Alistair gazed through the maze of branches in giant oak leaves trying to hold back tears. It tasted hot and acrid in his mouth, smoke filled the air. Once merry sounds of his village — laughter of children, songs of women, clangs of blacksmith's hammer, now echoing screams and roar of burning flames. The homes to his best ability familiar with the faces of all who drowned in an inferno are stripped back shells, embers smoldering under the star lit sky well blood red.
His body shook, and his breaths stuck in his throat like crying. Squeezing his eyes tightly, he wished with every fiber of his being for this nightmare to be over. A deep voice then echoed through the pandemonium causing him to open his eyes once more. There, riding a giant white horse, sat King Thassalor. Alistair had only seen pictures of the king, but even from a distance, he recognized the cold, cruel power radiating from the man. His jeweled armor gleamed in the firelight, and his face looked dangerous devilish, with a serious smiling expression and long hairs parts of hair on his face.
Thassalor turned and looked at him, the glare that emanated from his steel blue eyes sent a shiver down Alistair's spine.
The soldier hurried to Thassalor, bending down so low that his head was almost on the ground. "Minister, we are done with your (muffled stutter) job," the man choked.
Thassalor did not even deign to glance at him. Instead, he just grunted, but not a human-type grunt — one was more of the sound like that coming from rocks grinding. It was scraping its way right through Alistair's ears. Thassalor spit out the word, "General Ecolier."
"Count the villagers and all the stuff we took And Calculate The No Of Villagers That We Can Serve.."
Alistair quailed at the harshness. Next to Thassalor, a skinny man on top of his horse drenched in sweat gulped. That had to be General Ecolier, Alistair thought. He nodded like a jittery bird. He stammered, the Minister his reply barely above a whisper.
Alistair felt his heart pound inside him, a fluttering bird trapped in his chest that beat too fast and he heard it too loudly.
"General Ecolier," he barked, the word dripping with nastiness. "Count the villagers and all the stuff we took And Calculate The No Of Villagers That We Can Serve.."
Alistair flinched at the harsh tone. Beside Thassalor, a scrawny man on a horse gulped. This must be General Ecolier, Alistair realized. He bobbed his head like a nervous bird. "Y-yes, Minister," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
Alistair's heart was pounding like a scared bird in his chest, and its racing pattern was filling his ears. Each beat was a hammer hitting his chest, asking in silence to be rescued, however, the scared body of his refused. The panic attacked him like a demon trying to torment his mind, pushing through his thoughts and feelings in a multitude of doubt and rage. He had tears in his eyes while seeing the soldiers moving around, and accepted the efficiency that the soldiers demonstrate, coming close to the area. They managed the villagers like they were scared cows, and their rough pushes and orders were like the background music in the smoke-filled air that was heavy. The faces of each of the villagers were a mixture of fear and determination, a glimmer of insolence perhaps, a hidden struggle against the despicable destiny that laid before them.
Alistair's breath stopped short, a croaked gasp hung in the air. Thassalor the King swung himself from the huge black horse, seemingly retrained but still very deliberate in any movement he did. It looked like a big predator was hunting down its victim, every step of its having the effectiveness of power and frightful control. The king was a giant against the onlookers, his shadow growing more menacing towards the ground.
A silence of great proportion filled the place, engrossing and heavy so much so that it felt consuming! Thassalor's eyes slowly wandered about the place, hard and calculating.
He looked like a scared mouse facing a hungry cat.
"We didn't find much food or money, Your Majesty!!" Ecolier stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "Only enough to feed twenty-three villagers for a few months, and not much gold either." Thassalor's face twisted into a snarl, his lips curling back to reveal sharp, pointed teeth that glinted in the firelight. It was a terrifying sight, like a beast baring its fangs. "Then it's easy," he declared, his voice dripping with a coldness that sent shivers down Alistair's spine. The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with cruel hatred. "Kill the rest. We'll take only twenty-three villagers as slaves – the strongest ones, and a few women too. Line them all up in a row."
Alistair felt a scream rise in his throat, but it died before it could escape. His body turned numb with horror. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
Ecolier's face drained of color, his eyes bulging in terror. The king's icy glare froze any protest that might have formed in his throat. With a small, jerky nod, he turned and relayed Thassalor's orders to the soldiers. The once lively crowd erupted into a storm of chaos. Cries of despair and desperate pleas for mercy shattered the heavy silence. But Thassalor remained unmoved, a statue sculpted from cold, heartless stone.
