Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: None

“Why bother?”

The sailor leaned back in his chair. “What d’ya mean?”

“What’s the point of sailing if you know your ship will be overtaken by pirates?”Placing his hand beneath his chin and rubbing it quizzically, the man shrugged. “I’m a sailor, friend. What else is there?”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Put yourself in a character’s shoes.

Chakal stared into the sweetened wine, his despondent expression eyeing him back. 

A slap hit his back. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?” the patron to his left asked with a wild cackle.

Lost in the crimson swill, the lamenting elf remained silent as he rolled the glass orb between his fingers.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: None this week.

Elethain stared down at his brothers, mutilated beyond recognition—all in the hopes of earning his admiration. Bones and blood were painted around each of their corpses in a gory display. Without a thought, the elf stepped over his fallen kin toward the golden beast, his prize finally within reach.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Hello everyone! July marked the first Fantasy Short Story Contest and it’s finally the date to announce the winners.

To recall, 1st Place will be awarded a $100 Amazon Gift Card and 2nd Place receives a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

There were quite a few submissions – more than I expected to get, which is great! I hope everyone who participated enjoyed writing. If you didn’t catch it in time, the next contest will be taking place in October!

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Our 1st Place Winner is titled ‘Breathe‘ by Joanna Kinsley.

It’s dark… Why is it so dark? Oh, god, my head. 

My head felt fuzzy as I tried to wiggle my fingers. Both arms were tight against my sides and I could feel an odd sort of cloth under my skin. It was thick and coarse with an odd sense of familiarity, but I couldn’t place it in memory. Perhaps it was due to the unbearable throbbing in my skull or just a touch of forgetfulness, who could know? 

I rolled slightly to the left, lifting the opposite hip enough to shift my right arm up. Rolling to the right, I freed my left arm as well. But when both reached up, they were met with a ceiling before they could fully extend. The unexpected impact caused me to jam a few fingers, though, luckily, I was too shocked to feel the pain. I would have preferred the pain. For fear came in its stead. Fear upon the realization that the darkness was due to being trapped within a tight enclosure, of sorts. 

I tried to scream, but as I inhaled I found the air was sparse and the words were molded into harsh coughs before they could make their exit. I can’t breathe! My horror rose exponentially in that moment as I understood that whatever air had been trapped with me was dwindling quickly. I need to get out!

All thoughts went frantic as my fingers ran along my prison, searching for any vulnerability. With every movement I grew more terrified. This can’t be it! No, please! Why me?!

It seemed hopeless. I scratched to the point that my fingernails broke and bled, blinding me with agony. Every instinct in me begged to scream. Perhaps someone will hear me? But what if there is no one around? I’m wasting air! My head continued to pound as the conflict between rationality and desperation crashed against one another rapidly. It was as if molten steel was being poured into my skull. God, the pain! Each time I thought I was starting to calm, the tempest raged once more. 

I halted my fidgeting and planted my hands against my face. For some reason, that seemed to make me feel better. As if the world beyond my fingers—that horrible state of captivity—ceased to exist. The digits pressed against my cheeks and I focused on the familiar feel of myself, shutting out all else. For many moments, I still battled with the fear. But, eventually, it began to pass.

I tried to take a small inhale. But even that small breath was enough to remind me of the lack of air, as I began coughing again, restoring my panic. Even after bringing my hands up to cover my face it took a long while to settle back down—a fact that only irritated my already fragile state more. Reluctantly, my hands retracted. They crept down my cheeks, then to my chin, before slipping away entirely. I thought I would go into a fit again. Yet, I didn’t. It seemed so outrageous, to be ecstatic about something so trivial. But it meant I was alive, and I had a chance.

But time was running out. I needed to keep my wits about me or this darkened prison would become my tomb.

With my mind at peace—as much as could be had—I cautiously scanned my memories. They remained muddled beneath a haze, but the pain was subsiding. Scene by scene, I played my last recollections sequentially. 

I remember the tavern.

I remember the first ale.

I remember the second.

The third.

The fourth…

From there, the illusory scenes were faded almost entirely. I started to panic, realizing I may never remember how I ended up here. My fingers dug into my sides as the fear began to seep into me. No! I must remember!  I tried to alter my perspective and look at the peripherals of my memories. 

