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Deborah Cullins Smith / Text 1 of 19 / Aftermath
"Aftermath" by Deborah Cullins Smith
SciFi/Fantasy text 1 out of 19 by Deborah Cullins Smith. ←Previous - Next→
| Part of James Bowers' Project 7, this was a 'seed' story. My version of Aftermath, written with James' seed, creates a mythical town of a bygone era which suffers an invasion by vicious dragons. All out war between these enormous fire-breathing creatures and the human race leads to the death of one man's home, family, and dreams. |
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←- Worlds Away Part Two | Angel's Wings -→
Aftermath
By Deborah J Smith & James K Bowers
By Deborah J Smith & James K Bowers
Dannel ached. The pounding, all-over ache assaulted
his senses with shrieks from every muscle and nerve in his battered frame.
Blood? No, he decided, not his own but sticky on his skin and clothes just
the same. “How long?” his groggy mind asked.
The floor was hard and cold beneath him and a dim light - Marrik’s? -- shone at an eerie angle, rising from the floor a few feet to his left to cast surreal shadows on the walls. Why so dark in here? His weapon lay on the floor to his right and instinctively his hand groped for it. Gaining purchase, he dragged it close with a rasping sound that echoed in the silence. The feel of the stark, cool metal offered him some primal comfort.
He struggled to a sitting position and bone-jarring pain surged up Dannel’s spine dashing itself like a wave on the back of his skull. He winced and sardonically acknowledged to himself that the battle must have gone well if he could accomplish so much. The surrounding carnage and the fact that he seemed intact told him it could easily have been much worse. “How much worse?” he thought with a start.
There were bodies and parts of bodies everywhere. His eyes sought familiar shapes among the dead. The light - Marrik’s! The dim light escaping from beneath his crumpled body shone an ugly red. Dead. Very much so. No doubts -- torn nearly in half.
There… some ten feet away… Lirra. Slumped against the wall, bloody, a gash in her face running from her forehead down her right cheek nearly to her chin. Her weapon was still in her hand. Well, she never was one to retreat.
Dannel revised his initial assumption. The battle had not gone well at all. He crawled across the gore-strewn floor to Lirra. Maybe, just maybe …
The floor was hard and cold beneath him and a dim light - Marrik’s? -- shone at an eerie angle, rising from the floor a few feet to his left to cast surreal shadows on the walls. Why so dark in here? His weapon lay on the floor to his right and instinctively his hand groped for it. Gaining purchase, he dragged it close with a rasping sound that echoed in the silence. The feel of the stark, cool metal offered him some primal comfort.
He struggled to a sitting position and bone-jarring pain surged up Dannel’s spine dashing itself like a wave on the back of his skull. He winced and sardonically acknowledged to himself that the battle must have gone well if he could accomplish so much. The surrounding carnage and the fact that he seemed intact told him it could easily have been much worse. “How much worse?” he thought with a start.
There were bodies and parts of bodies everywhere. His eyes sought familiar shapes among the dead. The light - Marrik’s! The dim light escaping from beneath his crumpled body shone an ugly red. Dead. Very much so. No doubts -- torn nearly in half.
There… some ten feet away… Lirra. Slumped against the wall, bloody, a gash in her face running from her forehead down her right cheek nearly to her chin. Her weapon was still in her hand. Well, she never was one to retreat.
Dannel revised his initial assumption. The battle had not gone well at all. He crawled across the gore-strewn floor to Lirra. Maybe, just maybe …
Lirra was breathing… barely. Dannel crept
closer, a lump swelling in his throat as he watched the blood trickle down her
cheek. Flashes of memory scrolled through the years in slow
motion.
Five-year-old Lirra running with the lambs in the field near her home, strawberry blonde hair floating on a summer breeze…
Eight-year-old Lirra, her big brown eyes peeking around a tree trunk during a spirited game of hide-and-seek…
Ten-year-old Lirra snagging a wayward lamb with the crook of her shepherd’s staff, humming and singing, as she prodded the flock across the grassy fields…
Twelve-year-old Lirra, her thick shining hair tied back with a leather strap, swinging a sword to parry his blows during their mock battles… Lirra’s father scolding her for the swordplay and insisting she act like a lady… Lirra’s mischievous smile as she demurely accepted her father’s reproof --- then secretly continuing the warfare behind his back anyway…
Fifteen-year-old Lirra, cheeks blushing as red as her hair, when he kissed her for the first time…
Seventeen-year-old Lirra, radiant in her homespun wedding gown, a wreath of flowers crowning her like a fairy queen, as she vowed to love him all of her life…
Lirra lying on his bed of furs, her hair a crimson pool, her eyes deep wells of passion…
So many years of memories, so much history between them, so many regrets at this moment, as Dannel watched Lirra’s life-blood flowing from her wounds. He led, she always followed… and for the hundredth time, he wished with all his heart that he had led her less and protected her more.
“My place is at your side,” Lirra had said to over-ride his protests. And her skill with sword and dagger, bow and arrow, as well as the speed and grace with which she moved, outstripped most of the men in their village.
