Short Story Contest entry WIP C&C welcome

[Captain Corrigan]

Hi,

Having chosen to use Squire Castiel and the Ruined Coaching Inn in my story (since the creators of both gave open permission, so thanks to them for that) I have begun writing my story. I have to cut it down about 240 words and I'm not entirely satisfied with the second half, but here goes. Please, feel free to point out any fluff errors I might have made, my knowledge of Bretonnian fluff is limited to my memory since I have lost my army book so there may be mistakes.

I hope you enjoy it.

-Corrigan

EDIT: See post #10 for final version
___________________________________________________________________________ _____
“Honour is all, chivalry is all.”

The words of the Knight’s Vow left a bitter taste in Sir Guillaume de Couronne’s mouth as he surveyed the scene of destruction before him.

It was hard to see where either honour or chivalry had been when the bandits had razed the village, and as the mutilated corpses of the inhabitants became visible he cursed himself for failing in his duty to protect these people.

The settlement was a devastated ruin, its rough hovels burned to the ground and the few items of value within them looted. Thick black plumes of oily smoke still rose into the red streaked evening sky, giving the impression that the sky itself was ablaze.

Steeling himself, he rode further into the village, scattering a flock of crows. Behind him he saw his squire, Hugh Castiel, had drawn his sword, the polished steel of the blade a reminder of the retribution that would be wrought upon those who had acted so on his father’s lands. He studied the squire’s face to judge the older man’s reaction to the scene. As usual, his expression was unreadable, and Guillaume wished for a moment that the man was more open with his thoughts.

“Tell the men to move into the ruin ahead,” he said to the squire, indicating the charred remains of a coaching house which was the most intact structure in the village. His voice was barely more than a whisper, and he hated the weakness in it.

“Sire?” questioned Castiel, concerned. Guillaume forced some strength into his voice this time. It would not do to appear feeble.

“This crime is a stain upon my family’s honour, and I will not rest until it has been eradicated. Justice must be done.”

“Aye, sire. Understood,” nodded Castiel.
Guillaume watched as Castiel returned to the men outside the settlement, wondering how the man’s ancient and battered equipment held together. Yet for all that he looked like any other man of his class, Guillaume knew that Castiel was an experienced and capable warrior. He knew also, however, that there was an ambitious streak to the man that his father did not like. It did not do for peasants to get ideas above their station.

As the squire turned a corner and disappeared from sight, Guillaume dismounted and bent over the body of a child. In death, the infant’s features were almost serene, and Guillaume stared into its lifeless eyes for a while.

‘Remember the face of each of those you fail,’ his father had told him, ‘that you might remember that every decision you make will have consequences for those under your care.’

Guillaume shuddered. There would be many new faces to remember today.

He cast his eyes down further over the tiny corpse. An arrow protruded from its shoulder and pinned it to its mother in a hideous mockery of a child’s paper chain. The wounds that had killed both of them still oozed hot and sticky blood.

Guillaume frowned as he noticed. The blood was fresh. He rose to his feet and was about to call out to Castiel when an arrow flew from his left, the arrowhead lodging itself in his side. Guillaume blinked and staggered away, the pain almost overwhelming, and reached for his sword. His hand fell to his side, useless, as a second arrow pierced the mail covering his chest, and he fell to his knees.

He looked up with what he hoped was defiance as a man stood over him and raised his sword. Blood flowed from his wounds, yet he scarcely noticed as he realised that his failure was complete.

“I’m sorry father,” he whispered, before the blade fell.

***
Although the entire settlement had an uncomfortable atmosphere to it, in the coaching inn this sensation was increased tenfold, and Castiel felt his skin crawl as he entered the structure. The tiling on the floor was cracked and the blood spattered across the tiles made the wanton nature of the crime even more apparent.

To the left of the main chamber was a door, and Castiel advanced cautiously towards it. On closer inspection, it became clear that the door was reinforced, but it was not locked and it swung open, revealing a long gallery that sloped downwards into the ground. The room was dark, but Castiel thought he saw the hint of movement in the shadows.

“Vasilles? Come here, you have the sharpest eyes of all of us,” he called to the archer he had brought with him, and the weasel-like man appeared, a sullen expression on his face.

“What do you see?” asked Castiel after a moment.

“There’s…something,” admitted Vasilles, “but I can’t make ou-“

He was interrupted by the arrow that killed him.