I remember the tavern, it was not my usual spot. Why did I go somewhere new? OH! I remember! I was meeting a friend. God, what was her name? Ugh! I can’t remember! Calm down, Alis. You can do this. Keep trying. 

I slid my hands back over my face.

Alright, so I was meeting a friend—whatever her name was—at a tavern I had never been to before. Then… I scoured deeper, trying to recall the events that had occurred as we drank with neither care nor caution. It wasn’t crowded, which seemed odd. Taverns were nearly bursting at the seams within the city. Perhaps… we weren’t in the city? No, we had to be. The next town is twenty leagues to the south. I remember smelling the sweetness of berries as they were roasting. None of the bakers in the north side use berries—I should know, I’m there more often than I’d care to admit… Stay focused, Alis!

A brief wave of panic washed over me as I recognized the time I was wasting, even if only a few precious moments. On instinct, I tried to take in a large breath but was met with only more rasping. My body began to ache all over and the mental clarity I had regained was faltering. 

Hurry! I scolded. Okay, so: tavern, friend, too many drinks, berries, southside. Wait, southside? Why would I ever go to the south side? Everyone knows that’s where the gutter rats and vagabonds reside. Hardly a place for someone like me. No, something must not be right. I would never go to the south side.

The fog in my mind started to drift in with each passing moment. What am I doing?! Why does it matter how I got here? I need to get out! 

I began to claw at the ceiling once more with little progress. Tears dripped down my cheeks as self-doubt and shame plagued me. I couldn’t believe I had wasted so much time just thinking instead of acting. Always the over-analyzer, Alis, never the one to take action. You’re so thick-headed.

‘Thick-headed’, I mocked. I was arguing with myself—perhaps even losing my mind! Out of spite for my own insult, I slammed my head forward into the low ceiling with rage. A part of me was hoping the blow would knock me unconscious so that I could pass without pain. Instead, in a cruel irony, the ceiling groaned as a crack appeared. 

Hah! Thick-headed indeed! The bickering between my consciousnesses seemed to finally have a use. I rubbed my forehead with a finger. It was obvious a bruise was already starting to form. But I couldn’t stop, I had to break free.

Failing to remember the lack of air, I tried to suck in breath to brace myself for the next impact. God, you’re so stupid! I snapped to myself, mentally screaming over my grating coughs. 

Just go! I bashed my head into the wall above me again. As before, the shock, thankfully, muted the pain. I reared my head back and headbutted the ceiling another three times in rapid succession. By the time the last landed, I was clutching my throat, choking on what little air remained. I knew my eyes had to be bloodshot by then but I couldn’t afford to care of such things. I struggled to raise my head.

No! I didn’t have the strength in my neck to slam into the boards any longer. I looked up to see that my bashes had widened the crack to nearly the point of breaking. With the last of the strength in my suffocated muscles, I raised my hand slowly and dug my fingertips around the edge of the crack. Desperately, I pulled. My eyes were nearly blank and I could hardly even form thoughts, but I pulled. 

Just… a bit… more…

My eyes closed and all that I could feel was the coarse board against my fingers. In that moment, I knew that my god hated me. For all the memories that had been stifled came flooding back.

I remembered the friend I met—Felice—and the southside bakery, steaming with berry-filled pastries. I saw the tavern—the Hulking Boar—and the few patrons within, eyeing us with lust from the corners of the room. My recollections returned with pure clarity—including the peripheral spectacle of the man that had followed us as we departed the tavern. The scenes were recreated perfectly, even as his dagger sliced through Felice’s throat in a single slash, leaving her in a pool of blood. I could remember the feel of the man’s hand over my mouth, holding a damp cloth that reeked of an odd smell yet had a sweet taste. 

And last was the feel of hitting the ground, seeing him smile as he stood over me.

At least I can die knowing, I suppose. But, as my life had always proven, my god’s cruelty knew no bounds. The board above me broke, bringing a surge of air and dirt into my small enclosure. I tried to shield my face but could not stop the dirt from pouring into my mouth. I gagged and tried to spit out the foul-tasting soil, but the taste clung to my tongue and I conceded to ignore it as best I could—salvation was in sight!