Lirra’s eyes followed his progress across the rough stone floor. She read the pain etched on his face, saw the headache in his stilted movements, and knew by his countenance that he considered the cost too high. He was regretting the battle, regretting hauling her along … wishing he could change it all.
Dannel reached for her with a bloodied hand, tenderly pushed the tangled mane of damp curls away from her face, and brushed away the stream of blood from the gash on her lovely face. That fragile face… that strong, determined chin … the vulnerable lips that could rapidly shift from sweet softness to an angry thin line if her temper flared … Dannel had expected to gaze upon that lovely face until they were both old, gray, and walking with canes. Now he knew they would never see old age.
Gently, he peeled back her leather vest and the shirt beneath. The gash across her stomach was deep and the blood pouring from it was almost black. Not a good sign… His breath was ragged as he watched the life seeping out of her body in a steady, unstoppable flow.
“Marrik …?” she croaked, watching his face.
“No,” Dannel’s expression told her before the word was uttered. She stared at him, her eyes never leaving his face.
“We had no choice, Dannel,” she said. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry. Lirra didn’t show any more emotion than if he had told her it would rain tomorrow, rather than breaking the news that her brother lay dead in the rubble of these ancient columns.
Dannel’s heart shattered inside and tears coursed down his cheeks into his blood-stained beard.
“Lirra … I … “ he couldn’t get past the tears to voice his regret, but Lirra knew. She had always known and interpreted the cries of his heart before he ever found words to express himself. It was a trait that had been both adorable and irritating at the same time.
“My love … “ Lirra whispered, still not moving a muscle, but capturing his gaze with her eyes and holding it. “We had no choice and you know it. This has been a war for survival, not for lands, not for wealth, not for king and country. We fought for the right to live and breathe.”
Dannel thought of their six-year-old son, Liam, playing in the meadow, romping with the lambs and goats, sunlight glinting from the reddish-blond highlights in his hair. He was a sweet child, obedient and well-mannered, but afflicted with streaks of pixie-ish impulse that frequently earned him a scolding.
Five-year-old Lirra running with the lambs in the field near her home, strawberry blonde hair floating on a summer breeze…
Eight-year-old Lirra, her big brown eyes peeking around a tree trunk during a spirited game of hide-and-seek…
Ten-year-old Lirra snagging a wayward lamb with the crook of her shepherd’s staff, humming and singing, as she prodded the flock across the grassy fields…
Twelve-year-old Lirra, her thick shining hair tied back with a leather strap, swinging a sword to parry his blows during their mock battles… Lirra’s father scolding her for the swordplay and insisting she act like a lady… Lirra’s mischievous smile as she demurely accepted her father’s reproof --- then secretly continuing the warfare behind his back anyway…
Fifteen-year-old Lirra, cheeks blushing as red as her hair, when he kissed her for the first time…
Seventeen-year-old Lirra, radiant in her homespun wedding gown, a wreath of flowers crowning her like a fairy queen, as she vowed to love him all of her life…
Lirra lying on his bed of furs, her hair a crimson pool, her eyes deep wells of passion…
So many years of memories, so much history between them, so many regrets at this moment, as Dannel watched Lirra’s life-blood flowing from her wounds. He led, she always followed… and for the hundredth time, he wished with all his heart that he had led her less and protected her more.
“My place is at your side,” Lirra had said to over-ride his protests. And her skill with sword and dagger, bow and arrow, as well as the speed and grace with which she moved, outstripped most of the men in their village.
Lirra’s eyes followed his progress across the rough stone floor. She read the pain etched on his face, saw the headache in his stilted movements, and knew by his countenance that he considered the cost too high. He was regretting the battle, regretting hauling her along … wishing he could change it all.
Dannel reached for her with a bloodied hand, tenderly pushed the tangled mane of damp curls away from her face, and brushed away the stream of blood from the gash on her lovely face. That fragile face… that strong, determined chin … the vulnerable lips that could rapidly shift from sweet softness to an angry thin line if her temper flared … Dannel had expected to gaze upon that lovely face until they were both old, gray, and walking with canes. Now he knew they would never see old age.
Gently, he peeled back her leather vest and the shirt beneath. The gash across her stomach was deep and the blood pouring from it was almost black. Not a good sign… His breath was ragged as he watched the life seeping out of her body in a steady, unstoppable flow.
“Marrik …?” she croaked, watching his face.
“No,” Dannel’s expression told her before the word was uttered. She stared at him, her eyes never leaving his face.
“We had no choice, Dannel,” she said. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry. Lirra didn’t show any more emotion than if he had told her it would rain tomorrow, rather than breaking the news that her brother lay dead in the rubble of these ancient columns.
Dannel’s heart shattered inside and tears coursed down his cheeks into his blood-stained beard.
“Lirra … I … “ he couldn’t get past the tears to voice his regret, but Lirra knew. She had always known and interpreted the cries of his heart before he ever found words to express himself. It was a trait that had been both adorable and irritating at the same time.
“My love … “ Lirra whispered, still not moving a muscle, but capturing his gaze with her eyes and holding it. “We had no choice and you know it. This has been a war for survival, not for lands, not for wealth, not for king and country. We fought for the right to live and breathe.”