“Ambush!” bawled Castiel to the men behind him, but realised that they were behind him no longer. The door had shut, and from beyond it came the sounds of battle.

He swore and ran down the passageway. There was a silken hiss as a second arrow followed the first, but with the door closed visibility was poor and the shot went wide. Castiel saw the archer and charged, clattering heavily into the man. The archer stumbled and fell, and Castiel made to take advantage of the mistake and thrust his sword deep into the man’s chest. The man’s face contorted in agony for a moment, and then he died.

With the archer dead, Castiel moved further down the passageway. The air here smelled of damp, but it provided a welcome change from the charnel-house stench that hung over the rest of the village.

At the end of the passage was another door, untouched by the flames.

Covering himself with his shield, Castiel kicked open the door and found himself in a large underground room lit by guttering torches. He lowered his shield, finding himself alone. He walked across to an alcove in the wall, where several marks were scratched in the wall.

From closer up it was apparent that the marks were a form of religious artwork, perhaps dedicated to a local deity. He turned around, and froze.

For he was not alone in the room after all.

“Relax, Squire. I am unarmed.”

The voice, elegant and refined, belonged to a man standing in front of the squire dressed in a crimson doublet.

“Who are you?” Castiel demanded warily.

The man smiled.

“I’m surprised you don’t know me, Squire. My name is Lord Verne d’Acquitaine. I have had extensive dealings with your master over issues of his debts to the crown of late.”

“Is that why you murdered these people?” snarled Castiel.

“I should think not.” Verne laughed, surprised. “I came here for this.”

“What do you mean? Answer me or I swear I’ll gut you where you stand.”

“You see these symbols?” Verne indicated the scratched marks. “These symbols are ancient religious markings, dedicated to the pantheon of Chaos. Think of it, Squire, the power, the good that could be done.”

“And why should I not kill you now?”

“Because if you kill me now, you lose your best chance of knighthood, and would instead face censure.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Castiel, “but your deeds today must not go unpunished. And no true knight of Bretonnia would turn to such blasphemy.”

Verne laughed.

“True knight? Spare me your nobility, Squire. There are no true knights; only men of destiny and the chaff of history. Which will you be?”

[Warlord Vrrmik]

Very well developed considering the word limit. Great use of imagery and writing techniques. I'm impressed. Keep up the good work, Admiral!

[Blackheart]

I like it.

You're a little over @ 1255 words. 1,000 words is so short, I might have to completely re-tool my own story.

[Captain Corrigan]

Cheers guys. I agree, 1000 words is barely anything, I'm in the process of cutting it down now, MS Word says I'm on 1228 words at the moment so slowly its coming down.

Good luck to both of you with your own entries.

-Corrigan

[Captain Corrigan]

Ok, although it isn't much of a cut down (I make it 1076 words not counting the "***" divider) but here it is. If anyone has any ideas on where else it can be cut down their input would be highly appreciated.

-Corrigan
___________________________________________________________
“Honour is all, chivalry is all.”

The words of the Knight’s Vow left a bitter taste in Sir Guillaume de Couronne’s mouth as he surveyed the scene before him.

It was hard to see where either honour or chivalry had been when the bandits razed the village. As the mutilated corpses of the inhabitants became visible he cursed himself for failing to protect these people.

The settlement was a devastated ruin, its hovels burned to the ground. Thick plumes of smoke still rose into the red streaked evening sky, giving the impression that the sky itself was ablaze.

He rode further into the village, scattering a flock of crows. Behind him he saw his squire, Hugh Castiel, had drawn his sword, the polished steel of the blade a reminder of the retribution that would be wrought upon those who had acted so on his father’s lands. He studied the squire’s face to judge the older man’s reaction. As usual, his expression was unreadable, and Guillaume wished that the man was more open with his thoughts.

“Tell the men to move into the ruin ahead,” he ordered Castiel, indicating the charred remains of a coaching house which was the most intact structure in the village. His voice was barely more than a whisper, and he hated the weakness in it.

“Sire?” questioned Castiel, concerned. Guillaume forced some strength into his voice.

“This crime is a stain upon my family’s honour, and I will not rest until it has been eradicated. Justice must be done.”