The hole above my chest was too small to even fit a hand through, but it was enough for air—enough for hope. 

My chest started to seize, but I paid little attention. All I saw was the light piercing through the darkness that I thought would be the last of me. I lifted my arms slowly. They were still weak but rose nonetheless. Tugging at the boards, I was met with even more dirt. I didn’t care. I didn’t consider the risk of suffocating beneath a thick layer of soil. Nothing else mattered except getting out.

As time went by, my muscles seemed to regain their function and I could pull harder. My eyes could still barely stay open, leaving only a small crack to keep sight of the light. It didn’t matter; I didn’t need to see. I only needed to pull.

That singular task blocked out all other thoughts. It washed away the horrific memories of my friend’s murder and that man’s sinister face, grinning wide. Gone were the thoughts of the past, leaving only the future. That hole, tantalizing and taunting. 

I ripped and I grabbed. I tugged and I wiggled. And little by little, the boards began to widen. I kept my eyes closed tightly as the dirt continued to pour in. Blocking out the sinking feeling of my prison growing smaller, I spent all efforts on breaking free. 

I felt one of the boards snap beneath my grip. Excitedly, I felt around to determine how wide the hole had become—still small, but large enough for an arm. I’m almost there! I thought as I pushed a limb through and waved it wildly, feeling a chill wind breeze by.

My attempts to stay calm were pointless, yet it was not fear or panic I felt, but excitement. Eager to escape and with the end in sight, I shook the boards roughly. 

Another snapped.

ALMOST! At that point, I was nearly laughing in joy. Soon, I would be free. And nothing could stop me. 

My entire body was buried beneath the soil by then. Holding my breath, I desperately tried to hurry. Both of my arms breached the surface, but still my body could not slip through.

Since the first board had cracked, everything seemed to happen so fast. I don’t know how long I must’ve been holding my breath for. I couldn’t afford to think about it. My arms worked perilously to break the last plank.

Come on, Alis… Come on!

Finally, it snapped. Yes! I did it! My hands found the sharp edges of the hole and I struggled to pull myself up. The dirt weighing me down slowly started to slip beneath me. With every passing moment I could feel myself growing lighter and rising closer to the surface. Finally, I broke free! I could feel the wind tickle my neck as I shook away most of the dirt in my ears, eyes, and nose.

That disgusting taste stayed in my mouth, but I didn’t mind. I was out. Despite shaking away the dirt, my eyes and ears were still glued with a thick layer, preventing me from hearing or seeing. First, I wiped my eyes. The layer of soil on my hands made it nearly fruitless, but eventually I could open each half-way. 

What the hell?! In every direction around me, as far as the eye could see, were gravestones. And at each plot, hands, arms, or entire persons were reaching through the dirt. Some looked nearly normal while others were decayed beyond recognition, with only bone and dried sinew holding them together. 

I tried to scream, but no words came out. As I looked down for the first time since coming into the light, I could see that I too had been withered. My skin was gray and stretched, as if left in the sun for many days. I tried to take a steadying breath but found myself coughing once more.

I-I don’t understand… I’m outside, why can’t I breathe still? With each attempt to inhale, I broke into a deep, grating cough. What is going on?! I neither speak, nor breathe. My head was still pounding like mad; none of it made any sense. 

Frustrated, I pressed my thin fingers into my ears to scrape out the dirt. As I pulled each clump out, sound filled my ears once more. Singing? 

I looked around for the source. Scanning every direction, I could finally pinpoint the origin. My eyes narrowed to try to focus and I could see a cloaked figure in the distance. He waved his arms, gripping a large staff adorned with a dozen skulls, and a dim, green light whisked around him. No, chanting, I realized. The figure stepped to each gravestone, one by one, and the light disappeared beneath the ground before springing back to the surface and moving on to the next in line.

With unmistakable command, a voice in my head resounded as I looked upon the cloaked figure. It repeated itself a thousand times in varying degree: Master.

(End)

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Next, we have the 2nd Place Winner! This piece is called ‘Brightsteel‘ by Tyamo Okosun!