Alistair watched, paralyzed by a terror so deep it seemed to freeze the very air around him. His parents were shoved roughly into the forming line, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and defiance. Tears streamed down Alistair's face, blurring his vision. He wanted to scream, to fight back with every fiber of his being, but his body was a prisoner of his fear.
Then, the world seemed to slow down in a horrifying way. Thassalor drew his sword, the polished metal catching the last rays of the setting sun and flashing with a deadly glint. The villagers flinched back in unison, their faces contorted in a silent scream of terror. A bloodcurdling shriek tore through the air as Thassalor swung his sword in a brutal arc. The sound echoed in the clearing, a horrifying punctuation mark to the scene of unfolding tragedy.
Alistair watched, his world turning numb with horror. With each swing of Thassalor's sword, a villager crumpled to the ground, their lifeless body landing with a sickening thud. The metallic clang of the sword echoed in his ears, a sickening counterpoint to the villagers' screams that rose and fell in a horrifying wave. Thassalor moved with terrifying efficiency, his sword a deadly blur. In seconds, the line of villagers had been reduced to a pile of still bodies. The stench of blood filled the air, thick and heavy, a sickening perfume clinging to the scene of Thassalor's brutality.
Alistair sank to his knees, his body wracked with dry sobs. He had witnessed a massacre, a scene of unimaginable cruelty that would forever scar his soul. A choked whimper escaped his lips. "Where are My Mom and Dad?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with grief. "Are they… are they gone?"
The soldiers, shaken by the sheer savagery of their king, stood speechless. One of them, A Soldier with terrified eyes, finally managed to stammer, "Unbelievable… with one swing, he killed almost everyone… no one has that skill…" His voice trailed off, lost in the heavy silence that hung over the clearing.
Alistair's mind was consumed by a white-hot rage. It pulsed through him, a fire threatening to consume him from the inside. Hatred for Thassalor, so potent and raw, felt like a living thing in his chest, a ravenous beast clawing its way out. He gritted his teeth, the sound echoing faintly in his ears. His fists clenched into balls, nails digging into his palms until a metallic tang filled his mouth. "I will kill them all," he whispered, the words a guttural growl escaping between gritted teeth. The vow was a promise, a dark oath sworn on the ashes of his world. He didn't know how, he didn't know when, but he would make Thassalor pay. Every fiber of his being screamed for vengeance, a primal urge that resonated deep within his core.
The boy was facing a terrifying realization that cut him like a piece of ice. In fact, he was a little scrawny boy of just sixteen years. The already shaken hands trembled with a mix of anger and sorrow which were now more used to piloting a tractor and managing the sheep. His heart that was once filled with pure love and the simple things in the life of a village has now overflowed with a bereavement that was a cold and suffocating. He had never held a sword heavier than a butter knife and had never learned battle techniques except for the playful spars with his friends. How was it possible for him to even think of defeating a heartless tyrant like Thassalor who was a man of ice-cold death? Oy, despair was going to swallow him up, but even the smoldering ember of rage remained, a little spark of defiance, in the suffocating dark. It was a twinkling bit of stubbornness that would not relent, a resolute spark that glowed brighter with each new strand of icy tear splashing on his cheek.
Thassalor, whose face was still contorted into an evil mask, shot eyes that looked like angry faces and ordered the Greek general. "General," he coughed, the word had a death sentence finality attached to it, "have the bodies piled up and burned. We don't need witnesses."
Alistair watched, his vision blurring with tears, as the soldiers shuffled forward to obey. Their faces were etched with a mixture of fear and grim acceptance, a reflection of the turmoil churning within Alistair himself. The soldiers moved mechanically, their movements devoid of enthusiasm, as if haunted by the ghosts of the villagers they'd just slain. The smoke from the burning houses mingled with the acrid stench of blood, a suffocating shroud descending upon the scene of devastation. It was a horrifying tableau, a testament to Thassalor's cruelty, and a stark reminder of the fragile nature of life.
Ecolier, his voice barely a whisper choked with a sliver of defiance, acknowledged the command. Alistair watched, a cold knot forming in his stomach, as the soldiers dragged the bodies together. Dousing them with kerosene in a practiced, almost emotionless way, they set them ablaze. The flames crackled and spat, consuming everything in their path – flesh, bone, memories – a horrifying reflection of the fire that now burned in Alistair's heart.
