| Freesword By:Ryan J. Cornelius |
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| I wrote this one in 8th grade for a contest that I never entered due to the fact that I never finished the story. It just contradicted itself way too much and... Yeah, I need to work on it. The story is that of Asha Freesword, a knight in the court of Roc Lott of Allinton (see Dust In The Wind). He has the ability to form and manipulate fire. Fun. Anyway, here's an exerpt: |
| "Black fire." Fire takes life as readily as it gives. Asha had come to know this years before it began to appear everywhere around him. Fire could give guiding light, a source of heat to keep warm. Swords, spears, arrows; they all come from fire. All to take life, but at the same time to protect it. Fire was a source of destruction. Fire was the one thing life needed most.
Fire surrounded Asha and his enemy. His enemy didn't have a true shape; it was more of a shadow, taking on the form of whatever blocked its way. Black fire from his enemy and his own red fire. Asha struggled for each second of life. FOCUS! If he made one false move, or weakened for one small second, he and his friends would be burned to cinders. Around him halls of stone branched off of the central hall where the Twelve were meeting. Had been meeting. He could see nothing but the shadow and stone. Asha jumped into the air and barely escaped the horrible black fire. Sound echoed throughout the empty halls as he hit the floor. Tapestries lined the hallways, depicting battles which he remembered winning. More battles than a man should have to remember. Hordes of twisted vile things killing men. Without the Twelve not one of those battles would have been won. The more of the Twelve who were found, the easier those battles became. They had come a long way from the skin of the teeth victory when only three swords had been found. Asha felt like he had opened a lit forge with his face an inch away. He wasn't covered in sweat; it evaporated the moment it beaded on his skin. He swung his left arm like a sword, slicing across the room with the flames, which seemed to flow out of it. His enemy somehow jumped right over the flames, and landed with another bang. Tapestries filled the empty spaces on the walls. More battles, which they had lost. Not many people understood why Roc had had those ones hung, or even had them made for that matter, but Asha understood completely. Every one of those losses had been horrible until the hordes were driven away. That was how battles in this war were judged: whether the nations' soldiers had been slaughtered or not before the hordes were driven off. And always driven off, never destroyed. There seemed an endless number of the monsters. Asha formed fire as quickly as he could, but knew he'd never stand up to his enemy's power alone, and he knew he'd stay alone with that wall of flames separating the other eleven of the Twelve from him. He tried his hardest to keep from getting between his enemy and that wall, a well placed smack would throw him into it, and nothing could possibly survive that. As if he had spoken his thoughts, a river of flames came at him with force he had never seen before. He made something like a shield, and forced it forward just before the river hit him. The black fire was too strong though, and he was smashed into the wall of stone behind him. The sound echoed throughout the room. There was a table on the other side of that translucent wall of black fire, and around it twelve chairs. Everyone had a flag draped over the back, representing the people of its owner. All but two had been occupied a moment ago. Asha's own, thrown on the ground, and Ascot's which was all but devoured by flames. Those on the other side of the wall of fire stared at Asha and his enemy with wide eyes full of fear. They began to make their way towards the wall as if to run through it and try to help him. "Don't or we're all dead!" He lightly burned their hands to try and force some sense into their heads. They stopped short of the wall to stand and watch. It seemed that they did have minds; the trouble was getting them to use them! Asha stumbled away from the wall just in time to dodge more fire. He was beat up badly. It'll have me in a matter of seconds now! He drew his flame engraved short sword from its scabbard. He was going to die, but not without that in his hand. His right hand rose and fire flew out of it with all the power he had, everything. Every particle of his body was pushed into this one last hope. It's too much! The power was overwhelming; Asha would destroy himself if he didn't release it. Asha cut himself off from the fire, and watched with horror as his enemy smiled and reformed himself. Asha's every muscle ached with pain, and he fought to keep upright, and the shadow wasn't hurt at all! He had been wrong; there was no way to defeat this thing! There was a pale purple burst of light in the corner of Asha's eye, and then another one behind his enemy. Jem, one of the Twelve now stood there, her broad sword in both hands. She plunged it through the shadow's back with a determined look on her face. It reared its head and screamed with agony, but no sound came from its mouth. Asha took his opportunity and lunged towards the monster, sword ready to strike home. The thing smirked, and its mouth formed a laugh that was quite loud, or, would have been had it been able to make a sound. Asha struck at his enemy, accomplishing absolutely nothing. He grabbed its hand, and summoned the last of his strength to make one last bit of fire, as his enemy did the same. Both hands glowed red hot, and then black as night, and then red again, so fast they couldn't tell the difference. Asha saw everything through his enemy's eyes. He saw himself, clothed in his home country's style of loose fitting shirt and pants to make movement easy, and his golden-red hair down to his shoulders. He looked into his own green eyes, and then was back in his own body. There was a terrible ranting in his head, a voice that didn't belong there, wasn't his. Blasted meloc! The curse was unfamiliar, clearly another language. Everything dimmed as Asha fell to the ground limp. |
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| From Freesword |