King Beric Nugard sat in the too-comfortable chair behind his oak wood desk, wishing his guards hadn’t allowed the messenger to enter his study. It had been a good morning otherwise—might have continued to be a good morning, had Beric been allowed to forget his mistake.

“After the expedition failed to make their scheduled rendezvous,” the messenger said, rambling on in his thin, reedy voice as he’d been for the past minute or two, “the border scouts went ranging in the hopes of making contact. They were unsuccessful.”

Beric finally cut him off. “Get to the point, man.”

“The expedition is more than a fortnight overdue.” The messenger paused, looking like he’d rather not continue at all. “Sire, with no word, it must be said… your son is missing.”

There it was. The fear that had been lurking in his dreams for days now. My son is missing.

He realized after a few moments that he’d been sitting there and staring blankly at nothing in particular for some time, and the messenger was still standing by the doorway, watching him.

“Out. Now,” Beric said with only the briefest glance at the man.

“As you say, my liege.” There was a shuffling of feet and the soft thud of the study door closing as the messenger departed.

Beric took a single, slow breath. Then his clenched fist slammed into the table, seemingly of its own accord. He’d pushed away the concern when the date of the expedition’s first expected missive came and went, pushed away the doubts he’d had upon giving Nezar his blessing to join the expedition in the first place. His son was well trained, he’d told himself. No longer a boy, Nezar could handle what came. The platitudes rang hollow now. Empty words to assuage a guilty conscience. Even Beric’s wife, Siena—aloof as she often was—had put voice to her worry. And he’d told her she was being emotional.

Eternal, preserve me, he thought. My son is missing.

Despair threatened to consume Beric, that clawing, clutching terror in his gut, scrabbling at his insides, searching for a way out. He sought strength in the sight of the glass case sitting atop a marble pedestal across his study. Inside was an unfurled scroll, a thin silk ribbon hanging from the curling half-roll of parchment at the bottom. The Commandments of the Eternal, transcribed by holy hands, directly from the original ancient tablet. He took a deep breath, calming himself. He was not alone. The Eternal had never abandoned him before.

Nezar is alive, Beric thought, the words hardening in his mind. He gripped them tightly, as if his reality depended upon their truth. Help he may need, but he remains alive.

He stood and strode from the room, ignoring the mid-morning bustle of servants in the palace. Leaving the privacy of his living wing, he made his way first towards and then through the cavernous public central hall. Queues sometimes blocked him, but never for long. A path would open almost immediately as his subjects deferred to their ruler. He barely noticed.

His footsteps echoed against the marble floors as he headed for the west tower and climbed the stairs leading to General Juno’s office. As he labored, he found himself cursing whomever decided it was a good idea to place the office of the head of military operations atop a ten-floor spiral staircase. Of course, his irritation only grew upon recalling that it had in fact been his decision. He finally arrived, winded and red-faced, only to be greeted by a locked door. He knocked, banging his fist against the wood a good deal harder than was likely necessary.

“Juno! Are you in there?”

The door swung open from the inside to reveal the commander of Beric’s armies, and one of his closest friends, General Lasan Juno. He was a short man, with a brawler’s stature and a clean-shaven face which displayed the scars of many battles, including a distinctive, particularly intimidating one that stretched from his cheek down the side of his neck. The room behind him was spartan, containing a simple desk, several document-covered tables, and a modest ash-filled fireplace.

“I didn’t realize the door was locked,” Juno said. He stood aside, ushered the king into the room, then shut the door behind him. “I heard the news about Nezar.”

It was a familiar greeting, perhaps, but if there was one person who Beric would allow such a lapse, it was Juno. “Then you already know why I’ve come. They must be found. He must be found.”

“I began making arrangements as soon as I heard. Fifty of my finest will be riding west by week’s end.”

“And I will be riding with them.”

Juno seemed taken aback. And why would he not be? The king, riding off to go search for his missing—his only—heir. A recipe for disaster is what that was. But Beric had no other choice. What else could he do?

 “My liege,” Juno began, his tone far more careful now, “I doubt that is entirely necessary. My riders are capable men. They will find your son and return him to us safely. I would stake my life on it.”

