The Tommunist
8th June 2010, 09:45
This is sort of a revisiting of a story i wrote a while back. I hadn't looked it for a while, but came back to it today, and just loved some of the ideas i'd put into the story, if not the actual writing. So i'm rewriting it.
Prologue
The howls began about 9 on the clock. The sound whistled down the ruined and rubbished streets, striking fear on all who could hear. Doors slammed, bolts drawing shut across them. at the half ruined city walls, the guard made ready for another night, loading their failing rifles, cowering behind the barricades of wood and steel.
from the darkness outside the city, the howls came closer. massive machine guns were brought forward to those positions where it was deemed they would be needed most, pulled by strained half fed horses. There was a loud wail from a klaxon. 500 meters. A second wail. 300 meters. A third wail. 100 meters. With a whistling sound, the flare shells were sent up, to drop out into the wastelands surrounding the city, there to provide light to kill by. There was a whistle, a low ear piecing sound, and the guards began to fire, choosing their targets carefully, to conserve the low running ammo.
To say that humanity's position was hopeless was an understatement. but humanity had survived this far. This planet had been at war for a thousand years, through the nature of the war had always been different. For the last 1000 years, until the advent of the night a half dozen months ago, this cycle of endless hopeless war had gone on. The night was not as it had been, Before, it had been a lull in the warfare, a chance for soldiers to rest, and gather for early morning attacks. Now the night was the height of the fighting. The crucible of war, and the brief day, getting shorter as the cold of winter descended, was the time to mourn the dead, and shore up the defenses for the coming night.
The Night, that is to say, the horrors of the night, had come from beyond the horizon. What was beyond the horizon was not to said, for No one amongst the general populace knew. For what need was there for exploration, when there was the fight to fight. There was no science, no great paintings, no culture, there was only the religion of war. But It a different beast, the night, from what the populace of the kingdom of the Ksars had thought before. The Hurlack, the 100 cities, even the savage barbarians from the morrow, they were all known enemy's, human enemy's, they could be reasoned with, their numbers overcome, their cities conquered. But the night was unknown, there was no stemming their endless hordes, no reasoning with their hidden leaders. Were their even leaders to the night? there had to be, for every living being had a ruler, someone or something at the top.
The night had come streaming, almost like a unstoppable force, into the lands of the day, the lands of man. The Hurlack army's had been crushed, their last legions fighting their new war with their old tactics at the gates of their elder mountain cities. the hundred cities had been reduced to a half dozen fortified citadel towns in a matter of weeks. And then the night had turned south, to the lands of Ksar. Of any nation, the Ksar stood the greatest chance. Had not it been the armies of the Ksar who had fought and won in the last war against armies from half a dozen country's, empires, and states. But not even the Ksar could withhold the night.
-------------------------------------
Day came around. The sunlight driving the dark of night back to the crevices from whence it came. the last howls dissolved, and a ragged cheer came from battered defenders. But the joy of having survived the night was soon quashed. hundreds of dismembered body's were dragged from the rubble by work crews. in a long procession, lead by black robed priests with silver masks, waving smoking censors with holy scents, the dead were lead down the main street of the city, on great carts, towards the great Factorium at the center of the city. For even the dead would serve the living with their bodies. There, in the great Factorium, their meat would be stripped from their bones to feed those who remained, and their bones ground into a sort of cement, to help repair the ailing defenses.
As the procession made its way towards the huge smoking Factorium, crowds began to gather. Huge, huddling masses, standing silent. For to break the silence would take energy, and every iota of energy was needed for the war effort. A single woman broke from the crowds, running towards one of the carts. long trench coated guards stepped out to stop her, grabbing her arms and trying to push her back. With a reserve of hidden strength, she broke free, pushing back the guards, and ran towards one of the carts. She jumped up, climbing over the corpses, making her way to the top of the piled corpses. She began to cry, cradling one corpses head in her hands."My son" she screamed, tears pouring from her eyes, and as if joining in with her, the rain began, small droplets, light. One of the guards who had been pushed by her snarled, almost like a wild beast. He unhitched his rifle, took aim, and with a single shot, killed the grieving mother. She tumbled from the cart, blood streaming from her head, to fall to the cobbled street, convulsing for a second before lying dead. the cart-man stopped the horse which drew the cart, and hopped down, standing over the dead women with the guard.
