The freedom of flying
Exiled from his homeland, a man must reveal his hidden powers to survive in a world which does not believe people of his abilities exists.
This week’s fantasy short story is based off a visit to the Torrey Pines National Reserve. However, a more general writing prompt for it might be:
Exiled from his homeland, a man must reveal his hidden powers to survive in a world which does not believe people of his abilities exists.
Here is a snippet of the larger world of this short story:
The Maran empire had long forgotten they shared the world with two other races. However, as an ancient force begins to cause natural disasters to become frequent and catastrophes become abundant, the races are soon driven to remember a pact made by their forefathers more than a generation ago.
Among the Assian peaks, Arthurian is accused and banished. He now seeks a way to prevent the ever increasing number of disasters that threaten the entire Avian kingdom, restore his family name, and be able to see his brother again.
On the plains, Embern has left her home in Irandsi, hoping to train in the monasteries which lay to the north of the Maran empire. However, Ember’s motives lay not in the theological studies of old men, but she hopes to find sanctuary from the courts which seek her family’s army.
Deep in the oceans, Franklin hides away from the city guards after failing to steal a treasure that belonged to the Gorn royal family. As he plans his daring escape, he begins to have dream enticing him to seek out a treasure hidden somewhere on the continent.
The sea belongs to the Finns, the forest and plains to the Marans, and the mountains to the Avians. Now each of them must come together to unlock the secrets lost to the centuries before their races separated.
I hope you enjoy the short story.
Welcome to this week’s short story by Quotes Unknown. Each week I write a fantasy or sci-fi (generally) short story.
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The sea stretched endlessly before Arthurian. They had been walking along the cliffs for days already and there was still no end in sight.
When they first came upon the cliffs, it left them in awe. The oceans were an endless expanse, a never seen before wonder. However, after trudging along its side for days on end, the splendour had slowly worn off. The novelty of the sea had quickly faded away.
The sea breeze was refreshing, but it brought a chill which no cloak could shelter him from. The clear waters were sparkling and beautiful, but combined with the wind, the spray left their clothes constantly damp and salty. It was a sight to behold, but a pain in the ass to travel along.
The sun was already just inches above the horizon and setting fast. The rag tag group slowed their pace. It was already hopeless to speed up; they would not be able to reach the sunset groves in time to set up camp for the night so they would have to camp by the sea yet again.
“Alright, let’s set up camp here,” Aron slammed the point of his walking staff into the ground like he had every other evening. A groan of relief was let out from everyone as they relieved themselves of their heavy travel sacks and began to unpack their items.
Aron pulled Arthurian aside as the others busied themselves with the preparation of dinner and building their individual tents.
“Within the next day, we will be leaving the cliffs behind and will be heading into the woods again. That’s when I will really need your eyes to be out for bandits.” He waved his hand out in front of him at the plains surrounding them. “It ain’t gonna be as easy to spot them as this.”
Arthurian nodded. He knew that was what Aron needed him for and the only reason he was allowed to travel with the group.
For no other reason would they have allowed a random stranger they met at a roadside inn to accompany them other than for the promise of a little added protection. He had offered his sword and eyes in return for food, drink and company until they parted ways.
“Don’t look so worried Arthur, the tribes have been quiet lately.” Aron clapped Arthur on his shoulder as he turned to head back to help with the crew futilely trying to start the campfire.
“That’s what I am afraid of,” Arthurian muttered darkly after him. He gave the copse of trees in the distance one final glance before striding back to the camp circle.
-
Cutlery clattered against tin bowls as the party of seven ate their meals without speaking.
A salted hog broth was on the menu tonight. Remnants of pork from the boar they caught a day ago, spare vegetables and some plants scavenged along the way, stewed in water until the smell wafted through the air.
That was what Arthurian wanted to believe was in the soup, yet he knew that there were probably other ingredients thrown in to add flavour on top of the little pork that was left. It was far from the usual fare he had back in the Eyrie but that was in the past. He too ate his stew in silence.
It seemed no one was in the mood for merrymaking after the seven days of hard travel. Not that that meant anything to Aron. He leaned forward two hands grasping his tin bowl and a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Well then, shall we have a story to go with our dinner?”
Gregor shrugged his shoulders. Timothy and Calen simply looked down and continued eating. None seemed to want to pander to Aron’s whims tonight.
“Me mam always warned me never to tell old stories by moonlight. Said they could tell,” a small voice spoke out. The usually silent Agnet passed on her mother’s warning.
“Old wives tales,” Aron brushed it off casually. “Now shall I tell you the story of the King of the Plain, Zellfreed-“
“We’ve heard that tale plenty of times, the man unites the scattered clans, gathers his army and slays a chimera that guards the Tree of life,” Ramone interjected. “You’ve told it three times already, to three different members of our crew.”
