Clarke

This is a story set in a fantasy land named Kraymos. I have drawn a detailed map for the future series of adventures and hope to continue developing a strong storyline and am currently working on many other basic storylines, set in Kraymos, through different periods of time and technology. For example, one story may contain a 'Steam-punk' sort of theme. If you're not sure what Steam-punk, its sort of a mix of western desigh mixed with technology. Or you could just google it! Anyways, this peice is called Clarke, assigned by one of the Kings of Kraymos to obtain the Elixir of Life, in the form of a flower. I hope you enjoy this as alot of time and work went into this little story. Enjoy!

Clarke moved swiftly through the trees, dodging the pathetic arrows that were shot at him from the shadows. A sharp look behind and he saw most of his men dead, a dozen or so remaining, running for their lives. Clarke brushed back his dirty blonde hair and continued to sprint through the bright forest, leaping far over the logs in his way. His breathing had become heavy and his brow sweaty. Clarke and his soldiers of thirty had been running for around twenty minutes. He spared a thought for those dead, but continued, concerned for his own life.
A spear sliced in front of Clarke, descending to his right into a mossy river. He suddenly halted, his heavy cloth delaying. A small tilt of his head and he ran towards his left, holding his shield in front and to the side of him. A few arrows hit the sturdy oak, but nothing serious. He caught a glimpse of the fleeing spearman amongst the bushes and his brow dropped. A surge of adrenaline fused in his blood and he blanked the enemies around him, neglecting the protection of his shield. A muscled man, was Clarke. Born to be a soldier, to be a leader. He was six foot tall and could speak seven fluent languages. He had shoulder length blonde hair and an attractive goatee. He was not an orphan, but he rarely saw his parents. Once a year or so.
He suddenly lost sight of the spearman. Clarke halted, the only moving part, his eyes. His massive hands clenched the leather strap on the shield. A sudden movement from behind the tree and Clarke jolted his arm forward. The shield shot though the air, spinning, whistling in the wind. A frightened enemy. Smack. The spearman fell to the ground, a crippled face, bloody and broken.
Silence followed the crunching squelch.
Clarke looked around, breathing deeply and slow. He hung his head over his shoulder and there were three more men of his, surviving, with barely a scratch on them. He smiled. At least he had trained three soldiers well. Clarke remembered when he was training them back in Maladian. He had taught them the most fearsome move he knew. It was formally known as the crumbling throat, where you pelted your barricaded elbow into the enemy’s neck, but Clarke preferred to call it the ‘Furious Elbow.’ He also remembered a small man, around 5ft6, his favourite weapon, a heavy mace. He had survived. Orizon or Ori he remembered his name as.
A shaky rustle in the bushes disturbed his reminiscence. He darted a sharp stare at the three from where the sound had originated from. A man, covered in foliage arose from the forest bed, wielding a crossbow. The four men laughed, Clarke reaching for his sword, tucked neatly into a back-quiver. As he pulled it free, more men arose: Shrubs on their heads, wearing light leather armour, some bearing two handed axes, others wielding two katanas, one in each hand. Clarke’s heart sunk, concerned for the lives of the tree remaining men.
He turned to his men Ori had his brow lowered, teeth bared, holding his impressive steel mace with two hands over his shoulder. Another with short black hair, clung to his scimitar tightly, a flicker of fear in his eye. Clarke remembered him. He was one of the weakest soldiers, skinny and scruffy. How ironic he had got this far, Clarke thought, but he was proud of him. And lastly, a fat pig-like bald man, bearing a double sided hand axe. He had been fun to train. A good sense of humour and a powerful melee fighter. At last, Clarke spoke “Will we let the vines of the forest take us?” He shouted in a heroic voice.
“No, Sir!” the tree men replied, flooding with enlightening courage. Clarke swung his arm behind him, a glinting piece of metal whistled through the air, finding a place in the crossbow wielding mans neck.
The blood hissed from his neck and he stumbled to the ground, his clothes staining red. The enemy stared at Clarke’s intimate accuracy and progressed towards the four soldiers.