Dannel thought of their six-year-old son, Liam, playing in the meadow, romping with the lambs and goats, sunlight glinting from the reddish-blond highlights in his hair. He was a sweet child, obedient and well-mannered, but afflicted with streaks of pixie-ish impulse that frequently earned him a scolding.
The festival of the first fruits had dawned, a bright,
sunshiny day of warm breezes and the sweet smells of fresh flowers and new
grass. The first vegetables of the season had ripened quickly in the
garden patches of the small farming community of Galladall. A tranquil
village in the kingdom of Aridoria, Galladall had basked in the peaceful reign
of King Avidor for some 30 summers, and the people throughout the kingdom adored
the wise old ruler. His kindness and generosity were legendary. Even
when murmurs of bloodshed began to trickle in from nearby countries, no one in
all of Aridoria believed that such evil could enter their domain. Every
year the elders of the village would load the finest fruits and vegetables from
their orchards and gardens, and present them to the Great King. He, in
return, would send them home with gifts of spices and cloth from the traders who
frequented the castle halls. Who knew what riches the delegation would
return with this year? When the elders arrived, an extravagant picnic and
a day of fun and games would take place in the meadow east of town. The
women baked savory breads and simmered huge kettles of meat and vegetables in
preparation for the feast. Lirra’s stew was a flavorful blend of lamb,
tomatoes, green beans, and new potatoes, and her kettles were usually the first
ones to be emptied.
The elders should have returned the day before, and the men were becoming a bit concerned. But it was an insignificant matter. Perhaps a wagon wheel had come loose, or a road had washed out. The rains a few days prior had been torrential. There was most likely a logical and simple explanation.
Lirra’s brother, Marrik, had been sent to follow their trail and assist them, if necessary. Surely today they would come home, and the festival in the meadow could begin.
Liam, an impish gleam in his bright green eyes, had slipped past his mother’s scrutiny, snatching several large, fluffy biscuits from one of the heavy oak baskets on the table. He made a mad dash for the door. Lirra glanced up in time to hear his muffled snicker and see him tearing out the gate to join his friends in a sprint for the hill and the meadow beyond.
“Liam!” she shrieked. “Come back here this instant!”
Liam shot her a delighted grin and kept running, tossing biscuits to his friends as they dashed up the hill.
Dannel laughed as his wife stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. She whirled to face him, shaking a finger in his face.
“Don’t laugh, Dannel,” she scolded. But her eyes couldn’t hide the twinkle that belied her irritation.
Dannel slipped his arms around her slender waist and kissed her nose playfully. “Take it as a compliment, Wife,” he said with a laugh. “Your biscuits are well worth the tongue-lashing you’ll give him later.” And he grabbed one from the basket himself, tearing away a huge bite before she could stop him.
Lirra sputtered as he took another big bite and rolled his eyes in ecstacy. “Mmmmmmmm….” He moaned. “Delicious!”
“But Dannel, there won’t be any bread left for the celebration!” she exclaimed.
Dannel’s eyebrows shot up in amusement and he pointed at the table, which groaned under the weight of two covered kettles of stew and four big baskets of assorted breads. Lirra had been baking for two days now, and the half-empty basket of biscuits rested between loaves of Lirra’s scrumptious herb bread and her fruit-filled cakes. Though Lirra had spent her youth learning the art of sword-play and sparring, she had managed to acquire her mother’s skill with bread dough. Dannel often told her that her herbed bread was the whole reason he had married her, a comment designed to instigate a mock battle that usually ended in a wild evening of love-making.
“You have enough for the whole kingdom stacked on our table, Lirra!” he mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit.
Lirra smacked his mid-section with the back of her hand, extracting an “ooomph!” from him.
“Well, it won’t last very long at the rate you two are going.”
But she laughed, and he knew that, secretly, she was pleased to see her baked goods so thoroughly enjoyed.
They spent the next hour hauling blankets to rest on, and baskets of food to the meadow. The men set up enormous trestle tables in the meadow to hold the bounty of their wives’ culinary labors. Several fires had been lit to keep the pots of stew warm, and young maids were left to stir the pots and keep the contents from burning dry.
“We need a couple buckets of water, Dannel,” Lirra said as he placed the last two baskets on the heavily laden tables.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, giving her bottom a playful whack, and running before she could retaliate. The giggles of the other women around the tables told him that he would pay dearly for that indiscretion later, and his grin widened.
Dannel had just pulled up the first bucket of fresh well water when the pounding frenzy of hooves reached his ears. Marrik flew into town, his horse foaming at the mouth and trembling from the exertion of a hard gallop. The stallion reared as Marrik reined him in hard, throwing himself from the saddle. His copper-penny hair was as wildly matted as his horse’s mane, and his face wore a sickly green grimace as he fought to catch his breath.
Grasping Dannel’s arm, Marrik babbled incoherently.
