed to win this war. It is better that you stop both of us entirely.

            Alvondir had to wonder if it had even been his idea in the first place. And then the voice dissipated, as though it had never been there at all.

 

*          *          *

 

IT HAD BEEN TWO HOURS SINCE WHAT ALVONDIR TOOK FOR THE voice of light had left. It had seemed wise, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t feel It’s power. Had the other one killed It?

            He tried to put the thoughts out of his head as he climbed down the steep side of the mountain; he’d had to send the horse back to the camp. The orange sun shone through the light purple sky, intent on burning his skin. The power protected him in this, but he was still dreadfully thirsty. He was trying his best to ration the water for the return trip, but had greatly underestimated how much he would need.

             The voice in his head was growing stronger by the minute. Alvondir was beginning to doubt that he would hold on much longer, but every time he thought  of it, it just strengthened his resolve. He would reach the great temple there. He had to.

            Hey, Alvondir said to the voice. How about this? If you agree not to tempt me any more, I will use you when we arrive where I’m going to destroy the world!

            You’re lying. You want to destroy me.

            I want to destroy the other one! Not you! I’m on your side! This thing was smarter than it seemed.

            If you’re on my side, then why don’t you use the power?

            It...makes me sick! Alvondir said.

            No. You lie again.

*          *          *

 

ALVONDIR WAS ALMOST THERE. He could see it, in the distance. It wasn’t far, unless it was another mirage. Like the man he’d seen flying past him, or the orange woman crying blood while she danced. Or the snow that was falling around him.

            He downed his second last canteen. There would definitely not be enough for the return journey, so he had been getting increasingly generous to himself. He wondered again if he was close enough to destroy the temple. He decided for the tenth time to wait until he was at front gate to try anything.

            Alvondir stumbled forward, wading through the heat like it was water, determined to keep moving. His father and brother walked alongside him, encouraging him. He knew they were mirages, but didn’t try to keep them at bay.

            He was soon there. He hesitantly felt the wall to make sure it was real, and then hastily opened the door. The shade felt amazing.

            Use me. You said you’d use me.

            He tried to channel a safe amount through him, and make himself some water in a puddle nearby, ignoring the screams of MORE, MORE. Then he remembered; it could only destroy. It was fuelled by destruction. Death in particular.

            So he reached deeper within to pull out that light, shrouded in darkness. And he caught it. Everything was clear to him. The darkness screamed, but he couldn’t hear it. His pain and exhaustion evaporated in a second.

            The temple was bright inside, but from what he could not tell. There were no torches on the walls, no Lightbeams to show the way. He walked towards the source of the light. The voices became stronger.

            And then he saw it. A ball of both light and dark floating above the floor and spinning around each other. He reached out to touch the power.

            “Stop!”

            Alvondir spun, and suddenly there was a Lightblade and a Darkblade in his hands. There was a man there, with glowing arms. Much brighter than his father’s or brother’s ever were. This was the real assassin, he hadn’t been a mirage.

            “Don’t listen to the voice!” Alvondir shouted. “It will deceive you!”

            The man looked confused. “You don’t listen to it! I hear no voice.”

            Alvondir paused, looking at his arms. “But…”

            “The light has no voice, and I have more light than dark, so you should trust me.”

            He lies. Kill him. He killed your family!

            “Do not do what the voice says,” he said. “Never.”

            Alvondir didn’t know what was true. For all he knew, he could still be on that mountain, and this was a mirage. Or he had been dreaming since he woke up. “You killed my family.”

            The man closed his eyes. “Look, their deaths were necessary. I don’t have time to go into it, but you need to trust me.”

            “No. You want my trust? Convince me.”

            The man’s arms stopped glowing. “Fine.” He thought for a moment. “Okay. When I was controlled by the dark voice, he told me not to kill your father. You always do the opposite of what it says. When I got their powers, I was rid of the voice. I knew that to end this war I had to come here and split this power up. It would be much weaker and my side of the war wouldn’t be controlled by it anymore.”

            “With you so far. Except, why didn’t my father or brother have the same idea?”

            “It could be because I needed both of their combined power to reach this information. Or it could be that they were too selfish.”

