Another Chapter

Okay, here's the deal. I know this has amateur written all over it. It's depressing. I know I explain too much. Especially things which will definitely come up later in the story. Could someone please tear this apart, and help me? This is the first chapter in my largely unfinished book.


Rayk's Death

Reflections of the setting sun through the mist cast a metallic sheen upon everything. The thinning grass glowed golden yellow, as the Autumn leaves sparkled like copper coins. The sky--a silver mirror reflecting the honeyed luster.
As Gynas' skin was more of a golden, and Rayk's a light copper in the scattered sunlight, they blended nicely with the forest. As a rule, Sazean skin was not metallic, but very natural tones, so it was only fitting that if nature glistened, their skin should too.
Sazean skin was a full range of amber colors, from fiery orange, to light yellows, and even browns. Their skin darkened with age. It was smooth, but tough, and overall beautiful. They didn't have hair on their skin, like humans and dwarves. So their faces stayed smooth, but lacked the delicate features, and pointed ears of the elves. Something was different about the Sazean anatomy, which seemed to make them skilled at whatever they. Especially swordsmanship, an art which the Sazeans--supposedly the most ancient of the races--boast to have honed to an art before the other races had ever seen a blade.

Gynas gripped his spear tightly in his left hand, supporting it with the right, absently feeling over the engravings--elaborate patterns carved into the silver throughout the length of the heavy spear, save the smooth tip. The spear was crafted entirely of silver, and Gynas had artfully carved the engravings himself--a tradition to ward off evil. And the inch-thick spear had warded off its fair share of evil. This weapon was well-worn, giving a darker tint to the metal, especially in the grooves, where it was difficult to clean. Even the leather grips--dividing the shaft into thirds--were worn black and smooth. It was well-kept, though battleworn.
"I can already sense him a little," Gynas stated flatly, "It's so odd."
Rayk didn't answer for a few moments, but continued up the steepening path, "I know." Rayk slowed his climb, silent again for a few steps, "... keep in mind, for us to sense a human, he must be powerful."
Gynas now stopped for a moment also, studying his old friend. Something is worrying him. Perhaps he senses something I don't, "I'll be on my guard." Gynas closed his eyes, searching for some feeling in the air, "it feels just like... just like the dead."
"Quite the paradox," Rayk said irritably, "But I sense his life energy also... something death would be devoid of. I hope silver is good against him."
"Steel should be enough if he's human," Gynas gave Rayk's weapon an appraising smile.
Rayk's sword was only thinnly lined in silver--just enough to poison dark blood. Hefting the two-handed blade onto his shoulder, Rayk refrained from smiling at Gynas' comment, but in truth, was very confident in his swordskill; however, the young warrior felt uneasy. Somehow this didn't feel the same as any fight he'd been in before. Rayk was confident. He felt like he could drop his sword, grapple with a bear and come out the victor. Although he would admit freely that if he tried it he would be ripped to ribbons, he FELT like he could. That was one of his biggest weaknesses--he didn't notice any. But now he felt unsure--would skill be enough?

...In the past the race produced highly skilled sorcerers, but very few pursued that path nowadays. After the terrible Sorcery Wars, the pursuit became tainted--frowned upon by their elders. Some of the religious creeds of the time pronounced the entire practice "most dishonorable heresy." Those attempting it were burned. It was a dark time for the Sazeans, and has been preserved in the memory of the people through the ages.
The race of today little resembles their ancestors, being a peaceable people, for the most part, and few remember or hold them accountable for the past.
"Et Il'ea Mya", the Fair Ones, have become one with nature, deeply respecting life. And the persecutions of their past have humbled and quieted them. It is that respect for life that brings them to despise fighting, killing, and death. So it was that Sazeans despised undeath--a foul remnant of their own past...

Rain ran in streams, through the mud and down the mountain. There wasn't much left of it in the sky, but the light fog would have made it impossible to see much downpour anyway. In fact, the only indication that the rain had nearly stopped was the sound--a gradual decrease in the roar, until all that was left were the PLIPS and PLOPS of a dying storm, and the rush of water already on the ground.
Rayk stood with his back to the setting sun, which spread thin about the mist, spraying the entire backdrop a single bright shade. His shadow broke upon the rocky path of the Syemnent Range before him. Dropping the point of his sword to stick in the mud, Rayk paused a moment to let his companion catch up.
Rayk wore nothing to protect him from the weather, being unaccostomed to cloaks, and feeling one would be a disadvantage to him in a fight. He wore a thick cuirass of hardened leather, worn and weathered to a light tan, but now stained dark from the rain. Underneath he wore the earthy tones his race preferred. The rain had washed freely through his muddy brown hair, down his dark skin, and every inch of his clothing before coming to rest in his boots. But his mind was focused, and he ignored the discomfort.
Gynas joined Rayk's side, with visible breath from the cooling air, "We've got another hour of light."
Rayk took a longing glance at the forest behind them, then turned to the uninviting barren of the path ahead, staring into the mist, "There's not much cover for us, but plenty of him."
"He's human, he should be at as much disadvantage as us," Gynas beathed the humid air deeply, letting out a sigh.