"You going to waste that bullet?" he asked, poking the corpse with a iron tipped boot. "Every item is needed" agreed the guard, squatting down. with the practiced hand of someone who had done this before, he removed the bullet from the womans head, cleaning it against her tatted clothes. he stood up again, looked at the cart-man, shrugged, and put the spent bullet in his pocket. "Every item is needed" muttered the cart-man, picking up the dead woman, he threw her on the cart, for that she was, another item to be used in this new war of survival. The procession moved on, no noise was made by anyone, no cry against this injustice. The rain poured down hard now. and the blood from the dead was washed away into the gutters and sewers.
---------------
There was a knock on the door. A knock on a door was always bad news. "I'll get it" shouted the respectable mother Ber. She got up from the small breakfast table (not that there was breakfast, nor would there be any other food for the rest of the day), heaving her bulk across to the room, and standing at the door to the small bedroom of her son. Nathan sat there on a small bed, reading a book, the book was well read, the leather cover fading. With a movement of her head motioned for Nathan to move to he back room, She put a single finger to her mouth. Be silent. A knock could mean one of two things. Either a recruiter, or a equally horrible thought, a death notice man. if it was a recruiter, then, most likely, They were looking for Nathan. Was it such a desperate situation that they needed a 17 year old from a non military family?. Or maybe, she thought, hoping it might be, for the recruiter was a worse thought,the death notice man. Had word finally gotten in from the capital? Bers husband had been up there organizing a series of caravans when word had been cut off. Was Ksar Milan even still holding?. She didn't know. but she feared for the answer either way. She calmed her self, taking a couple of deep breaths. There was another knock. "Coming" she yelled again, waddling over to the door. With a creak she opened it. A man stood there, the long trench coat and gas-mask hanging from his neck denoting him as one of the guard. "Madam" he said, glancing down at a list. "I have an order for the recruitment of a one Nathan Ber." Mother Ber nodded. she opened the door wide, and turned her head back into the house. "Nathan" She called. "Get out here, the nice man wants you".
In the back Nathan heard. The code. It was code for the recruiters here, get out quickly. He quickly walked to the back door, picking up a pre-packed bag as he went. He opened the back door slowly. poking his head out.
A guard stood there, arms crossed.
"I'm here to show you your recruitment notice"
------------------------------------------------------------
The patrol moved down the road. They were the best of the remaining guards, and also the bravest. For they were the ones who marched out into the mostly abandoned country side. They were the Fusiliers. They were the ones who in these last months had manned the wayside fortresses, those holds which allowed communication between the dwindling cities of Ksar. There were a eleven members of patrol 39. there had been 12 the night before, and a month ago 16 members. But the night had taken its' toll, and those who remained were hardened survivors.
The patrol moved down the road. suddenly the captain stopped. His snorted, shaking its head. "Theres something on the road up ahead." with a cough, he brought out a pair of binoculars from a saddle bag. "Leon, harris, with me, it looks like a person, not one of those cursed nightspawn." And he moved the horse forward at a walk. the two Fusiliers he had called moved up with him, unhitching their rifles as they went.
After about a Ksar-mile they came upon the person. With a vault, the captain was off his horse. he bent down upon the body, checking the pulse. It was a young male, about 18 or so, his body was covered in tattoos, in the style of one of the hill levies of gargosh. a long deep gash stretched across his back. "Harris, pick him up and put him on your horse, We're a few hours from Ksar Tenench."