“I would not question their competence,” Beric said, waving a hand dismissively. “That is not the point. I simply cannot entrust this to anyone else.”

There was a long pause before Juno spoke again. “Have you thought this through? It is wise to go yourself, to leave your people when they may need you most?”

“Enough, Juno. Now is not the time,” Beric snapped. He paused for a moment, calming himself. Juno was merely being protective, as it was indeed his duty. “I need to do this. Do you understand? This is my son.”

Juno met Beric’s gaze, continued to stare long after anyone else would have averted their eyes. “I understand. But if this is your intention, we must take precautions. Time is limited, or I would send an entire regiment with you, and I would hear no argument. As it is, I will be giving orders for my men to ensure your safety at any cost, even if that means going against your wishes.”

Beric stared back in silence for a few seconds, then nodded.

“Members of your honor guard will need to accompany you as well.”

Beric snorted. “Come now. You and I both know the honor guard mostly comprises nothing more than spoiled sons of spoiled sons. The armories can lay as much gold leaf on their guns as they like, it will make them shoot no truer than a standard-issue musket. Your troops would be forced to spend more time protecting them than me.”

A grin spread across the general’s face. “Be that as it may, I must insist. If not for your own sake, then for mine. I would rather not answer to your lords when they come calling after their sons have been left idle. You’ll take at least a token force. It will save us both a great deal of trouble in the long run.”

“Very well. Do your best to find some that won’t slow the pace,” Beric said, conceding the point and deciding to change tack. “How soon can you have the search party assembled?”

“I can have the men prepared to leave by the day after tomorrow.”

“Two days? Can we not leave sooner?”

The general leaned against the table. “Perhaps midday tomorrow could be managed, but it would be a rush.”

“Then it will be a rush. Make haste, Juno. This is urgent beyond anything else. I will expect your men to assemble in the courtyard.”

General Juno clasped his hand to his breast in a taut salute. “Very well. It will be done.” Then he reached out and put a hand on Beric’s shoulder. “Find him, Beric. And bring him home.”

Beric nodded, then turned and left Juno’s office, his mind already racing as he started back down the stairs. He needed to talk to Siena. She would have to serve as regent while he was away. Then there was the matter of his obligations over the next few months. Appearances and meetings would need to be rescheduled, ceremonies cancelled, hearings postponed. But his responsibilities paled in comparison to the thought that kept running through his mind. My son is missing.

The expeditionary force was Beric’s greatest achievement—the first steps out from beneath his father’s shadow. A great campaign to seek out remnants of the Old World and the Eternal’s grace. Beric had led the first of the expeditions himself. The day Nezar announced his intent to join the seventh expedition, Beric could not have been prouder. Now, his pride had turned to ash and only guilt remained.

I was a fool to let him go.

Beric emerged from the palace hall late the following morning into the din of a crowd in the grand courtyard. Word of his departure had spread, and like clockwork, the well-wishers had come. The smell of lilac and honeysuckle filled the air, spreading from the carefully maintained gardens on the periphery of the square. The sounds of conversation died out as he strode into view, and a hush fell over the crowd. Beric rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, drawing assurance from the holy relic.

Riders stood at attention in the center of the courtyard next to their horses, resplendent in the embroidered uniforms of the Cartulian military and the king’s honor guard. Beric recognized some, good men from good families. He approached the clearing and mounted his horse, a fine black stallion with an immaculate coat and a mane that shimmered in the sunlight. It snorted and shook its head as he nudged the stirrups, turning toward his soldiers.

He looked out over their earnest, expectant faces and stopped short. They’re so young, he thought. Just like Nezar.

He took a deep breath and gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as he fought through a wave of anxiety, refusing to allow his veneer to falter. It would not do for his people to see him distraught. He scanned the crowd with a hard gaze. He needed to be strong.

“Men!” Beric called out to the assembled riders. “You have been chosen to accompany me on a mission of the greatest importance. The Seventh Consecrated Expedition is overdue for their return. Eternal willing, this means they have discovered something wondrous. We set out today for uncharted lands to lend aid to our valiant explorers, that their sacred work may continue. We may face hardships on the way, but we will do so gladly, with strength of will and courage of heart. And when I look upon all of you, see your faces, I am proud. For I know that you do this not for yourselves, nor for your king, nor even for your country. You ride for the glory of the Eternal!”