The tears kept on coming, his grief so deep that it seemed like he would drown, and a newly acquired strength that was like a small light in the dark. He wouldn't allow his parents' deaths to be unmeaningful. He wouldn't get lost in the flames like one more nameless victim and become the second one. No, he would seek out a way to oppose, to be the ember that ignited the uprising, to cease the fire of Thassalor's dominance.
The king, whose face was still twisted in a grimace, gasped as he turned to his general with a spasm that seemed to come from the depths of a person rather than just physical exertion. "General," he rasped, the word laced with a desperate edge, "round up all remaining villagers. We cannot afford any loose ends. Find them and eliminate them on the spot."
The man who had earlier stammered his report, General Ecoier, was suddenly erect in his seat as he stood up and said that he didn't care. There was a flash of almost pity in his eyes as they glanced at Alistair's tear-filled eyes for a second. After that, with a resigned sigh, he nodded in understanding. This whispering was Alistair's quiet but open rebellion to the king's brutality which he didn't fail to notice.
As Alistair's tears were streaming down his face, he saw, thanks to his eyesight being blurred, the soldiers moving through the town below. Soldiers spread in pairs or groups all over the place, the full force of the scorched earth surfaced beneath them following after them like a beacon to a lighthouse. Each emptied pot, each torn curtain, and every doorway were observed with ice-cold precision. Suddenly, he abandoned the breath he had taken earlier, and it was stuck in his throat. His heart was in sync with a violent drum of a racing pulse. "They are looking for survivors", he exclaimed, the words fumbling over a mixture of dread and determination that made him so desperate. He was not going to be the next victim. No, he had to escape. Last he looked quickly at his burnt-down house, silently, goodbye the life he once had.
A choked sob escaped his lips, but he quickly stifled it, forcing himself to stay focused on the task at hand – survival.
A choked sob escaped his lips, however, he speedily overwhelmed it, inducing himself to remain on the subject – which is surviving.
The world appeared to halt for a dreadful instant. The villager's cries for mercy were plain and they did not get a response. The archer has juggled the bowstring with a strength that indicates he has spent several hours practicing to develop this deadly technique. The twang of the bowstring blasted through the area, a sharp, metallic sound that made Alistair's spine quiver. A sickening thud accompanied the arrow as it found its target. The villager fell to the ground, a red mark spreading on the tunic where the arrow came out of.
Archer came out of the hidden, tall and strong with animal grace that was so opposite of the youthful features he had. His face got distorted into a cruel smile, and there was no tenderness and no hint of a joke in it. The soldiers around him went wild with cheering, and their bloodthirsty shouts were the exact opposite of the heavy silence that had just settled over the clearing. Alistair's eyes went numb with horror as he watched the fallen villager and the archer's ominous smile etched into his memory.
Rising to his feet, an icy shiver of dread swept through Alistair, who was wordless. It is my burning desire to survive, his lightness in the chest made him move. He redoubled his efforts, pushing himself into the forest behaving like he would start running again. The rustling noisily trampled by the archer's feet filled the air with a sound that pierced the silent trees for a while. With his head slightly cocked, the archer closed his eyes and for a moment was engaged in recognizing the sound amongst the trees. "Is it just a beast, or something more like a person?" He cast a suspicious glance at Alistair, the light of a flicker of disbelief appeared in his stare. He extended his hand and picked up another arrow while he looked at the direction of the noise. In a second, he pushed an arrow to the beside soldier the arrow was pointing towards the forest he aimed it and shot the arrow soon Alistair appeared within the forest.
As for Alistair, he shied away. In his leg, there was a searing pain that knocked him down, a white-hot fire needle that took away his breath and knocked him down in a swoon. He looked down and saw that an arrow was stuck in his thigh, and the fletching was still shaking a bit. He got teary-eyed with sightless, lucent vision. "It hurts..." he whispered in difficulty, his voice breaking, a strangled cry managing to creep through his lips. "It hurts so bad..."
Despair was coming to him. His vulnerability was confirmed by the arrow, it seemed as it was making fun of his pitiful aim of escape. He was caught. They would surely discover him. He shut his eyes, picturing the soldiers falling upon him, and their taunting laughter resounding in his ears.
However, he suddenly got a feeling of dought about it. He wouldn't give up. Not yet. He pressed his lips together, feeling the irritating pain in his ears. No other way but to excite himself he picked up the pen as his reaction was almost out of order. He was being hurt by any contact, but he was staying focused on the mission. It was impossible not to think about the arrow that he had to pull out or the time that he would buy if he succeeded.
