Tales from Beyond | Teen Ink

Tales from Beyond

July 11, 2015
By Cameron Kirby, Deeside, Other
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Cameron Kirby, Deeside, Other
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The blade of the sword was sharp. Tempered for 30 days and nights by the finest blacksmiths of the north, as was the tradition. The steel shone so bright in the frost of winter, it blinded Joseph temporally.

A sharp metal tongue is what awaits his neck. An execution of those born under the Phoenix Star. Murmurs from the silence of the audience arose, echoing around stone walls which enclosed him, walls which were as tough a dragon scales making escape insurmountable. The only way out was over the cliff and into the Red Sea. It would mean certain death but that is what awaits him anyway.

The crowd consisted of a literal upper and lower class system. The poorest stood on the dirty and bloodied floor and the wealthy on their balconies looking down on the poor with power which this corrupt Kingdom of the North gives them.

The floorboards of the wooden platform were rough against his bare and slit knees. The wounds hurt bad it was as if he had his leg amputated, as he couldn't feel anything below the knee.His shin, definitely broken.

The ropes binding his hands are frayed and slightly torn. They’re rough, tight and peel his skin every time he flexes his hands.

Joseph’s ears pick up a sudden scream to his left as a murderer is dragged by his bindings across the platform and to the cliff edge. It has begun.

The man’s deathly screams can be heard throughout the city and the crowd which has now gathered cover their ears to stop the sound from haunting them. Joseph looks over his shoulder to see the criminal with a sword to his neck, the executioner taunting him with the blade. A muscular hand makes contact with his cheek forcing his head to snap back to it’s original position. The crowd cheers. In response to this the guard kicks Joseph with his leather boot sending Joseph’s crippled body onto the floor. The arrogant guard places his foot on Joseph’s bleeding head. The vital fluid seeps into the cracks in the wood, staining the execution platform with red lacquer.

Joseph’s head spins, he feels like he's about to pass out. He has to wait. He feels a gross and sickly liquid come up his throat, making his tongue taste the acidic bile from his stomach. He keeps it in his mouth, refusing to embarrass himself.

Without moment's notice the deathly screams from the criminal stops and sound of steel cutting flesh begins. The sword is dragged across the prisoner's neck, cutting his windpipe and letting blood gush from his neck, the dark red liquid spilling over the cliff like a waterfall from the underworld. The criminal's eyes widen with fear and final ounces of life drain away. The executioner kicks the murderer's lifeless corpse over the edge for the body to fall fifty feet and hit the rocks below, to then be washed away by the Sea, turning it red with blood as a warning to criminals everywhere.

A sudden cry from behind him: “Oi, Jerald get ya foot off that bloody Snow Runner’s face and drag him to the damn edge!”

“Just wait a damn second…” The grotesque guard leans in closer, applying more pressure to the side of Joseph’s head, forcing him to let out a groan of pain “Any last words dung face.”

“You’ll regret this,” Joseph spat.

“Hey, Tomas, this big head thinks he’ll get me, from the bloody under’orld,” He turns to Joseph, taking his foot off his bleeding head, then kneeling by his side “I ‘ope the gods rip out ya bowels everyday for the ‘est bloody eternity,” He spits at Joseph’s face. The foul liquid hitting him above his bruised left eye, as one final insult, as if he hadn’t endured enough.

“For the sake of the gods Jerald, drag the fud over ‘ere and let’s get on with it, ‘aven’t got all day.”

The hard-featured guard walks triumphantly around the back of Joseph, then shock absorbs him temporally, “Tomas, tis blunt head has untied ‘is bindings” Taking this opportunity Joseph gets to his feet, as fast as he can with a broken leg, turns around and pulls back his fist to hit the guard. His fist flys through the air and makes contact with the guards nose. He hears a snap and blood pours out from the guards nostrils and where Joseph had broken the skin. The crowd stands in shock, glaring in confusion of what’s just happened. Two other guards (slightly less ugly that the other one) run from his left and right and grab Joseph's arms, pulling them behind his back, almost breaking them.

“He broke me bloody nose, he broke me bloody nose, he broke it, ‘e broke it,” The guard moaned rolling about on his side like a baby, holding his head his hands, unsuccessfully keeping the blood from dripping on the floor.

“Oh quit your ruddy whining. It’s ruddy improvement” Joseph says, with his new found courage.

“You ‘ust don know ‘en to ‘op ‘ausing ‘uddy trouble, do ya?” The guard says’ trying to speak through his bloodied lips.

Without a word the two guards drag him off to the edge.

Before the two guards could take five steps the the bloodied guard which Joseph had hit got up and was standing in front of him, holding his broken nose; the blood pouring out collecting in his hands, seeping through, then dripping onto the wood staining it, as it froze in the cold climate.

Joseph looked up, to avoid eye contact with the now intimidating guard, the low winter sun caught his eye and glared at him, swallowing his vision in bright, almost holy, light.

As Joseph looked away he caught out the corner of his a eye a fist, fresh with blood, blood that was still wet. In less than a split second it made contact with his temple. The pain overwhelmed his brain, his head exploded with pain. His legs suddenly gave way and then he was consumed by blackness.

His eyes opened to to the bloodied floor, he couldn't move his body, he only could stay conscious for a second at a time. He woke again to the to him being dragged across the platform, the side of his head dripped with blood, the vital fluid had seemed to have crawled across his face as it now ran down his skin past his eye. It felt warm against his skin, and left a trail of dry blood down the side of his face. He tries to look but the orange sun blind him again. The blackness then consumed him again.