They pressed forward through the thin mist, as the sky darkened from yellow to orange, twisting with blotches of purple clouds on the horizon, warming and melting to red, finally cooling to the grey of mist. The sun was gone completely, and its rays no longer penetrated the blanket, but the moonlight from above was unusually bright and warm, lacing the rocks and crags in ghostly white, granting the mist a faint glow. It was fairly easy to see the immediate terrain, but the fog isolated them from all but a small dome of their surroundings.
The Syemnant mountains were full of rocky cliffs--rises and drop-offs. The ground had its share of jagged rocks, but mudslides were common this time of year, from the heavy rains. This coated everything in a thin layer of dirt, leaving a makeshift path for travelers seeking to pass the range.
A thin mist almost always hung about the mountain somewhere, rising to the peaks, settling in the valleys, wandering about like a content hermit, settling down wherever he'd like to rest for a few moments. The mist was always particularly heavy a few days after a storm, and in this day's case the storm had carried on for a few days, and met the rising mist.
It was very beautiful in some respects, which might normally be appreciated by the nature-loving race, but at present it served too much of a hindrance. The mud at their feet was loose and slippery, the rain grew irritating, and the mist frustrating. The dark presence they had sensed earlier slowly increased to intensity. The night sky suddenly seemed cold, but the two were accustomed to this effect, which accompanied the undead spirits brought back to dwell in this world.

...The ancient Great Wars left scars across the land even down to the present day. Sorcerers delved their magic into the nature of life, the secrets, searching for immortality. The creation of the undead was both the culmination and defeat of that endeavor. Life could not be permanently sustained, by magic, but only the shadow of it. Thus emerged the cruel mocklife of undeath--the unfeeling, unsleeping, unblinking continuance of the pains of life to an enslaved soul. The Order was horrified at the gruesome imitations their dark magic could afford... yet unleashed them upon their foes in pursuit of greater power. Of all their foul history, the Sazeans grew to hate this mockery, of both life and death, most of all. Thus began the Dry Wars, or the Bloodless Wars, where the enemy was hollow. These were the greatest, and final battles of what seemed a never-ending struggle, for it had been impossible to predict the event which brought it to a close...

No words were spoken for a long time. Their march continued at a steady pace, each left to his own thoughts.
Gynas really thought about nothing too deeply, he merely concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, steadily upwards, anxiously rotating the spear in his grasp. Rayk's thoughts were deeper and darker. He felt something odd in his own soul tonight. It was like the fear he felt as a young inexperienced fighter. The anxiety of his first fight... all the questions that ran through his head--there seemed so much up to chance, so many possible mistakes he could make. It had been overwhelming, yet something he had tucked away, and somehow forgotten. Now it came back to him--it was uncomfortable and forbidding, but for some reason he felt driven to explore these memories and re-experience the lost emotions--searching every corner, trying to expand the image to see if there was anything else he had forgotten.
They always shared few words when they were on the hunt, but still Gynas could tell something was wrong with Rayk. He didn't seem at all his energetic, strong-willed self. Gynas, however, also knew his friend well enough not to mention it. And so he kept his thoughts on trivial things.

After half an hour of marching up the steep trails, Gynas' legs burned, and sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. Rayk seemed tired too, but it only showed in his breathing, which became heavier, cooling more and more visibly in the air.
They had neared the top of a steep rise. Several yards to the right sheer cliff climbed into the mist above. To the left the trail ended in a sudden drop-off, which carried on for some distance, rising back up at the edge of his field of vision. The entire pit was filled with thick settled fog, overflowing like smoke from a witch's cauldron.
Ahead on the path, stood a figure shrouded in the dark and mist, patiently awaiting them.

The man stood facing partly away, gazing off into the mist, with his hands clasped at his waist, "Beautiful, aren't they?" Rayk glanced sideways at Gynas, who kept his eyes on the human. "Well, aren't they?" the man turned to face them, moving his arms behind his back, and again clasping the hands, standing casually. His robes flowed around his legs, rippling the shadows about them.
Rayk spoke, "Isn't what beautiful?" a hint of irritation in the words.
"The stars!" the man made a theatric wave with one hand, returning it behind his back.
"You know we can't see them through the mist . . . We aren't here for games," Gynas lowered the tip of his spear in the man's direction, in a manner he presumed would look non-threatening.
"Oh, but can't you feel them. Their intent pierces this veil," his eyes remained on the mist above his head.
"You're mad," with a slight nod of his head, Rayk signaled to Gynas he intended to end this without a conversation. He grasped the hilt of his longsword with one hand, letting it drape behind him like a cape as he sprinted forward.
"Tsk, tsk," the human shook his head disapprovingly, taking one small step backwards, as if that were enough to avoid charge.
With amazing speed Rayk neared his target, grabbing his sword with his second hand at the last moment, and--with the catlike agility of a Sazean swordsman--ducked and swung on his knees. With a rustle of dark blue cloth and wind, Rayk felt his sword slice through the air. The man stood a few feet away, with a slight tear in his outer robe. That was fast! Too fast. Rayk was already swinging a second attack at the man's head.
Cling! With a flash of white the man had deflected the blow--using a single arm and a short, slightly curved blade--stepping out of the way as Rayk followed through.
It was impossible. Rayk had struck a heavy two-handed blow, and the man turned it aside like he was a child with a stick.
Through much experience, much of it bad, the two had learned to coordinate their attacks, and Gynas was already on the other side of the man, prepared to cut off his escape. He aimed a low jab, intending to spear through his leg and disable him. The thrust twisted slightly in his robes, piercing the back of the man's knee.