“The elders … up the road … dead … burned to a crisp … wagons destroyed … they’re all dead …”
“Stop, Marrik,” Dannel commanded, shaking the young man’s shoulders sternly. “You aren’t making sense. You have to calm down and tell us what happened.” A crowd had gathered around the well, all wearing looks of fear and dread. Was their era of peace ending? Who would burn the bodies of the elders?
“Saw it… from a hilltop…” Marrik gasped. “Shadow… huge shadow… blacked out the sun… swooped down on them… Never saw it coming…” A shudder convulsed Marrik’s shoulders and a sob welled up in his throat.
“What swooped down, Marrik?” Dannel demanded. “What did you see?”
But the answer never came.
An enormous shadow hovered over the town, and Marrik pointed up, screaming in terror.
Two golden orbs of pure primal hate … a long serpentine neck of shimmery scales … claws the size of scythes flexed at the end of limbs so muscular that they rippled … massive leathery wings beating against the darkened sky … a dragon. And sweeping in behind it, a dozen more. Smaller versions of the first, but they were ominous none-the-less, flying over the peaceful village in precise attack formation. Angry screeches rent the air as the fury of the beasts unleashed itself on the unprepared villagers. Flames shot from the mouths of the hideous creatures, engulfing house after house. The men dove for cover behind the well, inside the pub, in doorways and sheds.
“The women and children!” Dannel screamed. “Run for the meadow! We have to warn our families!”
The dragons soared up in the sky, eyes blazing with evil glee at the mayhem they had wrought. The odor of charred flesh hung heavily on the air and those men who could still stand began to cluster around the well, pulling up buckets of water to douse the fiery thatch roofs of their homes.
Dannel, Marrik, and several other men made a wild, zig-zaggy dash for the meadow over the hill, slipping on the dewy grass, gasping for air as they raced to warn their unsuspecting families.
Dannel topped the hill just in time to see the shadow of the lead dragon cover the meadow and the children frolicking in the grass. The screams of the women ripped the air as the dragons folded their wings and dove toward the children. Each landed and dug the razor-sharp claws into the children’s small bodies. Dannel stared in horror as the lead dragon snatched up Liam and ripped his small body in two like a piece of kindling. He heard Lirra shriek, saw her grab a burning limb from one of the fires, and charge like a woman possessed at the dragon who held their son’s remains. “NOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed. “LIRRA, NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
He raced toward the meadow, adrenalin pumping, and flew into the midst of the carnage. The dragon lifted one claw to his mouth and Liam’s lower half disappeared down the beast’s maw. Carelessly, the creature tossed the boy’s upper torso to the ground like unwanted garbage and spread his vast wings. Dannel tackled Lirra, throwing her to the ground and covering her with his own body. Wind whipped wildly as the dragons soared, wings spread, once more blocking the sun.
They were gone as quickly as they came.
Dannel rose to his hands and knees, and surveyed the blood-stained meadow. Then he lunged to one side and vomitted. Lirra wept hysterically into the dirt, clutching handfuls of grass in white-knuckle fists.
“Liam!” she cried. “Liam……”
The elders should have returned the day before, and the men were becoming a bit concerned. But it was an insignificant matter. Perhaps a wagon wheel had come loose, or a road had washed out. The rains a few days prior had been torrential. There was most likely a logical and simple explanation.
Lirra’s brother, Marrik, had been sent to follow their trail and assist them, if necessary. Surely today they would come home, and the festival in the meadow could begin.
Liam, an impish gleam in his bright green eyes, had slipped past his mother’s scrutiny, snatching several large, fluffy biscuits from one of the heavy oak baskets on the table. He made a mad dash for the door. Lirra glanced up in time to hear his muffled snicker and see him tearing out the gate to join his friends in a sprint for the hill and the meadow beyond.
“Liam!” she shrieked. “Come back here this instant!”
Liam shot her a delighted grin and kept running, tossing biscuits to his friends as they dashed up the hill.
Dannel laughed as his wife stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. She whirled to face him, shaking a finger in his face.
“Don’t laugh, Dannel,” she scolded. But her eyes couldn’t hide the twinkle that belied her irritation.
Dannel slipped his arms around her slender waist and kissed her nose playfully. “Take it as a compliment, Wife,” he said with a laugh. “Your biscuits are well worth the tongue-lashing you’ll give him later.” And he grabbed one from the basket himself, tearing away a huge bite before she could stop him.
Lirra sputtered as he took another big bite and rolled his eyes in ecstacy. “Mmmmmmmm….” He moaned. “Delicious!”
“But Dannel, there won’t be any bread left for the celebration!” she exclaimed.
Dannel’s eyebrows shot up in amusement and he pointed at the table, which groaned under the weight of two covered kettles of stew and four big baskets of assorted breads. Lirra had been baking for two days now, and the half-empty basket of biscuits rested between loaves of Lirra’s scrumptious herb bread and her fruit-filled cakes. Though Lirra had spent her youth learning the art of sword-play and sparring, she had managed to acquire her mother’s skill with bread dough. Dannel often told her that her herbed bread was the whole reason he had married her, a comment designed to instigate a mock battle that usually ended in a wild evening of love-making.
“You have enough for the whole kingdom stacked on our table, Lirra!” he mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit.