Clarke muttered under his breath: “Will they not let us live… Men! Defend yourselves!” He shouted, shaking the hearts of all around him. Ori wasted no time and with a battle cry, he ran forward in front of Clarke, jumping in the air and pounding his mace into an enemies’ chest. Clarke was the next to jump in, pulling the long sword from his back. He attacked a katana wielding soldier. He had a wide hat on, what the Japanese wore, to hide his bleak expressions. The wise-guy parried Clarke’s thrusting jolt, but as Clarke stepped past him, he elbowed the man in the back of the head and sliced him across his shoulder blades to the ground.
Looking up from the fallen body, he could see the other two slicing and dodging amongst the shrubs and logs. Eybar, the skinny soldier, was using a strange technique: patiently waiting for the enemy to attack and then hold out his sword on their oncoming stance. Clarke smiled. Then he took a peak to his right and there was Serbion, hacking away at enemy skulls and ribs with his steel battle-axe. He then saw Ori spinning with his mace, ruling in circles, digging his heels into the dry mud. He hit multiple enemies, and they comically spun off into shrubs and trees.
Regaining the urge to fight, he ran to a sword wielding fat man. He strode forward to meet Clarke, but before he could attack, Clarke had run into him, thrusting his sword into the abdomen of the giant. Clarke withdrew and met the blades of a swordsman behind him. The man looked confident. As the two struggled to push the other back, the mans hat fell off revealing a long flow of black hair. With a cry of power, Clarke was pushed back onto the ground and landed near the roots of a tree. The angry mad-man stumbled towards Clarke, his sword held with two hands, the point facing downwards. Clarke looked to his right and saw a roughly cut log. He lifted the surprisingly light log, the bark crumbling in his hand and threw it at the mans face, the wood crumbling on contact. He fell to the ground, his sword flying off and drilling into a fat mans body.
Clarke hurried to his feet, only to be put off by a cry. Eybar was running from his right, he swept at the fallen corpse that Clarke had just violently taken off his feet. The slash left a squirt of blood from his back, flying through the air. Eybar then carried on running, to stab a man from the back, his sword bursting from his forced ribbed chest.
Serbion had the last hill, which made the others jealous. A throw of an axe into the back of a head. The squelch had made all three cringe as Serbion stood back to admire his kill. He then pried the axe free and walked to join the three survivors in a heavenly lit area. It was getting towards mid-evening. The squirrels ran back up their trees and the Honey-seekers – small flies that came out during sunset and sunrise to feed on the sap of trees – were arising from the forest bed to feed for the night.
“Thank you, my friends. But, we must keep going. We will rest for half an hour and then move west.” Clarke spoke.
Serbion replied with a deep crackling voice. “Hey, yeah. I can’t wait to get back to Carendor.”
“At least wait half an hour,” Ori spoke in a Scottish accent “This mace is really heavy you know!” The four laughed and sat amongst the delights of the orange lit forest, drinking fresh water from a nearby river and picking the nuts from an obviously named Nut-shrub.
Clarke slumped down against a tree on which Eybar was resting on. He raised his knees and laid his arms on them. “You fought well, Eybar. Unique ways of fighting you have.”
“Cowardly you mean,” he snapped back at Clarke. Clarke was not going to lie to him. He knew that Eybar felt bad about not attacking the enemy, only using his violence in self defence.
“Listen to me Eybar. You may not have the physical strength to fight all the time, but look where you are now.” Clarke sighed “There was once a story of a prince, who averted from violence as much as he could. He was a strong man. One who once ruled over Kraymos itself” Eybar looked up into Clarke’s eyes. “His name was Serénos. He was a peaceful King. In his time of ruling, there were no wars, no dungeons. No murder. It was only until his mother died that he turned to violence. He was so distraught that he killed his servant with an axe. Then, he suffocated his dear wife when she was sleeping. He then joined the army and destroyed all villages that stood in his way. As this happened, the whole of Kraymos turned to violence. Now look where we live.” Clarke huffed. “I hope it doesn’t take a few murders of innocent people to make you realise that you are a soldier…” He looked wide-eyed at Eybar.