-------------------------
At the top of central keep of Ksar Tenench, a scene unfolded. it was only midday, but a storm pelted, and it seemed almost night. The whole city was on edge. A storm day would mean a legions worth of night fiends that night, and if it was bad enough, attacks during the day. The high lord karon sat at his table, before a great glass window, looking down upon the once beautiful city. many of the buildings in the outer suburbs had been demolished to help patch the ailing walls, those themselves... (To be continued)
Prologue
The howls began about 9 on the clock. The sound whistled down the ruined and rubbished streets, striking fear on all who could hear. Doors slammed, bolts drawing shut across them. at the half ruined city walls, the guard made ready for another night, loading their failing rifles, cowering behind the barricades of wood and steel.
from the darkness outside the city, the howls came closer. massive machine guns were brought forward to those positions where it was deemed they would be needed most, pulled by strained half fed horses. There was a loud wail from a klaxon. 500 meters. A second wail. 300 meters. A third wail. 100 meters. With a whistling sound, the flare shells were sent up, to drop out into the wastelands surrounding the city, there to provide light to kill by. There was a whistle, a low ear piecing sound, and the guards began to fire, choosing their targets carefully, to conserve the low running ammo.
To say that humanity's position was hopeless was an understatement. but humanity had survived this far. This planet had been at war for a thousand years, through the nature of the war had always been different. For the last 1000 years, until the advent of the night a half dozen months ago, this cycle of endless hopeless war had gone on. The night was not as it had been, Before, it had been a lull in the warfare, a chance for soldiers to rest, and gather for early morning attacks. Now the night was the height of the fighting. The crucible of war, and the brief day, getting shorter as the cold of winter descended, was the time to mourn the dead, and shore up the defenses for the coming night.
The Night, that is to say, the horrors of the night, had come from beyond the horizon. What was beyond the horizon was not to said, for No one amongst the general populace knew. For what need was there for exploration, when there was the fight to fight. There was no science, no great paintings, no culture, there was only the religion of war. But It a different beast, the night, from what the populace of the kingdom of the Ksars had thought before. The Hurlack, the 100 cities, even the savage barbarians from the morrow, they were all known enemy's, human enemy's, they could be reasoned with, their numbers overcome, their cities conquered. But the night was unknown, there was no stemming their endless hordes, no reasoning with their hidden leaders. Were their even leaders to the night? there had to be, for every living being had a ruler, someone or something at the top.
The night had come streaming, almost like a unstoppable force, into the lands of the day, the lands of man. The Hurlack army's had been crushed, their last legions fighting their new war with their old tactics at the gates of their elder mountain cities. the hundred cities had been reduced to a half dozen fortified citadel towns in a matter of weeks. And then the night had turned south, to the lands of Ksar. Of any nation, the Ksar stood the greatest chance. Had not it been the armies of the Ksar who had fought and won in the last war against armies from half a dozen country's, empires, and states. But not even the Ksar could withhold the night.
-------------------------------------
Day came around. The sunlight driving the dark of night back to the crevices from whence it came. the last howls dissolved, and a ragged cheer came from battered defenders. But the joy of having survived the night was soon quashed. hundreds of dismembered body's were dragged from the rubble by work crews. in a long procession, lead by black robed priests with silver masks, waving smoking censors with holy scents, the dead were lead down the main street of the city, on great carts, towards the great Factorium at the center of the city. For even the dead would serve the living with their bodies. There, in the great Factorium, their meat would be stripped from their bones to feed those who remained, and their bones ground into a sort of cement, to help repair the ailing defenses.
As the procession made its way towards the huge smoking Factorium, crowds began to gather. Huge, huddling masses, standing silent. For to break the silence would take energy, and every iota of energy was needed for the war effort. A single woman broke from the crowds, running towards one of the carts. long trench coated guards stepped out to stop her, grabbing her arms and trying to push her back. With a reserve of hidden strength, she broke free, pushing back the guards, and ran towards one of the carts. She jumped up, climbing over the corpses, making her way to the top of the piled corpses. She began to cry, cradling one corpses head in her hands."My son" she screamed, tears pouring from her eyes, and as if joining in with her, the rain began, small droplets, light. One of the guards who had been pushed by her snarled, almost like a wild beast. He unhitched his rifle, took aim, and with a single shot, killed the grieving mother. She tumbled from the cart, blood streaming from her head, to fall to the cobbled street, convulsing for a second before lying dead. the cart-man stopped the horse which drew the cart, and hopped down, standing over the dead women with the guard.