The man held one blade in Rayk's direction. Rayk was now holding back--sizing up an opponent he now considered superior--and had been waiting for him to make a mistake, just as Gynas struck. The man fell backwards to the ground, dropping his sword, and Rayk took full advantage. Going for a quick stroke, rather than powerful, he stabbed at the man's side. Again, there was a bright flash of steel, and the thrust was deflected by a second sword from the waist, hidden in his robes. But now the smirk was off of the human's face. Perhaps he had underestimated them. This game was over.
He tensed his body, and a violent rush of wind instantly emanated from him. Gynas lost his footing and slipped in the mud. Rayk pressed against it, but dared not approach too closely through the disadvantage.
Seeing him now clearly, as the wind held him back, the man had the slight facial features that are common among elves, and the same slender frame. Rayk struggled merely to hold his ground now, and not be blown back, watching as the man limped towards gynas, giving him a hard kick in the chest as he struggled to stand, and retrieving his second blade.
Rather than resisting against the wind, Rayk turned, running adjacent, towards his fallen companion.
Gynas was crouched in the mud several feet from his weapon, which lay at the human's feet. The man picked it up, and shuddered slightly, instinctively tossing the silver from him. "Hmm... what an interesting feeling." The man held his hand in front of his face, surveying his palm with intrigue as though he held a gem he had just discovered in his pocket. The spear clattered off a wall of rock, and fell into the ravine, disappearing in the mist.
Rayk reached Gynas' side just as the man raised both arms in their direction concentrating and focusing the wind. The torrent wracked their bodies, overwhelming their strength--their weary muscles gave way, and both crumpled to the ground.
The man walked over to Gynas' body and casually kicked it into the ravine. A moment later he heard a satisfying noise as it hit the rocks several yards below. It seemed unreal to Rayk, it happened in an instant, as though it were just another unimportant event of the day.

Gynas' arm struck the rocky wall of the cliff first, jamming into a crag. The dead weight of his body and the force of the fall both yanked instantly against his arm, ripping the muscles with a disgusting tearing noise, and gouging the rock deep into his wrist. His back slammed against the steep drop-off below, knocking the breath violently from his lungs.

Rayk had risen back to his feet, and stood motionless, as the shock of what happened registered. Slowly, silently he turned to face the human, who stood calmly waiting, innocently. Rayk couldn't believe the anger he felt. It was for Gynas who must be terribly injured, or worse... but it was also wounded pride. Rayk had never been toyed with like this before, like it was his first time in a fight or even holding a sword. This man was toying with his emotions, and deserved to feel pain himself--pain like Rayk felt. Letting out a war cry, something Sazeans consider barbaric, Rayk charged recklessly, swinging in a wide, predictable arc. The man stepped back, but Rayk continued his charge, one stroke after another, until the man had backed up all the way to the edge of the cliff. One last swing... with the familiar white flash of inhuman speed, the human brought both blades up before himself, catching Rayk's long sword in the cross. Wind whipped against them from the side, fluttering his robes about in excitement.
Time seemed to stand still for an instant. Rayk stared angrily into his eyes--mist grey eyes, cold and barren. Then the eyes darkened. Shadow fell across his entire form, even the blades darkened until they were ashen, and Rayk's sworde sunk through them like liquid, and through his form, which dispersed into smoke. The momentum of Rayk's weight sent him tumbling forward, through the evaporating black. He heard the whistle of a blade through the air behind him, barely cutting his back, causing him to wince as he hit the ground. Rayk turned quickly rising onto his knees, and caught the second sword through the shoulder blade, and deep into his chest. Rayk felt the life leaving his body--the strength of the man's arm supporting him on his blade. It became an immediate struggle just to keep his eyes open.

After dangling a moment, a severe burning pain in his underarm, Gynas finally got a foot-hold on a thin ledge of rock where his body dangled dangerously. Catching with the edge of his boots, and kicking up, arching his back, Gynas released most of the pressure from his arm, and was able to gasp for a breath of air. He could almost see the ground, about forty feet below, and looking up, judged he must have fallen about twenty feet. There weren't very many handholds to climb back up. Gynas leaned against the wall, in the best position he could find to take pressure off of his injured arm, and be able to keep his footing. As he was gasping for another breath of air, a limp, lifeless form dropped through the mist before him, and was gone in a second. All he could sense above was the human.
What was intended as a scream, came out as breathless whisper-- RAYK!