He heard whispering through the dense fog of pain. The soldiers were coming. The viper of fear was coiling in his body. He was faster in his work, feeling as if he was only able to get short breaths. The world was reduced to the arrow, the cold metal, which was cutting through his skin, and the fear of getting free.
At last, with a disgusting pull, the arrow surrendered. Blood spurted from the wound, which turned the money of his garment an eyesore.
Alistair kept his misery to himself, the ache in his leg a constant reminder of his predicament. He hoisted himself up, still depending heavily on a tree trunk. He mustered every strength, he needed to get away and hide somewhere.
That was all, when from behind there was the noise of somebody approaching and the tense silence was broken. His heart was a caged bird, the rhythmic process of air he breathes through snare suffocating the musician. With his every muscle, he was trying to take in a shallow breath, attempting to calquify his jerky gasps. His head gradually leaned to the side, and his eyes landed upon shapes that moved through the broken branches.
"Hey?!" the soldier cried out startlingly, his voice carrying the element of surprise. "Hey!! what the hell did you shoot to ?? an animal?? You should have listen animals in the trees?"
Alistair's breath caught in his throat. Alistair Heard the whispers From the soldiers, Hearing them talk like this.
"No," the archer finally muttered, his voice low and emotionless. Just two words, but they sent shivers down Alistair's spine. "Just follow me." The other fellow holding his posture in the shade was calm, his eyes on Alistair. Soon the archer and the soldier stopped moving and saw in front a boy lying down with an arrow in his leg Alistair also saw the archer and the soldier in front the soldier laughed out loud and the archer too. The soldier, his face breaking into a cruel grin, yanked out his sword and held it out to Alistair. "Hey, poor little kid," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "What's your name?"
Alistair, his heart hammering against his ribs, stammered, "Alistair... Alistair Wilder."
The soldier's grin widened. "Nice to meet you," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "So, were you planning on escaping? Ha! What a bad idea, kid. You can't do anything. You're just a scared little rabbit."
The archer, who had been watching silently, suddenly spoke up. "Wait," he said, a hint of urgency creeping into his voice. "What are you doing?"
Alistair said looking down the soldier came out from laugh came near to Alistair and then the soldier offered his sword to Alistair, Alistair saw the sword and the soldier said, "Hold This Sword and Kill me." The archer was smiling but suddenly became serious and said,"Wait, what are you? Are You Crazy??
Before Alistair could react further, the soldier threw his head back and roared with laughter. "You can't even kill a rabbit, let alone me!.. You think Who can't Even Kill A Rabbit or Fish Can Kill me!!??" His laughter echoed through the trees, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Alistair's spine. Alistair got angry and shouted,"Enough!!" The soldier there with a changing expression saw Alistair and said, "Ohh...I think you are getting angry Coward Little Brat!! You can kill me..huh??What will you do??" Alistair sees up and says with a great evil smile,"I am not afraid of You." Then he removed the arrow A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air. Alistair dug the arrow into the neck of the soldier and escaped With a Jump.
The soldier crumpled to the ground, clutching at the fatal wound, his eyes wide with disbelief. Alistair stumbled back, the sword clattering to the ground. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, a sickening counterpoint to the soldier's gurgling gasps. Alistair ran quickly and fast The archer shouted, "Wait!! noo" The archer shot arrows one by one but he successfully hid under some dark bushes archer there thought, "Incredible..He is so fast that even after he is hurt his running speed is faster..I have noticed before when I was shooting I had to extent the range of the arrow and distance...That's Awesome and shocking.."
Breathless with fear, he said, "What have you done?" his voice demonstrating just the smallest amount of semblance of reassurance.
The soldier, fighting for breath, his face writhing in pain, succeeded in mumbling, "We'll… apologize… maybe he'll… let us live some more…" Alisatir at a very distance sitting with hand-to-hand hiding...The Soldier was able to talk The arrow was not too deep in the neck.
. The Soldier In anger Shouted, "I will...I will Kill Poor Little Bastard..." The soldier and the archer Left the place and Moved.
The soldiers, their faces ashen and drawn, huddled before King Thassalor on the bloodstained cobblestones of the village square. Their once proud armor, now caked with grime and spattered with blood, seemed to hang heavy on their hunched shoulders. They explained everything about how he dragged the arrow and escaped with a run. Thassalor expression of anger became normal with eyebrows angry thoughts with closed eyes.