“Well then, why don’t you tell one?” Aron remarked, visibly put out by Ramone’s comment.
“Very well, let this wandering troubadour weave you a tale tonight.”
Ramone sat a little straighter, his professional demeanour taking the place of his usual foolish personality. He gave a little cough to clear his throat and began to speak. Gone was the whininess found in his usual tone, his voice was lowered to be an octave deeper, his words were firm and confident. He spoke with a certainty as if the Earth and the Sky were willing to attest to his words.
“Sit and listen well, for this is a story I heard whispered from tavern to tavern from the northern reaches of the map, in a town called Falkurn.”
He paused for effect, letting the fire add to the atmosphere with its dramatic flickering.
“It is the legend of Jacal the Skylord.”
At that statement, six pairs of eyes fixed on the troubadour. Even the air seemed to stand still and hold its breath in anticipation. A legend from a faraway land, told by a professional storyteller. Even the sour-faced Gregor and the usually uninterested twins, Timothy and Calen, had their ears open and eyes focused.
He cleared his throat.
“In the Northern reaches of the world, they speak of a legend. Of a single man, with strong arms, a tongue for magic and wings on his back. Now, our tale starts, of Jacal and Sternrir, beings whose power made the heavens crack.”
Arthurian’s stomach sank. He knew this story, just never told by a campfire and by a human bard..
“For Stenrir knew the weaving of the world and the whispers in the heart of the shadow. And what he knew how to make, he could undo. Dark Stenrir stood atop the mountains his eyes aglow. His gaze descended upon the fair city of Mahal, his intent clear. His eyes no longer saw neither beauty nor splendour. Whispering the words of the world, the shadows rose to his control, eating away the colour in the grass and trees, the bay and walls. The shadows crept along the gullies and enveloped the city like a dark smog. A rising wall of black mist, sweeping first through the sprawling streets of Mahal before pulling down the spires of the great castles that rose above the once sparkling city.”
“He watched indifferently as the city decayed in the summoned darkness. Uncaring to the destruction he wrought. Wherever Dark Stenrir went, he brought a similar fate. As the darkness overflowed the city walls, a shadow fell over Stenrir. The sun lay on the Skylord’s back, casting upon the demon a shadow that even his words could not cast away.
He looked up at Jacal with glowing eyes, seething with rage. For Jacal had hunted him for 70 days and 70 nights, dogging his tracks and his wake of destruction.”
“With silver magicks flying from his tongue, Jacal swept down upon Stenrir, his sword arm strong and blessed by the great Mahallan watching from the heavens. The demon Stenrir whispered his words of hate and the shadows leapt to his defence. All but the ones cast by Jacal, for they yielded to no one but the Skylord.”
By now, Ramone had left his stew aside and lept up to swing his own invisible sword at an invisible opponent for his captive crowd.
“The battle lasted long through the day and night. Lights from magic lit the darkness. Every breath of Jacal was silver with magic, keeping up with the black breath that spewed like sewer water from Stenrir’s mouth. His sword blessed by Mahallan almighty prevented it from rusting at the rot Stenrir’s magic brings. With blinding speed it clashed with the shadows made physical, matching the thrusts and slashes from Stenrir’s commands.”
“Upon the first signs of dawn, Stenrir’s magic grew to a frenzied pace. Before the dawn’s light could weaken his foul magicks again, he decided to settle their skirmish. Slash for slash, Jacal had kept up throughout the night. But even he grew weary of their long battle. Soon, he was forced back and his blessed sword struck from his hand.”
Ramone paused for dramatic effect, his audience waiting with bated breath.
“His sword lost, Jacal was soon overwhelmed and bound by the demon’s shadow magic. His own silver magic barely kept him breathing in the face of Dark Stenrir’s power. Still, Jacal stared into the demon’s furious eyes with nary any signs of fear.”
“With his last ragged breaths, he prayed to the great Mahallan: Mahallan give thy strength, for my arms are not strong, support me and I will lift the greatest mountains on earth. Mahallan protect me, for I am defenceless, be with me and I shall fear not the king of daemons. Mahallan grant me, stay with me and light your fire in me. The fire that even the greatest will fear to come near me.”
As Ramone chanted, his voice dropped deeper, giving the entire verse a more solemn feel. Arthurian could see others around the ring mouth the verses involuntarily. Being a passage from the sacred Sakar book of Mahallan, the verse was well known as a protection charm said by many when in fear. It was no surprise that they knew the verse by heart as veteran travellers.
Ramone took a deep breath as his chant ended before continuing.