The crowd burst into cheers as Beric finished, and he couldn’t help but share their smiles. His people believed in him. Just as they believed in his father. Just as they would believe in his son. He nudged his horse towards the road, leading his men toward the palace gate. He wondered if this was how it had felt to be a part of the holy crusades, travelling west to unify warring tribes and spread the Commandments of the Eternal. His goals were more selfish, to be sure, but he would pray to the Eternal each night all the same.

After two days of riding, Beric led his men on a short detour to the Brightsteel Cathedral, the heart of the Eternal’s grace. It stood in the midst of a quiet meadow, surrounded by carefully tended groves of trees and newly constructed housing and gardens. It was hard to imagine that this place too had once been a ruin. Marble columns and arches marked the entryways, and towers and walls that had once laid in disrepair were once again standing tall. It was still clearly a relic of the Old World—at once beautiful and poignant—but the damage time had wrought upon the structure had largely been repaired.

As the riders took their midday rest, Beric used the opportunity to visit the holy chamber at the cathedral’s center. He wished he could have done so alone, but he could not ask the other worshippers to clear the hall merely to cater to his own whims. Their eyes followed him as he approached the ring of small brightsteel disks set into the floor. Shining brightly in the sunlight that poured in through the windows, the holy metal—the Eternal’s gift to humanity—seemed to shift and roil as if it were still liquid, yet its surface remained stationary as solid glass. Kneeling, Beric drew his blade from its scabbard and laid it before him, atop one of the circles of holy metal. The sword’s gold-plated hilt was exquisite, but it was outshone by the brightsteel core that stretched up the center of the blade. Remembering when his father had passed the sword down to him, a small smile touched Beric’s lips.

“This relic is your birthright,” his father had told him. “the marker of kings stretching back for generations. It was my father’s, and his father’s before him. It was a gift, crafted by the most devout of the ancients from the very essence of the Eternal, and it was bestowed as a reminder of our unwavering devotion to the light. Wear it proudly, and through it, the Eternal will give you strength in even the darkest of times.”

Beric’s smile faded. This blade was the legacy of kings. A legacy that had been left to him to protect—to safeguard until he one day passed it on to his own son. That day had always felt distant, but now he was beginning to worry that it might never come.

You have to come home, Nezar, Beric thought, gripping the blade tighter as he willed himself toward oneness with the Eternal.He prayed each night, but here there was something more earnest to it all. This hall was a gateway to divine power. It had stood untouched by the ravages of time, even as the rest of the temple crumbled around it. It was here, in this holy place, that Beric’s father had presided over the prayers that ended the great drought. It was here that Beric’s ancestor Prophet-King Ilsan Nugard had been gifted visions of a unified Cartulia. Here, the Eternal would listen.

Eternal, I cannot lose him. He is all I have left. I beg you to bestow your blessings upon us as we search for those who have pledged themselves to your service. Guide us so we might find them quickly, and guard them from danger so they might find their way home. Help us to help ourselves when we can, and protect us when we cannot.

They set out across the Heartland the following day. Their path was clear, and they made excellent time, taking little more than a week to reach the Marron Forest, border of the untamed. The Heartland roads had been dotted with towns and travelled by friendly faces, but the farther west they rode, the more alone they grew. By day, they rode under the canopy along an old half-overgrown road. All around them, the world was alive. Leaves rustled as the wind blew from the south, birds sang in their varied tongues, and bramble crunched under their horses’ hooves. The air was filled with the earthy scents of forest underbrush. It might have been pleasant under different circumstances. Instead, Beric drove the party forward, fixed only on the miles they could cover in a day without wearing down their mounts.

At night, he stayed in his tent, occupying himself by cleaning his musket, studying his few crude maps of ruins in the wild lands, or attending to whatever other menial tasks he could find to divert his attention. He slept fitfully, often waking from disquieting dreams, only to lay on his back for hours and worry. He could tell that his men were watching him as the days dragged on. He couldn’t blame them—anxiety had begun to wear on his confidence. Some appeared concerned for his well-being, while others sat in silent judgement. But despite what any of them may have been thinking, they said nothing, a fact for which Beric was grateful.