“Aye, sire,” nodded Castiel.
Guillaume watched as Castiel returned to the men, wondering how the man’s ancient, battered equipment held together. Yet for all that he looked like any other man of his class, Guillaume knew that Castiel was an experienced warrior. He knew also, however, that he had an ambitious streak that his father did not like. It did not do for peasants to get ideas above their station.

As the squire turned a corner and disappeared from sight, Guillaume dismounted and bent over the body of a child. In death, the infant’s features were almost serene, and Guillaume stared into its lifeless eyes for a while.

‘Remember the face of each of those you fail,’ his father had told him, ‘that you might remember that every decision you make will have consequences for those under your care.’

Guillaume shuddered. There would be many new faces to remember today.

He cast his eyes down further over the corpse. An arrow protruded from its shoulder and pinned it to its mother in a hideous mockery of a child’s paper chain. The wounds that had killed them oozed hot and sticky blood.

Guillaume frowned. The blood was fresh. He rose to his feet and was about to call out to Castiel when an arrow flew from his left, the arrowhead lodging itself in his side. Guillaume blinked and staggered, the pain almost overwhelming, and reached for his sword. His hand fell to his side, useless, as a second arrow pierced armour, and he fell to his knees.

He looked up with what he hoped was defiance as a man stood over him and raised his sword. Blood flowed from his wounds, yet he scarcely noticed as he realised that his failure was complete.

“I’m sorry father,” he whispered, and the blade fell.

***
Although the entire settlement had an uncomfortable atmosphere to it, in the coaching inn this sensation was strongest, and Castiel felt his skin crawl entering the structure. The blood spattered across the cracked tiling made the wanton nature of the crime even more apparent.

To the left of the main chamber was a door, and Castiel advanced cautiously towards it. On closer inspection, it became clear that the door was reinforced, but it was not locked and it swung open, revealing a long gallery that sloped downwards. The room was dark, but Castiel thought he saw movement in the shadows.

“Vasilles? You have the sharpest eyes of all of us,” he called to the archer accompanying him, and the weasel-like man emerged, his face sullen.

“What do you see?” asked Castiel after a moment.

“There’s…something,” admitted Vasilles, “but I can’t make ou-“

He was interrupted by the arrow that killed him.

“Ambush!” bawled Castiel, then he realised his mistake. The door had shut, and from beyond it came the sounds of battle.

He swore and ran down the passageway. There was a silken hiss as a second arrow followed the first, but with the door closed visibility was poor and the shot missed. Castiel saw the archer and charged, clattering heavily into him. The archer stumbled and fell, and Castiel made to take advantage of the mistake and thrust his sword deep into his chest. The man’s face contorted for a moment, and then he died.

With the archer dead, Castiel moved further down the passageway. The air here smelled of damp, but it provided a welcome change from the charnel-house stench of the village.

At the end of the passage was another door.

Castiel kicked open the door and found himself in an underground room lit by guttering torches. He lowered his shield, finding himself alone. He approached an alcove where several marks were scratched on the wall.

From closer up it was apparent that the marks were religious, perhaps dedicated to a local deity.

He turned around, and froze.

He was not alone after all.

“Relax, Squire. I am unarmed.”

The voice, elegant and refined, belonged to a slender man wearing a crimson doublet.

“Who are you?” Castiel demanded.

The man smiled.

“I’m surprised you don’t know me, Squire. My name is Lord Verne d’Acquitaine. I have had extensive dealings with your master over issues of his debts to the crown of late.”

“Is that why you murdered these people?” snarled Castiel.

“I should think not.” Verne laughed, surprised, and indicated the scratched marks. “I came here for this. These symbols are ancient religious markings, dedicated to Chaos. Think of it, Squire, the power; the good that could be done.”

“Why should I not kill you now?”

“Because if you kill me now, you lose your chance of knighthood, and would instead face censure.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Castiel, “but your deeds today must not go unpunished. And no true knight of Bretonnia would accept such blasphemy.”

Verne laughed.

“True knight? Spare me your nobility, Squire. There are no true knights; only men of destiny and the chaff of history. Which are you?”

[Blackheart]

I don't know how much I'd change. I like that you kept it to a smaller more precise story. You didn't try and encompass too much. It's kind of like a game of Mordheim vs a game of warhammer. I think it's well done.