“As he completed his chant, once again Mahallan saw the great virtue in his heart. He saw his love for the world that he was willing to die fighting this great demon and reached out and into Jacal. As he did so, Jacal’s entire body began to glow a brilliant silver. A halo surrounded him, like a small sun born on Earth. The great light drove away the multitude of shadows that had held down Jacal, chasing them to the far corners of the Earth, it blinded even the glowing eyes of Dark Stenrir, completely blowing away his black arts like a wisp of smoke.”
He mimicked a pose of a man in flight, as if to emphasise how a person might glow with divine power rather than in the harsh campfire light.
“The holy light was so great, even the breaking dawn’s light stood in awe of it. It engulfed both parties of the fight, swallowing them both, they cast not a single shadow. As the light slowly died, as all heavenly touches do, for the heavens must not maintain contact with this earthly realm for long, only one party stood victorious. Jacal’s body stood frozen and standing tall and proud while even Stenrir’s body was annihilated. Vaporised completely, not even the smallest piece escaped.”
“However, a touch with the gods is never without cost. In exchange for Mahallan’s touch, his body was frozen in stone, his soul pulled to join the heroes in the heavens. For defeating Stenrir, Jacal the Skylord paid with the rest of his time on Earth, his frozen statue standing guard over the city of Mahal for all eternity.”
Ramone’s last words drifted away, his story coming to an end.
Unexpectedly, the first to speak up was Timothy.
“Troubadour probably made the entire thing.”
“How dare you!” Ramone shouted, his voice aghast at the accusation. He leapt up to his feet. His face went crimson. His eyes bulged and his eyebrows were knitted together, his face the very expression of indignation.
Timothy reclined further back, his expression smug, but his eyes focused on the angry performer.
“Well then, where is this mythical city of yours? Or the statues standing for all eternity? Sounds like a made up fairy tale.” He smirked.
You could see the vein bulge on Ramone’s forehead. But as with all stories said by campfire like that, even Arthurian knew there was no way for Ramone to prove it. Arthurian could, but that was not an option at the moment. Although Ramone was an amiable guy, it was not worth the consequences just to save a bard’s pride.
“I repeated the story I heard verbatim. If you have a problem with it, you can go ahead a stick your head up your-“
Ramone never got to finish his insult. At that exact moment, his neck sprouted feathers. Feathers attached to an arrow that had lodged itself deep into his windpipe and out the back of his neck. His eyes bulged this time from shock, but it was already too late.
Arthurian whipped around. In the direction where the arrow came from, he saw only pitch darkness.
“Curse the campfire. Curse the laid back atmosphere. Curse my carelessness,” Arthurian thought to himself as he dove to the ground to make himself a smaller target. They had been completely caught unaware, thinking they still travelled through peaceful territory.
The other 5 now were scrambling to find their weapons. Timothy and Calen had made a break for their tent, probably in hopes of retrieving their crossbows. That hope was quickly dashed when they too sprouted arrows in their back, collapsing unceremoniously on the ground.
Arthurian continued to curse under his breath as he crawled on the ground. The irony of it all, one of his kind, rubbing his face in the dirt like a worm. His right hand gripped his sword and with his left, he pulled himself forward, away from the fire. He needed to get into the cover of darkness if he was to have any hope of getting out of this alive.
Inch by inch, he finally managed to crawl into the taller grasses. He pulled himself into a squatting position and surveyed the damage. Ramone was wheezing away near the campfire, hanging on tenaciously to life. Timothy and Calen lay motionless in the dirt a little further away. Aron was nowhere to be seen, presumably in hiding like himself. Sour Gregor’s legs could be seen peeking just out of the tall grasses. They too, were motionless.
Gregor was simply too big a target to miss. Arthurian found a morbid humour in that. The huge man had always been proud of his size and his ability to overwhelm his opponent in the arena. Now it had become a fatal liability.
Just then, he heard a quiet voice begging. Agnet was face to face with one of their assailants. In her fear, she had stumbled when backing away from him.
He could hear the high pitched squeak of her voice. Even from his own hiding spot, he could see the fear in her eyes, eyes that were trained on the naked blade the assailant held which gleamed wickedly in the campfire light.
Arthurian realized he had been holding his breath the entire time. He let it out slowly and silently. His mind cleared, the initial panic was gone. The smart choice was to leave, he had barely known this group for a week. He had no attachments to any of them. The dumb choice would be to rush out, save the girl and more than likely get hit by an unknown assailant in the dark. The great tale of Arthurian coming abruptly to a close.
Then again, his friends have always told him he had more morals than brains.
