The following is another chapter from my yet-to-be-published fantasy novel Shepherds of Chaos. You can read more about that book and check out the prologue here.
This one introduces a character named Konro, whose story takes place in a separate land from the primary story.
This is very much a behind-the-scenes look at the process of creating the novel, because I don’t necessarily expect this chapter to stay the same when I get to making the final version.
I wrote this chapter in 2020. If I’m being entirely honest, I’m not fully happy with it. In fact, I was unhappy enough that I actually did a number of small touch-ups to it before posting it here. It still isn’t quite the scene I would like it to be in the final version. For one thing, it’s still a first draft. Overall, I want Shepherds of Chaos to feel like a heavily researched and plotted book, a book with a consistent, non-gratuitous tone, filled only with very deliberate scenes. I wouldn’t quite call this an example of that.
Anyway, I felt compelled to share it in spite of all that, so here it is for you to read if you so wish.
Milvenar 1, 1350 R.S.
Upon an empty plain in the broken nation of Noshevish, nearly twenty years after the death of High Shepherd Crinir II, a battle was fought in the north between two small armies that left many hundreds dead and, strangely enough, decided the fate of thousands of people who did not care who won.
Those who lived in the region were all-too used to these skirmishes for power—often referring to them as the “Unending Wars.” Which Shepherd prevailed over the other meant little difference to them.
At present the battle was finally ended with a victory for the defending side. Even hours after it had concluded, as the dawn arrived, the terror of the battle hung over the plain still and would not leave until the corpses were dealt with. Light winds swept over the bone-like grass and brushed smoothly against the bodies of both living and dead. A man called Konro stood in the center of the stilled aftermath of carnage amid bustling soldiers and servants mingling about organizing corpses into huge piles. He staggered his breathing, the scent of death heavy in the air, and thought how here in this odd corner of the world, killing was always antecedent to celebration.
The sky above was clouded completely, only faded light breaking through. This land was cursed. It was a Blood Waste, or close enough to qualify as one. Perhaps yesterday’s battle had been the final tipping point. Either way, the land here was festering and grim, dead plants rotting away, crumpled brown grass thinly spread about the hard-packed dirt ground. What few trees still lived here were in process of shriveling away from the inside out, slumping over and decomposing.
Konro had seen worse Blood Wastes, but had always charted a course around them. He found firsthand knowledge now in being upon it for three days that they were impossible to live upon for long. It was difficult even to breathe. He kept his hooded face cloaked over the mouth and nose, serving more than one purpose. He was a large man, close to twenty-five years old, with a hardened, stocky body and clothed in a simple whitish tunic, tan trousers, cloak, gloves and boots, no skin showing other than his face shrouded over by the yellowish-brown hood of his cloak. His weathered hazel eyes peeked out and surveyed the horrible scene before him.
He stooped down as he approached one corpse, this one human. The man had limbs sprawled out awkwardly and lay on his left side, the right being pierced between his bronze plate armor with a feather-fletched arrow. The fallen gray horse nearby confirmed that the man had been tossed from its saddle. Dry blood stained his midsection and the dirt beneath him. Konro squatted down and rested on the balls of his feet, his arms limp as he looked into the man’s dead eyes. The soldier was frozen with wide-open, blue eyes. His forehead and cheeks were flecked with dirt and a few specks of blood. Lips hanging open had dripped now dry blood as well. He was handsome. A short-trimmed beard clung to his face. His helmet had fallen from off his head, revealing similarly short-cut, black, curly hair on his head.
Konro wondered if he had died quickly. In his awkward position that seemed likely, but the fall from the horse may have broken his bones, possibly paralyzed him, leaving him unable to move his limbs as his life slowly and painfully drifted away.
Why did you fight? Konro wondered absently. This dead man had fought for Shepherd Tionis against Shepherd Murosa, and there was his fatal mistake. Konro’s choice to fight for Murosa could not have been more deliberate or methodical than this man’s opposing decision, and yet Konro gambled right and lived. Why?
“Recruit!” shouted a captain from Konro’s right. Konro turned and looked up at the armored man. He wore a helmet shaped vaguely like a lion’s mane and a stylized eagle was spread across the bronze plate on his chest. Each of the soldiers wore something similar, though slightly less ornate.
“Quickly, now. They’re all going to the same place. Sooner we’re done, the sooner we eat. Get going!” the captain barked.
Konro nodded and stood up. He took a step closer to the corpse, grabbing his wrists with gloved hands, and then dragged him through the commotion around to the nearest pile—about twice Konro’s height—and set the dead man up against the pile of corpses. Most of the corpses were dressed similarly to him, but there were several with red, crumpled-looking skin and little on their person but tattered rags. Boggres. Those ones Konro never stopped to examine. He knew their look well enough.
“That’s enough for this one. Light it!” shouted the same captain.
Konro stepped back several paces as two men with pitchers came forth to either side of the corpse pile and started dumping liquid over every inch of it. Konro watched as a match was lit and tossed to it, and it began to light with yellow flames, stark on the barren field. The corpses, wet with oil, slowly blackened and were consumed by the fire.
Not waiting to be shouted at again, Konro turned and went to find more corpses to pile up, making careful effort to breathe through his mouth and think as little as he could about the task he undertook. It would very soon be over with.
Shepherd Murosa surveyed the clean-up from the edge of a fifteen-foot bluff. The battle had gone well, he thought, but he waited on a final tally from his general before feeling too confident. The man finally arrived, stepping up from behind Murosa and pulling off his helmet.
“Final count?” asked Murosa, turning his chair to face the general.
“Not quite finished, sir,” he said with a lick of his lips. “It’s that volunteer. The Marred fellow. He wants to see you again.”
Murosa remembered. He nodded and answered, “Yes, bring him here. I remember him. I suppose he wants payment. And he’ll get it.”
arcreonis.com 