Lirra smacked his mid-section with the back of her hand, extracting an “ooomph!” from him.
“Well, it won’t last very long at the rate you two are going.”
But she laughed, and he knew that, secretly, she was pleased to see her baked goods so thoroughly enjoyed.
They spent the next hour hauling blankets to rest on, and baskets of food to the meadow. The men set up enormous trestle tables in the meadow to hold the bounty of their wives’ culinary labors. Several fires had been lit to keep the pots of stew warm, and young maids were left to stir the pots and keep the contents from burning dry.
“We need a couple buckets of water, Dannel,” Lirra said as he placed the last two baskets on the heavily laden tables.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, giving her bottom a playful whack, and running before she could retaliate. The giggles of the other women around the tables told him that he would pay dearly for that indiscretion later, and his grin widened.
Dannel had just pulled up the first bucket of fresh well water when the pounding frenzy of hooves reached his ears. Marrik flew into town, his horse foaming at the mouth and trembling from the exertion of a hard gallop. The stallion reared as Marrik reined him in hard, throwing himself from the saddle. His copper-penny hair was as wildly matted as his horse’s mane, and his face wore a sickly green grimace as he fought to catch his breath.
Grasping Dannel’s arm, Marrik babbled incoherently.
“The elders … up the road … dead … burned to a crisp … wagons destroyed … they’re all dead …”
“Stop, Marrik,” Dannel commanded, shaking the young man’s shoulders sternly. “You aren’t making sense. You have to calm down and tell us what happened.” A crowd had gathered around the well, all wearing looks of fear and dread. Was their era of peace ending? Who would burn the bodies of the elders?
“Saw it… from a hilltop…” Marrik gasped. “Shadow… huge shadow… blacked out the sun… swooped down on them… Never saw it coming…” A shudder convulsed Marrik’s shoulders and a sob welled up in his throat.
“What swooped down, Marrik?” Dannel demanded. “What did you see?”
But the answer never came.
An enormous shadow hovered over the town, and Marrik pointed up, screaming in terror.
Two golden orbs of pure primal hate … a long serpentine neck of shimmery scales … claws the size of scythes flexed at the end of limbs so muscular that they rippled … massive leathery wings beating against the darkened sky … a dragon. And sweeping in behind it, a dozen more. Smaller versions of the first, but they were ominous none-the-less, flying over the peaceful village in precise attack formation. Angry screeches rent the air as the fury of the beasts unleashed itself on the unprepared villagers. Flames shot from the mouths of the hideous creatures, engulfing house after house. The men dove for cover behind the well, inside the pub, in doorways and sheds.
“The women and children!” Dannel screamed. “Run for the meadow! We have to warn our families!”
The dragons soared up in the sky, eyes blazing with evil glee at the mayhem they had wrought. The odor of charred flesh hung heavily on the air and those men who could still stand began to cluster around the well, pulling up buckets of water to douse the fiery thatch roofs of their homes.
Dannel, Marrik, and several other men made a wild, zig-zaggy dash for the meadow over the hill, slipping on the dewy grass, gasping for air as they raced to warn their unsuspecting families.
Dannel topped the hill just in time to see the shadow of the lead dragon cover the meadow and the children frolicking in the grass. The screams of the women ripped the air as the dragons folded their wings and dove toward the children. Each landed and dug the razor-sharp claws into the children’s small bodies. Dannel stared in horror as the lead dragon snatched up Liam and ripped his small body in two like a piece of kindling. He heard Lirra shriek, saw her grab a burning limb from one of the fires, and charge like a woman possessed at the dragon who held their son’s remains. “NOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed. “LIRRA, NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
He raced toward the meadow, adrenalin pumping, and flew into the midst of the carnage. The dragon lifted one claw to his mouth and Liam’s lower half disappeared down the beast’s maw. Carelessly, the creature tossed the boy’s upper torso to the ground like unwanted garbage and spread his vast wings. Dannel tackled Lirra, throwing her to the ground and covering her with his own body. Wind whipped wildly as the dragons soared, wings spread, once more blocking the sun.
They were gone as quickly as they came.
Dannel rose to his hands and knees, and surveyed the blood-stained meadow. Then he lunged to one side and vomitted. Lirra wept hysterically into the dirt, clutching handfuls of grass in white-knuckle fists.
“Liam!” she cried. “Liam……”
For months, the dragons ravaged kingdom after kingdom.
Mankind didn’t stand a chance against the fiery blasts of a dragon’s breath or
the deadly claws and dagger-sharp teeth. Their scales were impenetrable,
their appetites insatiable.
It was a rag-tag group of survivors who fled to good King Avidor’s castle. Hopefully, they would find protection within the stone walls and comfort in the wisdom of their king.
Avidor rallied his soldiers, gathered and sharpened unused weapons, and made a gallant last-ditch attempt at slaughtering the gold-eyed monsters. But it was no use. Mankind was doomed.
Lirra fought beside Dannel and Marrik, sword flashing in the vengeance only a mother could wreak. But for every dragon they killed, ten more grew to maturity and joined the fighting adults. There was no place else to run; no safe haven in which to hide. The dragons assaulted the castle and the carnage Dannel saw all around him represented the final stand of humankind.