“I will not let that happen Sir. The lives of the innocent are too precious. They are the ones that keep this world in balance.”
“You are strong Eybar. I can see that. I will leave you to your thoughts.” Clarke arose and adjusted his belt. He dropped his heavy equipment by a small shrub and walked to Ori. He was kneeling and praying by a river. He murmured a few words before rising to meet Clarke, leaning on a tree.
“Many good men died today, Sir.” Ori spoke “And not just our soldiers. The others had an order to carry out.” He lowered his voice to a calm sympathetic tone. “May all their souls rest in the clouds.” Clarke walked behind him and lay his hand on Ori’s far shoulder and pulled him inwards.
“Aye, Ori. They were good men. All of them. But fate must carry out its endless course. It is like nature: If it stops then all life ceases to exist.” Clarke moved away from Ori and looked up into the leaf-shrouded orange sky. “King Illinass is dying. That is true. Our attempt earlier to cease the flower from the woods was a mistake. It seemed Ultra Sendi had men outside of the City, protecting the flower.
Ori spoke, interrupting Clarke’s lecture. “Sir… We were never told of the flowers purpose.” Clarke turned to face Orizon.
“It can bring life to those who are dying. I spoke to the King, moments before we left Parr City. He said that if I retrieved the flower, then…” His voice broke and a tear ran from his eye. “Then he said he would use his power to bring back Jessica.”
Ori felt His pain. “Your daughter?” Clarke nodded. Ori once had a daughter. And a wife. He had lost them to an invasion on a small mining town in the south called Gorbad. That was five years ago, before he had joined the kings guard. Behind Clarke, Serbion moved from the trees.
“Sir, if I had the strength to walk back into Ultra Sendi, then I would.”
“Aye! Me too Captain!” Ori smiled and from Clarke’s right, came Eybar.
“I would fight to the very end at your side sir.” He said in a more heavy voice.
“Thank you all.” He stuttered, pulling the rears from his eyes. He took a deep breath and made a comforting smile. “Now, let us gather our things and go.”

The moon sat on a cloud as it rose from the horizon; the sky still bruised orange and purple. They had been walking across the plains of Hazland for just over twenty minutes, their legs brushing against the knee-length yellow grass. Clarke withdrew his stare from a dead, lonely tree and peered up into the eye-bleaching sky. There were shades of red amongst the clouds and dabs of it in the atmosphere. It was said that when the clouds turned a deep red shade, blood had been spilt. From the afternoon’s actions, that was certain. He turned to check on his three remaining men. They were a few metres behind him, chatting and acting out actions as they chuckled and laughed. Clarke looked at the horizon, the tops of the trees poking out over a hill. In front of him, the sky was darkening into a deep shade of blue.
Clarke huffed as his comrades strode nearer. And then he spotted a shooting star, skimming the moon and disappearing high into the sky. Serbion noticed Clarke’s stiffness and stopped along with the others.
“What is it sir?” he asked, his voice seemingly calm.
“Beautiful aren’t they, boys?” Clarke spoke, smiling slightly. All three turned one by one to gaze upon the darting stars. They were beautiful. “Listen carefully,” Clarke muttered. The four of them stood there silent and still, glancing at the shower of thinning white strips. As the stars fell, a heavenly hum sounded and Clarke broke the uncomfortable silence. “The songs of the angels.”
Eybar was becoming bored of the glitter in the sky and shot a sly stare at Clarke. His eyes were watery and squinted and he appeared to have his arms around Serbion and Orizon. Clarke looked at Eybar and caught his gaze. Eybar immediately withdrew.
“It is ok to show emotion Eybar. As long as we choose who to show it to.” Eybar raised his head and adjusted his sword. Clarke was smiling, a warm glow in his eyes, flowing from his somewhat heart of gold. He laughed, throwing his head backwards. “Last one to Parr City sleeps with the dogs tonight!” He ran full speed in the opposite direction, and headed north. The others looked at each other and then sprinted after the jumping Captain. They were all men, that was for sure – Eybar coming close at nineteen – But they were all children at heart.
As the moon took its toll and the sky shrouded in a pierced black cloth, the four survivors neared Parr City.