            “Selfish?” Alvondir didn’t understand.

            “You need to give yourself up in order to split the power.”

            “So why’d you stop me? You could have lived.”

            The man smiled. “I need the light to be stronger, and you have more dark than light. Now, do you believe me?”

            Alvondir did not let go of his blades. He jumped at the man, as his arms started glowing. He slammed into the air before him, as if it were a wall of stone. He fell on his face. He was boxed in, he realized. The Glyphwarden stepped passed him to touch the ball of light and dark, good and evil.

            He shot as much dark power as he possibly could through the air wall, and he felt things break. He figured that if he killed the man then he would know for sure if he were lying. He hadn’t come all this way for nothing, and he wanted the satisfaction of killing the man who had killed his family. And he wanted to be rid of the voice in his head. His power would grant that.

            No! Don’t kill him! Anyone but him!

            “Hmm. I guess Hetesik had more than I thought. I didn’t want to ki-”

            In that second of hesitation, Alvondir was able to enter his mind. He didn’t know how, he just knew that he could. He knew everything about the man. Everything. Where he grew up, who his friends were, why he did what he did, and that he was telling the truth. How could he kill someone he knew so well? His name was Sestarum.

            “I’m…sorry,” Alvondir said to him.

            The Glyphwarden was holding his head in pain. “Are we…done here?”

            “Yes.” Alvondir grimaced. “Sorry.”

            “I understand. I could see your thoughts as you could see mine.”

            Alvondir nodded, winded.

            “You should go, I will keep in touch.” With that, he jumped into the light.

 

*          *          *

 

ALVONDIR WAS BACK HOME. Four days had passed, and he hadn’t heard the voice since. The powers were scattered around both the Skylands and Lowlands, in what the people had called Citadels. His powers had dwindled greatly; he could barely start a fire.

            The war was over, and everyone thought that Alvondir had done it, even though he told them otherwise. The Skyland’s force had left the Lowlands (mercifully) and took their technology with them. They would be in a Dark Age for, well, ages, and wouldn’t even know that anyone existed in the Skylands apart from perhaps legends.

            And for once, no one hated him. Not even Skanev.

            

[Gaz he/him]

Cool story, I like it.

[Quiver he/him]

A question for you: what do you want this to be or to say?

 

I'm still working on stuff to critique about it, but one of the points which has stands out to me is the issue of structure- namely that a short story, a prologue and a prelude (to me) are all different things. What you want to achieve with any one of those is in conflict with the others, and trying to match all three sort of weakens the story as a whole.

 

Now, bare that 'to me' in mind, because everythign I'm going to say is coming from my own (kinda wrong-headed) interpretation of things.

 

A short story is a complete story in and of itself. It can take place in an established setting (like the Rysn interlude for Roshar), but the important thing is that it stands alone, as a singular piece. And this, to me, doesn't quite do that. We'd need a bit more concrete information on the worldbuilding; what is a Fusewarden? What is a Glyphwarden? What's a Sunderer? What is the significance of the temple, or the voices inside Alvondir's mind?

 

A Prelude is seperate from a prologue, in that it's a stand-alone begining to a larger series, and if that's the case, I kind of see two ways this might be re-structured. The first would be to trim out everything before Alvondir's arrival at the temple, and elaborate on that aspect of it, raising the readers curiosity and questions; what are the voices in his head? Who is this mysterious figure who intervened? It doesn't overwhelm the reader with details, and provides a glimpse into (what I'm assuming) is the meta-plot of the series.

 

The alternative (and the way I'd do it if I was writing this story) might be to present it from a different POV; namely that of Skanev. You tell us that he is Alvondir's 'most hated servant', and he seems to recipricate the feeling. The ending has the twist that everyone believes Alvondir saved the world when he actually didn't; perhaps you could try playing on that? 