Lirra was still not moving and her eyes searched Dannel’s face as if memorizing every hair in his beard, every lash fringing his deep-set green eyes. Dannel swallowed the thick lump in his throat. Tears clouded his vision as he noticed, for the first time, the blood running down her neck. In that instant, he knew that her spine was severed. She would never move from this spot again. She would never bear another child, never swing another sword … She would never grow old.
And she knew it.
Her face blurred as the tears raced down Dannel’s cheeks. He was the last man - the only man - left alive in King Avidor’s castle. Probably the last man in the world. A small gasp and a sigh … and Lirra’s sightless eyes stared out into the darkness.
Lirra was gone.
A grief-filled scream ripped from Dannel’s throat, and he clutched Lirra’s lifeless body against his chest, feeling her blood soak through his already-blood-crusted shirt. Eternities passed. The moon and stars danced across cloudless skies. And finally, Dannel gently laid Lirra’s body out straight on the hard stone courtyard. He felt nothing. A giant abyss opened before him and swallowed every emotion, every thought. He looked without seeing, heard without hearing.
He checked every body in the carnage of the castle. Not one other soul survived. He was alone in the universe. A black shadow blotted out the moon and stars, and in that moment, Dannel’s mind snapped. Grabbing two swords from the floor, one with each hand, he unleashed a primal scream that pulled the dragon from the sky. It was kill or be killed, and Dannel was past caring which option would be his fate.
He slashed at the monster with all his might, screaming from the depths of his own private hell, wanting nothing - no, not even victory - simply wanting to kill the creatures who had destroyed his world. Steel flashed against scales and sparks flew like fireflies in the darkness of the night.
Suddenly, inexplicably, the sword in his right hand slid between the scales in the dragon’s breast. With an angry, shriek of pain and a final blast of fire, the dragon fell on top of Dannel … and died.
It was a rag-tag group of survivors who fled to good King Avidor’s castle. Hopefully, they would find protection within the stone walls and comfort in the wisdom of their king.
Avidor rallied his soldiers, gathered and sharpened unused weapons, and made a gallant last-ditch attempt at slaughtering the gold-eyed monsters. But it was no use. Mankind was doomed.
Lirra fought beside Dannel and Marrik, sword flashing in the vengeance only a mother could wreak. But for every dragon they killed, ten more grew to maturity and joined the fighting adults. There was no place else to run; no safe haven in which to hide. The dragons assaulted the castle and the carnage Dannel saw all around him represented the final stand of humankind.
Lirra was still not moving and her eyes searched Dannel’s face as if memorizing every hair in his beard, every lash fringing his deep-set green eyes. Dannel swallowed the thick lump in his throat. Tears clouded his vision as he noticed, for the first time, the blood running down her neck. In that instant, he knew that her spine was severed. She would never move from this spot again. She would never bear another child, never swing another sword … She would never grow old.
And she knew it.
Her face blurred as the tears raced down Dannel’s cheeks. He was the last man - the only man - left alive in King Avidor’s castle. Probably the last man in the world. A small gasp and a sigh … and Lirra’s sightless eyes stared out into the darkness.
Lirra was gone.
A grief-filled scream ripped from Dannel’s throat, and he clutched Lirra’s lifeless body against his chest, feeling her blood soak through his already-blood-crusted shirt. Eternities passed. The moon and stars danced across cloudless skies. And finally, Dannel gently laid Lirra’s body out straight on the hard stone courtyard. He felt nothing. A giant abyss opened before him and swallowed every emotion, every thought. He looked without seeing, heard without hearing.
He checked every body in the carnage of the castle. Not one other soul survived. He was alone in the universe. A black shadow blotted out the moon and stars, and in that moment, Dannel’s mind snapped. Grabbing two swords from the floor, one with each hand, he unleashed a primal scream that pulled the dragon from the sky. It was kill or be killed, and Dannel was past caring which option would be his fate.
He slashed at the monster with all his might, screaming from the depths of his own private hell, wanting nothing - no, not even victory - simply wanting to kill the creatures who had destroyed his world. Steel flashed against scales and sparks flew like fireflies in the darkness of the night.
Suddenly, inexplicably, the sword in his right hand slid between the scales in the dragon’s breast. With an angry, shriek of pain and a final blast of fire, the dragon fell on top of Dannel … and died.
Red lights strobed in the blackness of a Pennsylvania
highway. A jack-knifed semi sprawled drunkenly across the road, the cab
laying on its side, headlights flickering like two giant eyes. Every
emergency vehicle in four counties was present. Fire engines hosed down
the twisted remains of a Chevy station wagon as the local coroner bagged the
bloody remains of a woman and her son. A large rusty pick-up truck hung
half-way into the ditch across the two-lane road.
Two shaky teenagers sat, chalk-faced, in a squad car giving statements to the grizzled County Sheriff. The truck driver sat in another squad with his head in his hands. He had all ready lost his dinner in the ditch and was trying to down a can of Coke while a state trooper patiently waited for the shattered man to collect himself.