It took another nine days before they reached the West Gate. The road had disappeared some time ago, and the only sign that they were on the right track had been a wide path of cleared brush which had begun to regrow since the expedition’s passing. The gate itself was a crumbling mess of hewn marble in the rough shape of an arch, with overgrown stone walls that disappeared into the forest in either direction. Rich, green moss had grown over the fallen sections. As it was with most remnants of the Old World, nature had begun to reclaim what was taken from her.

Beyond, the forest thinned away and was replaced by a bed of long, wispy grass, waving in the gentle summer breeze. The lonely trees that dotted the landscape in the distance were like islands of leaves in the midst of the otherwise monotonous grassy sea. The Julian Mountain Range was visible in the distance, its snowcapped peaks stretched upwards into the clouds, as if the earth itself longed to touch the sky.

One of the scouts the party had sent ahead was waiting for them near the gate. “My liege, we have a trail.”

“The expedition?” Beric asked.

“Likely, your highness.”

“That is excellent news. Lead us.”

Beric found his spirits rising as they followed what appeared to indeed be the expedition’s trail. Worry still crept into his mind every so often, but the work of tracking gave him something into which he could channel his nervous energy. To his men’s surprise—and his own—Beric joined them around the fire when the party made camp later that evening. He found himself smiling as he listened to colorful stories, only watered down a little due to his presence. When he fell asleep that night, it was with hope in his heart. His son was close. He could feel it.

The party tracked the expedition’s path through uncharted territory, toward the mountains. Grassy plains transitioned into rolling foothills, and by dawn on the sixth day, the mountain slopes had gone from white smears in the distance to a wall that marked the edge of the world, looming high above them. Their snow-covered peaks seemed tauntingly cool as the sun beat down on Beric’s back. Fortunately, the trail became easier to follow with each hour, winding back and forth along rises that offered stunning views of the surrounding terrain.

Shortly after midday, the search party arrived at a campsite near the mouth of a pass that wound into the heart of the mountain range. Clustered around the remains of several weeks-old campfires, they found the expedition’s cargo wagons and a number of half-pitched tents which looked like animals had rooted through them. Nezar and the expedition had been here, but not recently. The trail continued on, however, winding into the pass.

Beric turned to his soldiers as he finished surveying the area. “They are close now. They must be. I ask all of you for your courage, for the will to press on. It is through us the Eternal’s will is done.”

One of the king’s honor guard, a lanky man that Beric didn’t recognize, stepped forward. He brought his fist to his chest in a salute. “You have it, my liege. We follow—no matter what comes. In the name of the Eternal.”

A chorus of assent followed from the rest of the men, and Beric smiled, pride swelling in his chest. Juno had chosen well. “Onward, then,” he said, then turned his horse and snapped the reins, leading his men into the pass.

Carpets of green shrubs and pine forests ran along the mountainsides, dipping down to cover the valley floor in areas. They were forced to circumnavigate the remains of an old rockfall and cross a number of streams that crossed their path, but apart from these, the terrain remained relatively clear as they pressed on. The crisp air smelled of pine sap and carried sporadic hints of briskness from higher up in the mountains. And then there was something else floating through the air. A sound, one that was not a natural part of this place. Bringing the party to a halt with a wave of his hand, Beric paused to listen. It was as clear as it was unexpected—the ringing of hammers on metal.

Beric’s heart leapt into his throat, and he spurred his horse into a gallop. The noise grew in volume as he rode, until it came to a crescendo as he approached a long, shallow rise. As Beric slowed his horse, he noted that the ringing had been joined by other noises. Occasional shouting voices. The rush of pouring liquid. The hiss of steam. He drew up to the crest of the rise, hoping to find the expedition on the other side and at the same time, readying himself for disappointment. And then he froze.

His fingers went numb and his heart raced as he stared. The ground fell away before him and at the bottom of the ridge lay a sight that could only be described as miraculous. From a gash in the mountainside poured a steady flow of liquid brightsteel, shimmering in the midday sun.