Now the problem of word count ...

had been when the bandits had razed the village, and as the mutilated corpses

Perhaps here we can get rid of "and". Simply replace the comma with a period and begin a new sentence. I know it's one word but it's a start.

and as the mutilated corpses of the inhabitants became visible he cursed himself for failing in his duty to protect these people.

I think you could remove "in his duty". He's a Lord of Brettonnia, it's a given that this was his duty.

So this would be in it's place: It was hard to see where either honour or chivalry had been when the bandits razed the village. As the mutilated corpses of the inhabitants became visible he cursed himself for failing to protect his people.

*I removed had from the first sentence and change "these" to "his" in order to give him a more personal attachment to the slain.

The settlement was a devastated ruin, its hovels burned to the ground and the few items of value within them looted. Thick plumes of smoke still rose into the red streaked evening sky, giving the impression that the sky itself was ablaze.

I might change to: The settlement was a devastated ruin, its hovels burned to the ground. Thick plumes of smoke rose into the red streaked evening sky, giving the impression that the sky itself was ablaze.

That would save some words and you still get the point across.

“This crime is a stain upon my family’s honour, and I will not rest until it has been eradicated. Justice must be done.”

I might changed eradicated to avenged. The criminals must be eradicated, the crime itself avenged.

Anyway, I have to go at this point but you gave me great feed back so I thought I'd at least give feed back as well. Sorry I didn't get too much further into the story but I really don't want to make any rash observations. As always though, grain of salt.

[Captain Corrigan]

Thanks for the feedback. Most of those changes have now been made to the main document on my laptop, and I'll fix them on here too soon. The only point I would make was that the word eradicated was in reference to the stain on the family's honour rather than to the crime itself, but your version might work better anyway.

-Corrigan

[adamwelton]

Looks good to me. It's always hardest to edit to a specific number of words but you seem to be doing your best. There isn't much you can trim from the "meat" of the story, and @Blackheart seems to have brought up the points I would have done. However here are some serious cropping instances you could try that shouldn't take anything away from the prose:

“Honour is all, chivalry is all.”

Honour and Chivalry are Everything.

The words of the Knight’s Vow left a bitter taste in Sir Guillaume de Couronne’s mouth as he surveyed the scene before him.

The Knight's Vow weighed heavily on Sir Guillaume de Couronne's mind as he...

It was hard to see where either honour or chivalry had been when the bandits razed the village

Neither element of the Vow was visible in the destruction wreaked hereabouts.

...and so on. This is the sort of thing you might try. A few passages from Mallory's "Morte D'Arthur" may open a door to medieval prose that you hadn't previously considered. Chaucer is also quite good but the "heigh style" may be a bit too much for general readership, but it would win you some points with the judges for originality.

I believe that the secret to good writing is to communicate the greatest amount of gravitas with the least number of words, and this only really comes with education, experience or practice. You are well on your way however so don't worry too much, especially with all the help you are receiving through the LO forum.

[Captain Corrigan]

Thanks @adamwelton . With your permission I shall use the second of those suggestions almost verbatim, it seems more elegant as well as saving words. Unfortunately I can't change the "Honour and chivalry are all," part, since it is a quote taken from established fluff (the whole Knight's Vow is in the Bret Armybook). I shall see if I can have a look at the Morte D'Arthur at least, although I can't guarantee that I will be able to since I do not own a copy and the window closes in 11 days.

I believe LO-ers themselves are the judges and vote based upon a thread that will be created at the end of the window.

Thanks for the praise and feedback, I shall post up an edited version with a couple of alterations shortly.

-Corrigan

[Captain Corrigan]

I believe this is just under 1000 words.

-Corrigan
________________________________________________

“Honour is all, chivalry is all.”

The words of the Knight’s Vow were ashes in Sir Guillaume de Couronne’s mouth as he surveyed the scene before him.

Neither element of the Vow was evident in the destruction hereabouts. As the mutilated corpses of the inhabitants became visible he cursed himself for failing to protect these people.

The settlement was a devastated ruin, its hovels burned to the ground. Thick plumes of smoke still rose into the red streaked evening sky, giving the impression that the sky itself was ablaze.

He rode further into the village, scattering a flock of crows. Behind him he saw his squire, Hugh Castiel, had drawn his sword, the polished steel of the blade a reminder of the retribution that would be wrought upon those who defiled his father’s lands. He studied the squire’s face to judge the older man’s reaction. The man’s features betrayed nothing, however.