“… I swear I didn’t see him coming,” the teenager was saying. “He must have f-f-fallen asleep at the wheel. I t-t-tried to swerve, but he c-c-came on too fast.” The boy stammered while a paramedic bandaged his girlfriend’s bleeding forehead.
“Then what happened?” prompted the cop.
The boy gulped.
“It was so weird,” he said. “He jumped out of his c-c-car and pulled the woman out. He carried her over there to the tall grass … and then w-we heard him screaming. He r-r-ran across the field, waving his arms. It was like he was f-f-fighting a monster or something… Really weird. H-h-he stumbled around out there for several minutes …” The kid took a quavery breath and let it out, shaking his head slowly.
The coroner motioned for the sheriff to join him.
“Sit tight, son,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He strode across the road to the coroner.
“Whatcha’ got, Bill?” he asked.
“Thought you oughta’ see this, Jim,” said the coroner, pushing up on the bridge of his eyeglasses. "Best we can tell, the back of the car was filled with swords, costumes, old camp-style cookwear - you know, the cast-iron kettles and stuff like that. Looks like they were part of that Renaissance Re-enactment over near State Line Road this weekend.”
The sheriff nodded.
“Yeah, we’ve seen a lot of activity over in that area,” he shook his head. “Never could see the sense in grown people playing dress up and all, especially the King Arthur junk. Feuds, duels, swords … But that stuff sure does draw a crowd in the summertime.”
“Yeah, well…” the coroner cleared his throat. “They probably figured to get a jump-start on all the traffic by leaving tonight. Most of those folks are camping over til morning. Took my own family over there this afternoon for the big picnic on the meadow. Highlight of the weekend and all… Anyway, we heard a lot of them talking about packing out in the morning.”
He took off his glasses and mopped his forehead with a hankerchief before putting his glasses back on.
“Anyway, I found the guy’s wallet,” he gestured toward the tilted rig’s cab. “There’s not much left of him. Cab fell right on top of him and squashed him like a bug. Wallet was on the front seat of the car. Got the wife’s purse, too.” He handed both to the sheriff and continued. “Looks like the boy died on impact. Probably five or six years old. Seat belt all but cut him in half. We found the woman laid out over there in the grass. Her neck is broken, but it looks like she might not have died right away. She wouldn’t have felt much, but it’s still a grisly way to go.” The coroner took a moment to breathe deeply and quell the queasy lurch in his stomach. He hadn’t tossed his cookies at an accident scene in years, and he’d never live it down if he lost it now.
“Daniel Gallwell, age 35, 1530 Bethesda Avenue, Harris, Connecticut,” the sheriff read from the driver’s license. The face staring back at him was bearded and handsome, even though his hair was long enough to be a throw-back to the hippie era. He pulled the fabric-covered wallet from the woman’s purse and continued. “Laura Gallwell, age 32, same address. Well, at least we’ve got their ID’s. I’ll get my office to work on tracking down the next of kin.”
The coroner nodded and swiped at his forehead with the sweaty hankerchief again. By the looks of it, we’re going to be picking this guy up with a spoon and a sponge …
The sheriff sighed. Nice looking couple, by the pictures. Laura Gallwell had a gorgeous mane of strawberry blond curls that framed a pale face with a firm chin. What a shame …
He returned to the teenagers.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. “Tell me what happened next. I mean, after you saw him stumbling around in the field.”
“Then we see the headlights of that eighteen-wheeler …” he shuddered. “The guy went berserk. H-h-he attacked it … s-s-s-screamed like a crazy person. The truck driver t-t-tried to miss him, but it was … well, … it w-w-was like the guy was trying to kill the rig …”
The girl covered her bruised face with both hands and wept on her boyfriend’s shoulder. The sheriff shook his head sadly as he surveyed the bloody scene. They would never piece together what had gone through the guy’s head. Family would claim the bodies, but no one would be able to throw light on the motives raging in a madman’s mind. He sighed again as he looked toward the overturned rig. Too many questions with no reasonable answers … It was always like this after an accident.
Two shaky teenagers sat, chalk-faced, in a squad car giving statements to the grizzled County Sheriff. The truck driver sat in another squad with his head in his hands. He had all ready lost his dinner in the ditch and was trying to down a can of Coke while a state trooper patiently waited for the shattered man to collect himself.
“… I swear I didn’t see him coming,” the teenager was saying. “He must have f-f-fallen asleep at the wheel. I t-t-tried to swerve, but he c-c-came on too fast.” The boy stammered while a paramedic bandaged his girlfriend’s bleeding forehead.
“Then what happened?” prompted the cop.
The boy gulped.
“It was so weird,” he said. “He jumped out of his c-c-car and pulled the woman out. He carried her over there to the tall grass … and then w-we heard him screaming. He r-r-ran across the field, waving his arms. It was like he was f-f-fighting a monster or something… Really weird. H-h-he stumbled around out there for several minutes …” The kid took a quavery breath and let it out, shaking his head slowly.
The coroner motioned for the sheriff to join him.
“Sit tight, son,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He strode across the road to the coroner.
“Whatcha’ got, Bill?” he asked.