“Eternal, preserve us,” Beric whispered.

He was so taken by the sheer beauty of it that it took several moments before he made his next revelation. Monsters walked amongst buildings near the base of the falls. They walked on two legs and had two arms, but that was where the similarities ended. They were tall—too tall—with bronze skin covered in elaborate brown patterns, divided up by regions of scale-like natural armor embedded within. Strange, horn-like plates grew from their foreheads and cheekbones, following the curves of their skulls and fitting together to form a sleek mask of natural armor.  Hair of various colors grew atop their scalps emerging from below the plates. They were long-limbed and well-muscled, and their disturbing features gave them faces that were at once both inhuman and familiar. Even their eyes could have been taken from the tales of purgatory, pupils like rounded crosses set into irises of orange, silver, and gold.

But worse than any revulsion at their appearance was the bile that rose in Beric’s throat as he realized what they were doing. This was a foundry, and these things were working the brightsteel like iron—hammering and casting, carving and pouring, defiling the very essence of the Eternal’s gift with their touch.

Beric’s rage was immediate. Savages! How dare they! He fumed, his gaze sweeping over the sacrilege, even as his men joined him at the cliff’s edge. And then, having taken in the foundry, Beric’s gaze fell upon a defensive palisade. A wall manned by the monsters. A wall from which hung decomposing human corpses. Beric recognized the clothing on the one at the center.

No…

Nezar Nugard hung by his neck, rotting in the sun, flesh falling from his torso, his own sword thrust through his ribs. Beric’s breaths came in shallow spurts as anguish consumed him. Pain burned like fire through his veins, driving reason from his mind until all he had left was rage. A curtain of red descended over his vision.

They did this, he thought, looking toward the monsters. They killed my son.

He drew his musket from its holster on his saddle and charged down the rise, kicking up a plume of dust in his wake. Behind him, he heard shouts from his men, followed quickly by the reports of gunfire as they unloaded upon the foundry. Many of the monsters near the gate in their wall were struck dead, taken by surprise. By the time Beric had passed through, far fewer of the creatures remained standing. The ground was littered with their bodies. Beric could hear the thundering of hooves as the gunfire stopped—his men rushing to his side—but their cries for him to wait didn’t register. All Beric could see were the monsters. The things that took his son.

Many that were still standing held long, curved blades, and they moved to attack Beric. But the barbarians had no firearms. And they stood no chance. His musket snapped up as he took aim, sighting down the barrel. The bullet lanced through one of the creatures, and it died instantly, toppling backwards into a trough of liquid brightsteel. The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the air as Beric tossed his empty musket aside, then drew and fired each of his pistols in succession. Four more were lying dead on the ground before Beric drew his sword. Monsters they appeared, but they died like any man.

They were fleeing now, terrified of this new attacker in their midst. Good. They should be afraid. He breathed in the acrid smell of gun smoke as he spurred his horse onward and gave chase. He gave in to the rage and pain, cutting them down one after another as they ran, carving through their grotesque bodies with his ancestral sword. The sword that was now a reminder of what he had lost, of the end of his bloodline. As the monsters ran, both he and his blade tasted their blood for the first time.

It tasted like vengeance.

Beric screamed.

(END)

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Alright, so those are the two winners for this quarter’s contest! If you submitted and did not place, this does not mean your work is bad in any way. It’s just that I felt more interested in the ones above. There is always the next contest to try again!

Thank you, Joanna Kinsley, Tyamo Okosun, and everyone else for taking the time to submit an entry for the contest. I hope you all enjoyed writing!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: None this week!

High above, the dragon spread an opaque, impenetrable smog in its wake. It twisted and turned in its path, weaving a web of shadows that blanketed the sun. With each pass, the smothered light disappeared beneath the abyss, until there was naught but unending blackness shrouding the city.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Don’t use the word ‘Impossible’.

Koda turned toward Silas with concern. “We’re surrounded. If we can break through, the woods will provide enough cover to escape. Are you ready?”

Silas looked down at his ankle, bone splintered through his skin, then back to his friend. “Yes,” he replied, before plunging his sword into his chest.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!