"You going to waste that bullet?" he asked, poking the corpse with a iron tipped boot. "Every item is needed" agreed the guard, squatting down. with the practiced hand of someone who had done this before, he removed the bullet from the womans head, cleaning it against her tatted clothes. he stood up again, looked at the cart-man, shrugged, and put the spent bullet in his pocket. "Every item is needed" muttered the cart-man, picking up the dead woman, he threw her on the cart, for that she was, another item to be used in this new war of survival. The procession moved on, no noise was made by anyone, no cry against this injustice. The rain poured down hard now. and the blood from the dead was washed away into the gutters and sewers.
---------------
There was a knock on the door. A knock on a door was always bad news. "I'll get it" shouted the respectable mother Ber. She got up from the small breakfast table (not that there was breakfast, nor would there be any other food for the rest of the day), heaving her bulk across to the room, and standing at the door to the small bedroom of her son. Nathan sat there on a small bed, reading a book, the book was well read, the leather cover fading. With a movement of her head motioned for Nathan to move to he back room, She put a single finger to her mouth. Be silent. A knock could mean one of two things. Either a recruiter, or a equally horrible thought, a death notice man. if it was a recruiter, then, most likely, They were looking for Nathan. Was it such a desperate situation that they needed a 17 year old from a non military family?. Or maybe, she thought, hoping it might be, for the recruiter was a worse thought,the death notice man. Had word finally gotten in from the capital? Bers husband had been up there organizing a series of caravans when word had been cut off. Was Ksar Milan even still holding?. She didn't know. but she feared for the answer either way. She calmed her self, taking a couple of deep breaths. There was another knock. "Coming" she yelled again, waddling over to the door. With a creak she opened it. A man stood there, the long trench coat and gas-mask hanging from his neck denoting him as one of the guard. "Madam" he said, glancing down at a list. "I have an order for the recruitment of a one Nathan Ber." Mother Ber nodded. she opened the door wide, and turned her head back into the house. "Nathan" She called. "Get out here, the nice man wants you".
In the back Nathan heard. The code. It was code for the recruiters here, get out quickly. He quickly walked to the back door, picking up a pre-packed bag as he went. He opened the back door slowly. poking his head out.
A guard stood there, arms crossed.
"I'm here to show you your recruitment notice"
------------------------------------------------------------
The patrol moved down the road. They were the best of the remaining guards, and also the bravest. For they were the ones who marched out into the mostly abandoned country side. They were the Fusiliers. They were the ones who in these last months had manned the wayside fortresses, those holds which allowed communication between the dwindling cities of Ksar. There were a eleven members of patrol 39. there had been 12 the night before, and a month ago 16 members. But the night had taken its' toll, and those who remained were hardened survivors.
The patrol moved down the road. suddenly the captain stopped. His snorted, shaking its head. "Theres something on the road up ahead." with a cough, he brought out a pair of binoculars from a saddle bag. "Leon, harris, with me, it looks like a person, not one of those cursed nightspawn." And he moved the horse forward at a walk. the two Fusiliers he had called moved up with him, unhitching their rifles as they went.
After about a Ksar-mile they came upon the person. With a vault, the captain was off his horse. he bent down upon the body, checking the pulse. It was a young male, about 18 or so, his body was covered in tattoos, in the style of one of the hill levies of gargosh. a long deep gash stretched across his back. "Harris, pick him up and put him on your horse, We're a few hours from Ksar Tenench."
-------------------------
At the top of central keep of Ksar Tenench, a scene unfolded. it was only midday, but a storm pelted, and it seemed almost night. The whole city was on edge. A storm day would mean a legions worth of night fiends that night, and if it was bad enough, attacks during the day. The high lord karon sat at his table, before a great glass window, looking down upon the once beautiful city. many of the buildings in the outer suburbs had been demolished to help patch the ailing walls, those themselves... (To be continued)