“Move into the ruin ahead,” he ordered Castiel, indicating the remains of a coaching house which was the most intact structure in the village. His voice was a barely audible whisper, and he hated the weakness in it.

“Sire?” questioned Castiel, concerned. Guillaume forced some strength into his voice.

“This crime is a stain upon my family’s honour, and I will not rest until it has been eradicated. Justice must be done.”

“Aye, sire.”

Guillaume watched as Castiel returned to the men, wondering how the man’s battered equipment held together. Yet for all that he looked like any other man of his class, Guillaume knew that Castiel was an experienced warrior. He knew also, however, that he had an ambitious streak that his father did not like. Ambition ill became men of low birth.

As the squire disappeared from sight, Guillaume dismounted and knelt beside the body of a child. In death, the infant’s features were almost serene, and Guillaume stared into its lifeless eyes for a while.

‘Remember the face of each of those you fail,’ his father had told him, ‘that you might remember that every decision you make will have consequences for those under your care.’

Guillaume shuddered. There would be many new faces to remember today.

He cast his eyes down further over the corpse. An arrow protruded from its shoulder and pinned it to its mother in a hideous mockery of a child’s paper chain. The wounds that had killed them oozed hot, sticky blood.

Guillaume frowned. The blood was fresh. He rose to his feet and was about to call out to Castiel when an arrow flew from his left, the arrowhead lodging in his side. Guillaume blinked and staggered, the pain overwhelming, and reached for his sword. His hand fell to his side, useless, as a second shaft pierced armour, and he fell to his knees.

He looked up desperately as a man stood over him and raised his sword. His wounds bled profusely, yet he scarcely noticed as he realised his failure was complete.

“I’m sorry father,” he whispered, and the blade fell.

***

Although the entire settlement had an uncomfortable atmosphere to it, in the coaching inn this sensation was strongest, and Castiel felt his skin crawl upon entering. The blood spattered across the cracked tiling made the wanton nature of the crime even more apparent.

To the left of the main hall was a door, and Castiel advanced cautiously towards it. On closer inspection, it became clear that the door was reinforced, but it wasn’t locked and swung open, revealing a downward-sloping gallery. The room was dark, but Castiel thought he saw movement.

“Vasilles? You have the sharpest eyes of all of us,” he called to the archer accompanying him, and the weasel-like man emerged, his face sullen.

“What do you see?” asked Castiel after a moment.

“There’s…something,” admitted Vasilles, “but I can’t make ou-“

He was interrupted by the arrow that killed him.

“Ambush!” bawled Castiel, then he realised his mistake. The door had shut, and from beyond it came the sounds of battle.

Cursing, he ran down the passageway. There was a silken hiss as the archer loosed again, but with the door closed visibility was poor and the shot missed. Castiel saw the archer and charged, clattering heavily into him. The archer stumbled, and Castiel took advantage of the error and thrust his sword deep into his chest. The man’s face contorted in agony as he died.

With the archer dead, Castiel moved further down the passageway. The air here smelled of damp, but it provided a welcome change from the charnel-house stench of the village.

At the end of the passage was another door.

Castiel kicked open the door and found himself in a chamber lit by guttering torches. He lowered his shield, finding himself alone. He approached an alcove where several marks were scratched on the wall.

From closer up it was apparent that the marks were religious, perhaps dedicated to a local deity.

He turned around, and froze.

He was not alone after all.

“Relax, Squire. I’m not armed.”

The voice, elegant and refined, belonged to a slender man wearing a crimson doublet.

“Who are you?” Castiel demanded.

The man smiled.

“I’m surprised you don’t know me, Squire. My name is Lord Verne d’Acquitaine. I have had extensive dealings with your master over his debts to the crown.”

“Is that why you murdered these people?” snarled Castiel.

“I should think not.” Verne laughed, surprised, and indicated the scratched marks. “I came here for this. This iconography contains ancient symbols of
Chaos. Think of it, Squire, the power; the good that could be done.”

“Why should I let you live?”

“Because if you kill me now, you lose your chance of knighthood, and would instead face censure.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Castiel, “but your deeds today cannot go unpunished. No true knight of Bretonnia would accept such blasphemy.”

Verne laughed.

“True knight? Spare me your nobility, Squire. There are no true knights; only men of destiny and the chaff of history. Which are you?”