Bursting out of his hiding place, he ran perpendicular to the directions where the arrows were known to come from. At least, that would make putting an arrow in him marginally harder. He managed to get a clean swing, feeling his sword slide through flesh. Warm blood sprayed out as the metal sliced through muscle and bone.
The element of surprise he held as he closed in on the assailant was now gone.
He rushed past the dying man, his left hand reached out and gripped Agnet’s arm, yanking her off the ground and back onto her feet.
He pulled her out of the campfire light, his hands still gripping tightly onto her arm, forcing her to keep up with his longer strides. He could hear rustling behind them as the other assailants gave chase. His tiny hope that it was just a two-man team vanished instantly.
He could hear Agnet’s ragged breath as she struggled to keep up. He knew they could not outrun them. Alone he could have kept this pace until dawn, but Agnet could not.
There was also no place to hide, not in the direction they were forced to run to. They were caught between the cliffs and the attackers.
Turning, he pushed Agnet behind him. Arthurian judged his prospects.
He saw three men in black cloaks. They were dressed like peasants, so that would place them in the category of desperate highwaymen rather than tribesmen. Even if they were untrained, he knew a three-on-one sword fight while protecting someone would end in his death or mortal injury.
His friends were right, he always had more morals than brains.
He felt Agnet pressed against his back, could feel her trembling in fear. Dumb choice if he died, but the right one if he could get them out of this situation.
He felt the wind on his back and knew there was only one way out.
On land he had no chance of taking down three, but in the air, it was a different story. In a flash, he had it all planned out: grab the first, pitch him over the cliff, swoop down and kill the second. Lastly pick off the third as he ran in fear. However, doing so would break the only Avarian cardinal rule. He would be like Zi’roc, banished and hunted.
His name may be immortalized only in a mocking song to warn little children.
“And in stories by half-baked troubadours around dingy campfires,” He thought.
As he pulled off his own cloak and felt his own wings tearing the fabric of his shirt, in his mind, he could still hear the cautionary tale of Zi’roc in his mind.
A tale every Avarian child knew.
Zi’roc the weird, Zi’roc the foolish. Showing your wings, the price to pay. To the ground, was he banished. Stole the Eyrie sword and stole away. No house, no home, was his anguish. Hunted by all, he ran away. Got into a fight and ended in pieces. So ends Zi’roc’s last day.
With a great ripping sound, Arthurian’s wings extended to their full wingspan.
Each wing was as long as a man was tall, a pure white which gleamed silver in the light of the crescent moon. He stretched his wings a little more, working off the ache of hiding them for the past two months. At that moment, it struck him that it had already been two months since he too was sent away from the Eyrie. Time really flew by.
He read the shock in all three men’s faces and knew Agnet had already backed away from him as well.
“Ma was right, they know when you tell their stories by night” He clearly heard the awe in her voice.
Quickly, before their shock wore off, he had to put his plan into motion. He gripped the closest man and burst off the ground with a great sweep of his wings, dust and dirt dancing left dancing from the great gust of wind his wings produced.
As he dropped off his burden and heard him scream all the way into the ocean, he reveled once more in the joy of flying.
It has been too long.
With the wind rushing through his wings and hair, all thoughts and fears were left on the ground. He saw the endless sea spread before him, the sky welcoming like an old friend. He glided on the strong sea breeze, tilting and twirling, turning back to go in for his second kill.
Gone were the worries, wondering if he would be another Zi’roc, or if his tale would be told in awe around human campfires.
In the air, it didn’t matter.
He was free again.
Bring Arthurian into your world.
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Author’s commentary
Thanks for reading!
This short story was actually written quite a few years back, rediscovered recently, and published only now. I had completely forgotten about them so imagine my surprised when I found them buried in the recesses of my Drive.
At the same time, I guess my whole life I have been circling around the same path which hopefully indicates it is a path which I should tread upon.
At the same time, it was an interesting experience, having to edit a short story which I wrote years ago. I could definitely see the influences from the authors I was reading at the time within my own story writing. I almost didn’t catch that both the campfire tale and the children’s story was meant to reference the same figure.
Talk about looking at it with fresh eyes (A few years worth of freshness).
Anyhow, I really hope you enjoyed the story and if you ever get the chance to go paragliding or just visit Torrey Pines National Reserve (like I did) please do. Sunset at the cliffs really made me inspired me to dream up a world in which someone would be able to fly freely in the air.
Do let me know if you want to see Arthurian again, the option is definitely still open for him (or his world) to make an appearance again in future short stories!
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Please be nice, but I would love if you had any comments on how to improve, if you enjoyed the story, or if you would like to see Arthurian and Agnet again!
Either way, I hope you have a great week ahead!