What I mean is... write the prelude from Skanev's POV. A servant whose lords were just assassinated, who now finds himself under the command of an incompetent general. There's a lot of stuff that you could explore there; the fact that Alvondir is so bad at tactics that Skanev has to correct him, the resentment that must have been left when Alvondir abandoned them mid-fight... and then the epic moment of realisation at the end, when Alvondir returns as a hero, forcing Skanev to see him in a new light. You could have Alvondir protest his status (which would still generate mystery for the readers), and if you wanted to show the trials that Alvondir went through in the desert, you could insert them as interlude-like scenes throughout the narrative, expanding on what, exactly, is going on and contrasting the relaity of the situation to what everyone thinks happened.

[Khyrindor he/him]

I really like that idea, thanks. I know that the actual prelude will be much longer, and I would be able to expand more on what you said, the mysteries of it, because I only had 4000 words to work with. Having it from Skanev's POV would be a great way to have both the mystery, and without going into too much detail about about the power, since they will have a lot less to work with in the book.

 

Maybe at the end I could have the same thing from Alvondir's POV, since by then everyone reading it would be screaming "WHAT HAPPENED?!"

 

Yeah I'll play around with it some more. 4000 words wasn't really enough to write a complete prelude, and I wanted a few more characters in it. Particularly someone going with Alvondir, you know like his 'Samwise Gamgee' to help him remove temptation.

[+Quitecontrary she/her]

There were a lot of good elements in your tale that can truly be worked into something magnificent, but to put them all in such a short story made it a tad confusing for me.

It didn't feel like a prelude, but more of a full fledged story crammed in a few words, so it felt rushed...with some moments where time can be spent expounding (his grief at the loss of his father and brother, the execution scene, the warring of power in the desert, etc)

I understand that Alvondir can be fooled, seeing that he can't even command a platoon, but what about the Glyphwarden and Fusewarden holding the prisoner? They must be experienced enough to not be fooled, or maybe I just don't have a good understanding of what they can or cannot do.

All in all, this can make for a very nice story. I just wish there is a milestone that he has to reach in the desert while the whole inner conflict is happening, like "to kill or not to kill" a companion or a friend or an innocent.

Edited April 16, 2014 by quitecontrary

[Khyrindor he/him]

Yes I had to rush it a bit, I had a deadline and it could be a maximum of 4000 words, for a contest.

 

I plan on re-writing it a few times and playing around with the characters more. It will probably be several pages longer, and it may (as Quiver suggested to me) be from Skanev's POV, allowing for more mystery.

 

You raise a good point with the Sunderer not being detected like that, so let's say that the evil power inside him was hiding it effectively. Maybe you can also (if you're experienced enough) switch between the good/evil powers.

 

I'll have to think a lot more, obviously, but like I said, it's not done

[+Quitecontrary she/her]

The question now is, would you have someone experienced enough to hide the kind of power that he had, to be just a sacrifice, a "suicide bomber" of sorts? He was just the decoy, after all, not the real killer.

Again, Khyrindor, I maintain that there is a lot going for you in this tale once you get it polished. :-)

Oh, and the fantasy isn't complete unless the blade has a name.

[Khyrindor he/him]

Yes, he was taken over by the evil entity to get the power to Alvondir.

I'm thinking that I can write the novel with several POVs, and two of them will be Skanev/Alvondir, but will be massive flashbacks, 1000 years or so behind.

Then I will have "modern" POVs, Khyrindor being one, and I have a friend that will help with another. I might have another on top of that, but I don't want to add too many characters. I'm kind of having it like Alvondir is making the trip to destroy the power to save the world, and now he and several other immortal Skylanders (I might change Skylanders to something else by the way) come back down to try and take over the Lowlands again. Alvondir finally lost against the evil thing (needs a name too). Anyway, Khyrindor will be running parallel to Alvondir's story line, but will be being used as a pawn for the Skylanders without realizing it. I have some ideas anyway.

On another note, Since Alvondir's Lightblade is a "replica" so to speak, I don't know if he would name it.

Thanks for your feedback, quitecontrary

[Gaz he/him]

I like the story as a prologue/ prelude type of thing, but to understand it completely you either have to write an entire story where you explain everything or change this story, because it's a bit confusing, e.g: the magic system...

[Khyrindor he/him]

Yeah that's the plan. It's going to be a story of how Alvondir destroys the power and then in parallel to that, 1000 years ahead, Khyrindor brings it back, with Alvondir as the bad guy it the second part.