Department of English

Spring 2005 High School Edition

The Lion

Brenan Thompson
Fiction (9th-10th)
Third Place
Cedar High School
Teacher: Erin Hensel

An uncommon warm wind picked up in the pine-forested hills of the region called Aybar, carrying a lone eagle high above the landscape. The eagle ruffled its feathers in the welcome warmth. The Northlands were always cold, even in the summer, but today the weather was unusually frigid. The eagle scanned the pine-forested hills for a rabbit or a mouse to eat. Far below, it could see a man on horseback. Swooping lower, it watched the visitor with curiosity. It was unusual to see anyone riding alone in the wilderness this close to where orks sometimes hunted. It was especially unusual to see someone who was apparently avoiding the roads.

As Wil al’Goran rode south, the wind billowed his dark green wool cloak behind him and brought the faint smell of smoke. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, just that he was going south, and south was home.

Al’Goran didn’t look like the typical warrior. At first glance, he looked like just a handsome country bumpkin, but his time in the borderlands had hardened him. His breastplate, even though it was made of nifel’thor, had many dings from countless battles with orks, goblins, and trolls. He had never seen a Shade and he hoped he never had to, but he had seen friends die beside him. He had seen entire villages abducted to feed the shadow’s army or just slaughtered for the wicked delight of the orks. He had seen too many things he would rather forget. Oh, how he just wanted to settle down and start forgetting.

Shading his eyes, he looked up at the early morning sun, burning bright but not giving much heat. He had spent ten years in the northlands training to become a Warder, but now he was going home. He felt the small pendant hanging around his neck, smiling fondly at stolen kisses and secret letters. He couldn’t wait to get further south and see the woman he loved.

Topping a rise, he saw a thick column of smoke ahead of him. Strange, he thought, an ork raid this far south? Slowing his dun stallion to a halt, he calculated the distance to the source of the billowing cloud. Fingering the long, slender, double-bladed sword slung across his back, he started the two or three miles to the smoke, watching everywhere at once. His war horse, Aurvandil sensed Wil’s nervousness and tossed his head.

At the last hill before the cloud of smoke, Wil dismounted and crawled on his stomach up the mound to see what he was up against. When he got to the top of the rise, his belly dropped out. He had expected to see a small village or farm burned, not this. Stretched before him was a scene of blood and death. An entire city lay destroyed at his feet. The freshly butchered bodies of women and children lay unburied beside the men who died trying to protect them.

Going back down to where Aurvandil waited patiently for him, he checked his inventory. Putting his quiver full of arrows on his belt, his long bow under the saddle girth (he had always been the only Warder he knew to use that), and two fresh bow strings in his pocket, he mounted and rode slowly to the top of the hill. His large dun stallion whickered nervously and Wil heeled him forward into the carnage. Trying to look everywhere and nowhere at once, he began nervously fingering the lion pommeled hilt of his sword.

He turned a corner and paused. In front of him was a square like any other in the city, but where the others were packed full of dead bodies, this had none. Still, that was not what caught his attention. There was a long muted scream coming from the building across the square from him. The scream tore at his heart, for it sounded as if the person was experiencing the pains of all humanity. He had to help.

When he reached the center of the square, he heard a noise behind him and turned to se an ork nock an arrow to its bow. His sword was out in an instant. The ork shouted something and fired the barbed black shaft. Wil deftly knocked it away with his long, slender blade. Quickly heeling his horse forward, Wil charged the ork. He reached the forsaken creature just as it was putting another arrow to string. A scream was just escaping its throat as Wil’s razor-sharp sword sliced through it. Not bothering to clean his blade, Wil returned it smmothly to his scabbard. Turning the dun around, he put it into a gallop as harsh horn blasts sounded and guttural cries came from behind him. He was galloping out of the square as black arrows started bouncing off the walls around him. Urging Aurvandil faster, Wil sped through the city streets as orks and goblins poured out of every walkway, door, and window behind him. Dodging the charred remains of overturned carts and wagons, Wil prompted the horse faster and faster as they tried to outrun their foes and tried to make it to the gates.

Bursting out of the gates, the dun war horse sped across a large clearing toward the thick pine forest in front of them. Wil turned back to see thousands of creatures of the shadow pursuing him. Cursing under his breath, he turned back to the forest. It was so close, one hundred yards, now fifty, he was almost there.

Just as he reached the towering pines, he felt a sharp pain and grunted as one of the black arrows pierced his left shoulder. He had learned how to put pain, and all feeling, outside his mind, but even wrapped in the Emptiness, he still wanted to scream in pain.

He rode through the forest with the shouts and curses of his pursuers slowly fading behind him for what seemed an eternity. He was galloping through the giant pines when his horse suddenly stumbled and fell. Wil was thrown head first into the trunk of a tree. He blacked out . . .

When Wil woke up, his head was pounding, his horse was nowhere to be seen and the orks and goblins were coming closer, if still some distance off. Sitting up, he remembered the arrow in his back. He wanted to laugh, forgetting that. Putting a stick between his teeth, he snapped the black shaft off as close to his shoulder as he could manage. Screaming in agony, he blacked out again . . .

