Book 3 - Into the Nightmare - Page 1
As read on RTE1 - the first page of book three of my trilogy of swords and sorcery ....
A black tide of crude swept up to the city of Mir. An army of Big Eyes, eyes that glittered like scimitars and lances, eyes that gleamed with greed and avarice, the eyes of Desoretti Sandmen. Black hearts swathed in black cloaks. Like storm clouds they came, cumuli of locusts, an all devouring plague and pestilence.
They smelt of the deep desert, of dung and donkeys, horses, camels and wood smoke. They smelt of fear, of whips and chains and dried blood. They smelt of slave ships. Though there seemed to be no leaders still they surged forward like soldier ants, the eight limbs of horse and rider encased in black armour, scurrying over every obstacle in their path, certain of their objective and implacable in resolve.
The citizens of Mir were guilty, some said guilty of the eighth mortal sin. They had taken the treasures of the Desoretti fortress unto themselves. They had adorned themselves with gold and precious gems and jewellery.
But this was not their sin. They gossiped and traded exquisite coffee in the numerous coffee houses. They joked amongst themselves and called the Rangers and the Lord High Sheriff 'Jeremiahs', a bunch of hillbillies and glory hunters.
Even so this was not their sin.
Weren't the citizens brothers, fellow traders and hub of the peoples of the Great Plains? Didn't they bask under the protection of the griffins of Mir and the Praetorian Guards? Didn't the Palace of the Winds float above the city like a guardian angel? Hadn't the Rangers cried wolf once too often? Now you have it. You have guessed. The eighth mortal sin? The eighth deadly sin? The sin of complacency, inertia, lethargy. That's the one that will kill you!
(Hope you enjoyed that little departure from Satoro ...)
A black tide of crude swept up to the city of Mir. An army of Big Eyes, eyes that glittered like scimitars and lances, eyes that gleamed with greed and avarice, the eyes of Desoretti Sandmen. Black hearts swathed in black cloaks. Like storm clouds they came, cumuli of locusts, an all devouring plague and pestilence.
They smelt of the deep desert, of dung and donkeys, horses, camels and wood smoke. They smelt of fear, of whips and chains and dried blood. They smelt of slave ships. Though there seemed to be no leaders still they surged forward like soldier ants, the eight limbs of horse and rider encased in black armour, scurrying over every obstacle in their path, certain of their objective and implacable in resolve.
The citizens of Mir were guilty, some said guilty of the eighth mortal sin. They had taken the treasures of the Desoretti fortress unto themselves. They had adorned themselves with gold and precious gems and jewellery.
But this was not their sin. They gossiped and traded exquisite coffee in the numerous coffee houses. They joked amongst themselves and called the Rangers and the Lord High Sheriff 'Jeremiahs', a bunch of hillbillies and glory hunters.
Even so this was not their sin.
Weren't the citizens brothers, fellow traders and hub of the peoples of the Great Plains? Didn't they bask under the protection of the griffins of Mir and the Praetorian Guards? Didn't the Palace of the Winds float above the city like a guardian angel? Hadn't the Rangers cried wolf once too often? Now you have it. You have guessed. The eighth mortal sin? The eighth deadly sin? The sin of complacency, inertia, lethargy. That's the one that will kill you!
(Hope you enjoyed that little departure from Satoro ...)