"Enough!" he thundered. "Look high and low! Check every nook and cranny in this village! Make sure you don't miss anything! Don't you forget the boy! Find him by the time I come back, or every one of you will get what you deserve!"
The soldiers fled away, their boots clattering to the ground in a hurry. Alistair, hidden deep inside the bushes, was relieved to see them go away but also apprehensive. He wept openly, with hot tears making black lines on his soot-covered face. His parents' scared look came back to him, this time before Thassalor killed them. The memory of the village that had once been bright and cheerful now lay in a heap of smoking mess, it filled him with immobilizing grief.
Alistair was hidden and soon saw front the soldier and the archer were gone.. he then started to cry.. and think about the lost parents' mass killing by King Thassalor killed everyone he loved in the village.
A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, carrying a faint whisper. Alistair lifted his head, straining to hear. Was it just the wind, or something more?
He learned over the whisper of the silent sound and noticed it was like a soft, almost otherworldly voice that was permeating the rustling of the leaves and the other muffled village noises. He was talking about a place away, that had not been affected by war and the government. A place where people had peace and joy, and it was called… freedom.
Alistair had never heard the word before, but he could feel the echo of its resonance within him, for a moment lighting the cavern left by his misery with the breath of hope. His dark eyes opened, and a smile of resolve adorned his face.
"Freedom," he murmured, feeling the new word on his tongue. "The place of freedom… it's calling to me."
He leaned against a bush below, and with folded legs, he sat there. He was like a child that was lost, very tiny, and weak. In his eyes full of tears, however, there was a stubborn shine.
"Yess" he whispered, his voice rough yet definite. "The place of freedom… that's the way I'm going to. But first, I have to escape from here. I have to manage to stay alive, to become stronger. I will Soon Conquer all my Enemies…They act too fiercely and No pity..I will Annihilate Them All.."
He glanced down at his leg, the wound throbbing with a dull ache. He would never be able to outrun the soldiers on his own. He needed to find somewhere safe to hide, a place to tend to his wound and gather his thoughts.
With a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet, the pain in his leg sending a jolt through his body. He winced, but he forced himself to move. He had to get to the tree before the soldiers returned.
The Alistair can be seen going straight into the forest. The Owl Was there on the tree seeing but remained unnoticed by Alistair with a Hoot On the tree.
While going inside the forest to the other end, Alistair spotted a small iron sword lying under a tree on his left. Hope flickered in his chest. "Maybe I can use this..." he thought, limping towards the weapon.
He reached for the sword, Again the mysterious figure, cloaked in shadow looked like a wanderer watching behind the tree in the bushes. Alistair Picked the Sword. The Mysterious Wanderer walked and disappeared into the bushes. Alistair Unnoticed him.
Alistair grabbed the sword. It felt cold and different in his hand, not like his dad's old, comfy wood carving knife. But it was all he had. He walked forward, his heart thumping like a drum. Every leaf that shook, every twig that snapped, sounded loud in the quiet forest. He wanted to relax a little, but then he heard another snap behind him. He stopped walking and his heart beat very fast.
A mean voice shouted from the trees. It made Alistair shiver. "Well, well, well. Look who we found."
Alistair spun around. His face went white. There, in the sunlight that peeked through the leaves, stood General Ecolier. The general was smiling in a way that wasn't friendly, and the smile was bigger and scarier than Alistair remembered. Soldiers were behind him, stepping out of the shadows. They weren't the same scared soldiers Alistair had seen before. Now they looked happy in a bad way, and their weapons gleamed in the dappled light.
Alistair was trapped. The soldiers slowly walked towards him, forming a circle around him. His hand was sweaty and scared and the sword he held felt cold and weird in his hand. It wasn't like his dad's wood carving knife, that felt warm and familiar."Looks like you're out of luck, boy," Ecolier said in a voice that pretended to be nice. "Do you have anything to say before we send you to be with your village Peoples In hell?? Huh?"
Alistair gripped the sword tightly. His voice trembled, but he managed to say, "I will fight you before I die." The words sounded strange, but they were all he had.
The soldiers charged at him quickly, their weapons flashing. Alistair raised the sword. A tiny spark of hope flickered inside him. He knew he couldn't win, but he wanted to live. Alistair gripped the sword tighter, a flicker of defiance replacing the terror in his eyes. He wouldn't go down without a fight.
-----------------Chapter 2 End----------------------