Will quickly forced himself to consciousness, his head still pounding, his horse still nowhere to be seen and the orks and goblins close. His shoulder was still burning, though not quite so bad as before. Still, spotting his bow laying a few yards away, he crawled to pick it up. He stood up painfully and stumbled forward into the center of large clearing nearby where he readied himself for battle and, most likely, death. Throwing his cloak to the side, Wil strung his bow and nocked an arrow, ready to draw. He was always the best shot with a bow back home. Now it’s time to put all that practice to good use.

The enemies were getting closer by the second. He could see movement between the trees. He drew the bowstring to his cheek in one smooth movement. One ork came into the clearing wielding a short, straight sword with a vicious spike protruding from the square tip. Distancing himself from all feeling, he cloaked himself in the Emptiness. He concentrated on the arrow, he became the arrow. Time slowed. All senses sharpened. He could hear the harsh breath of the ork, he could smell its acrid scent in front of him, he could see individual hairs stirring on its hairy forehead. He released the string.

The ork fell with an arrow directly between its eyes. More orks and goblins came into the clearing, all meeting the same fate. Wil was a machine, nock, pull, release, nock, pull, release. He shot arrows faster than orks poured into the clearing.

He reached for another arrow and found nothing. Throwing the bow aside, Wil drew his sword and began to dance. He flowed from stance to stance, his sword hewing orks and goblins like a hot knife through butter. His training took over like instinct. Snake in the grass became harvesting wheat became heron catching fish. He was a dancer of death. The shadow spawn were falling around him like leaves in a late autumn storm.

Seeing the bodies piling up around the lone soldier, the orks began to retreat. They were running as fast as they could from this angel of death. Only one thing stayed behind. A Shade.

Half again as tall as the orks and nearly twice the height of the goblins, the Shade moved forward with the deadly grace of a hunting viper. Its jet-black cloak billowed behind it in an unfelt wind. Drawing its long, black, evil-looking sword, it ran a black-gauntleted finger over the length of the ebony blade. Looking up from the sword, the Shade threw back its cloak, revealing a maggot-white face with one, blood-red, lidless eye. Its pale lips quirked in a humorless smile revealing rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth.

The Emptiness shattered. Transfixed by its gaze, Wil wanted to die. He opened his mouth to scream in terror, but no noise came out. The Shade stepped toward him, and Wil stepped back. Again, the sable clothed horror stepped closer, and Wil tripped over his discarded bow, breaking his eye contact with the horrible stare.

Coming back to his senses, Wil wrapped himself again in the Emptiness. Leaping back up, he stopped the Shade’s pitch-black blade just inches away from his chest.

They began to dance.

Wil once again began to flow from stance to stance, but the Shade met gleaming steel with ebony steel. Al’Goran began to work harder, but it still met him blade for blade. Panic skirted the edges of the blanket of nothingness. Wil fought like he never had before, but he still couldn’t get an opening. Finally, the Shade lagged for a split second. Wil struck like lightning, the jet-black blade tried to parry, but was too late. The pale lips slackened, and the milk white head toppled off its shoulders.

But Shades don’t like to die.

The Shade began swinging its blade wildly in every direction, trying to hit its foe. Wil kept just out of the range of the swinging blade, jabbing every once in a while, until finally, the black blade stopped swinging. The monster’s arms went limp and it fell to its knees, black blood oozing out of its severed neck. Finally, It fell, never to rise again.

Suddenly, Wil heard harsh cries from all sides, and orks and goblins started to pour into the clearing again, more than before. He tried to hold them off, but he was soon overwhelmed. Fighting like mad, he strove keep the multitude of creatures at bay, but they were too numerous. Nearing exhaustion, he heard howls from all around and saw a huge white wolf take down two orks at once in front of him. Hope broke the steel of his resolve and once again, everything went black.

This time consciousness was slow to come. When he finally woke up he was in another clearing. The sound of a stream running near him pulled him back to awareness. He went to it and drank greedily. After he had his fill, he took stock of his surroundings. There were huge, towering pine trees all around, and there was faithful Aurvandil, standing beside the stream. Then, behind him, he heard a small noise, a soft sigh, almost like the wind. Instinct told him there was no danger, but still he turned cautiously.

Behind him, was a small basket full of blankets. He took a guarded step toward the basket when suddenly a small hand popped out. Startled, he bent over and lifted up the blankets. Smiling up at him was the most beautiful baby boy he had ever seen. Suddenly, Wil remembered a dream, at least, he thought it was a dream, of an old man with a long beard surrounded by huge wolves smiling at him. “You must take him, and care for him as your own.” said the old man, “His is the heart of a Lion. He must be protected, for he will save us all.”

Picking up the basket, Wil walked to his stallion. Beneath his feet, the ground was covered with gigantic wolf paw prints. Holding the basket carefully, Wil mounted the dun stallion and rode south out of the forest.

“Now what should we call you?” Wil cooed to the baby. “How about Artur? Yes, that’s it, Artur.”