“Thought you oughta’ see this, Jim,” said the coroner, pushing up on the bridge of his eyeglasses. "Best we can tell, the back of the car was filled with swords, costumes, old camp-style cookwear - you know, the cast-iron kettles and stuff like that. Looks like they were part of that Renaissance Re-enactment over near State Line Road this weekend.”
The sheriff nodded.
“Yeah, we’ve seen a lot of activity over in that area,” he shook his head. “Never could see the sense in grown people playing dress up and all, especially the King Arthur junk. Feuds, duels, swords … But that stuff sure does draw a crowd in the summertime.”
“Yeah, well…” the coroner cleared his throat. “They probably figured to get a jump-start on all the traffic by leaving tonight. Most of those folks are camping over til morning. Took my own family over there this afternoon for the big picnic on the meadow. Highlight of the weekend and all… Anyway, we heard a lot of them talking about packing out in the morning.”
He took off his glasses and mopped his forehead with a hankerchief before putting his glasses back on.
“Anyway, I found the guy’s wallet,” he gestured toward the tilted rig’s cab. “There’s not much left of him. Cab fell right on top of him and squashed him like a bug. Wallet was on the front seat of the car. Got the wife’s purse, too.” He handed both to the sheriff and continued. “Looks like the boy died on impact. Probably five or six years old. Seat belt all but cut him in half. We found the woman laid out over there in the grass. Her neck is broken, but it looks like she might not have died right away. She wouldn’t have felt much, but it’s still a grisly way to go.” The coroner took a moment to breathe deeply and quell the queasy lurch in his stomach. He hadn’t tossed his cookies at an accident scene in years, and he’d never live it down if he lost it now.
“Daniel Gallwell, age 35, 1530 Bethesda Avenue, Harris, Connecticut,” the sheriff read from the driver’s license. The face staring back at him was bearded and handsome, even though his hair was long enough to be a throw-back to the hippie era. He pulled the fabric-covered wallet from the woman’s purse and continued. “Laura Gallwell, age 32, same address. Well, at least we’ve got their ID’s. I’ll get my office to work on tracking down the next of kin.”
The coroner nodded and swiped at his forehead with the sweaty hankerchief again. By the looks of it, we’re going to be picking this guy up with a spoon and a sponge …
The sheriff sighed. Nice looking couple, by the pictures. Laura Gallwell had a gorgeous mane of strawberry blond curls that framed a pale face with a firm chin. What a shame …
He returned to the teenagers.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. “Tell me what happened next. I mean, after you saw him stumbling around in the field.”
“Then we see the headlights of that eighteen-wheeler …” he shuddered. “The guy went berserk. H-h-he attacked it … s-s-s-screamed like a crazy person. The truck driver t-t-tried to miss him, but it was … well, … it w-w-was like the guy was trying to kill the rig …”
The girl covered her bruised face with both hands and wept on her boyfriend’s shoulder. The sheriff shook his head sadly as he surveyed the bloody scene. They would never piece together what had gone through the guy’s head. Family would claim the bodies, but no one would be able to throw light on the motives raging in a madman’s mind. He sighed again as he looked toward the overturned rig. Too many questions with no reasonable answers … It was always like this after an accident.
←- Worlds Away Part Two | Angel's Wings -→
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Kim
onders:: Oh yes! Basically, the elements of surprise are the highlights in the plot.... I thought the time-jumps were well executed though I agree with James's comment in that I'm not completely sold on the man vs. semi-truck battle. I like the very beginning where Dannel is remembering Lirra as a child into adulthood... it gave me a huge sense of loss when she finally died because there was a vibrant character behind it. Great job Deb! Can I call you that? My friend call me Shel... I hope you will too! Ciao for now.
) I do hope you'll stop in frequently. I enjoy corresponding with other writers, and welcome all comments. About the truck.... hmmmmm... yes, Jim and I have talked about this part. Still not sure I want to change it, but I will think it over after the 1st of the year. It was the "headlights-mistaken-for-eyes" that led me down that literary road... Whether I ever change it or not, I value all opinions and gratefully offer a second strawberry tart for giving an honest appraisal of my work. Thank you, Shel, for stopping by my woodland home!"
As for assisting you with edits, it was totally my pleasure. I was amazed that just a few comments made such a huge impact on you! Your final work was a masterpiece!Oh -- and a writer READS!! I believe we learn best when we find other writers who inspire us to stretch and grow.~deb"
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'Aftermath':
• Created by:
Deborah Cullins Smith• Copyright: ©Deborah Cullins Smith. All rights reserved!
• Keywords: Battle, Bloodshed, Dragon, Festival, Meadow, Memory, Shadow, Swords
• Categories: Dragons, Drakes, Wyverns, etc, Fights, Duels, Battles, Romance, Emotion, Love, Royalty, Kings, Princes, Princesses, etc, Warrior, Fighter, Mercenary, Knights, Paladins
• Views: 769
More by 'Deborah Cullins Smith':
| Room 660 | Silver Lining |
| The Fireplace | Death Stalks the Night |
| Battle of the Angels | Picnic |
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