He wakes with his head over the cliff. A drop of blood falls of his face, falling fifty in seconds and hitting the rocks below. He’s yanked up quickly into a kneeling position, by the hair, it pulls on the just above his eyes opening up an old wound. The blood slowly pouring down his face, blinding one eye.

He sees the sharp blade in front of him, placed in a position to slice open his neck. The blade glints in the sunlight, forcing Joseph to wince at the brightness.

“Any last words, dung face?” It’s was clearly the bloodied guard mocking him one last time. This was when Joseph decided.
“May the gods have no mercy on your soul…” With these final words he fell off the cliff, not letting the blade touch his neck

The long forest, dark and foreboding. The only light was the streams of sun shining through the cracks in the canopy, and those occasional torches lit with holy fire to drive away the demons of the dark. The trees where thin, their bark however was as hard as dragon eggs turned stone by the ages. The bark of these trees would shatter any ordinary steel, even with the softest of contact. The trees only branch out at the top and the leaves of the branches are small yet still so many per tree that they can block out the sun and keep in the cold.

Crack.

Deer? Squirrel?... Shadow?... Crack.

A figure moves across the path, left to right, blending in with the darkness.

Crack.

“Keep calm Tom. Keep calm.” He reassures himself.

Days after days at a post here can drive a man mad. Tom tried to focus on the path, the dirt is cold, he can feel it through the soles of his boots. The paths swerves around a tree and is then consumed by darkness. The tree is small and branches out at the bottom, yet it wasn’t there a couple of days ago, the last time he took this route on his patrol.

Crack. It’s close. The sound of running is picked up by Tom’s sensitive ears. Whatever it is, it treads with care and tries not to make a noise.

Crack...Crack.

This time it brushes past Tom and his body goes cold, sending literal shivers up his spine.

Snap. (the sound of a breaking branch)

It’s comes from his right.

Crack.

From his left. It’s circling him.

“Where the on the bloody earth is Christian?” Tom said outloud. He looks toward the two torches, lit with holy fire, mounted on either side of the path in front of him.

Crack.

This time from behind him. He swivels round, instinctively with his bow draw. Nothing, but trees and the dreaded darkness. A wind picks up and abruptly stops.

He turns around. The light from the torches is gone, smothered in a malodorous tar-like substance. The darkness is coming.

He can’t run, he will never make it. The edge of the forest is at least 15 miles away, his stamina isn’t great, and the shadows will easily catch up to him.

“Christian!” Tom makes a full three hundred and sixty degree turn and if as on cue he appears out the darkness.

He’s dead. A voice inside his head, not his, not Christian’s. He’s dead. Tom looks at Christian. “Christian?” Tom asks, no reply.


No movement either.

It isn’t Christian. It’s his soul… A shadow.      

That's when the bright, blood-thirsty red eyes appeared from the darkness. No one made a movement, not even Tom.

Crack.

From behind him. "Gods help me," Tom says, the fear, of what stared at him, destroying him from inside out.

Tom slowly turns one hundred and eighty degrees, hands in the air, surrendering to the shadow.

The shadows rip through his body, turning his heart to dust. He falls to ground. Dead.

This was her fifteenth night on horseback. Riding along the cold moor, the heather was covered in mildew that sparkled in the rising sun of the morning. You could feel winter all through your body, from your toes to your ears, no matter how many layer of fur and leather you put on.

She was a courier, nineteens years old or was she twenty, it was hold to keep track of time when you were constantly travelling. With the NNCS (Nation Northern Courier Service) you could end up anywhere in the north, from western coast of Lamret to the mountain walls of Froston.

She spotted a whitetail elk about thirty feet away from her, it’s long legs allowing it to move through the heather with ease, occasionally dipping it’s head into the moor to eat the purple flower. It’s silhouette was so pretty against the orange sun. She was hungry, he supplies were low and she could use another layer, other than a blouse and a fur jacket.

She hated to kill the poor thing but her hunger overwhelmed her to pull back the string of the bow and let the red feathered arrow fly. The steel tipped arrow hit the creature in the neck, a quick death.

She pulled on the reins of her horse, giving the beast the signal to stop. She dismounted the horse and unsheathed a hunting knife, the blade still had the dried and stained blood of a the last rabbit she came across a few days before.

She turns to look at the elk. It’s still standing. It’s not moving. Thats when she notices that the wind has stopped and the heather didn’t sway. The world was still.

She ran towards the elk, through the heather and poppies of the moor. The whole world had gone cold, colder than usual. The arrow was inches away from touching the neck the elk. she touched the arrow it and it instantly dropped to the ground. Cutting the heather and her finger.

Blood slowly dripped from the cut. Each drop stopping just before it the ground defying gravity.

A darkness suddenly blocks out sun. It crawled along the ground, and it smelled of death, the goo crawled through the heather infecting everything it touched, turning it black with death. The poppies wilted and the heather shriveled up. It consumed the elk.

It was metres away from her. She couldn’t move, she was absorbed in fear. The goo was wet she could feel it soak through her clothes and soak her skin, it slowly climbed up her leg, the web-like goo wrapping itself around her leg and up her torso, around her arm and strangling her neck then consuming her vision in blackness, then the rest of her head.

Then goo was gone and her clothes were dry. But she was no longer in the moor.

A surface rubbed against her back, it was rough, like bark. It was completely dark. Several figures stood with ter back to her. Her brother stood in front of them, Shadows.

She tried to move but something held her to the tree. The Shadows closed in on her brother, they flew through him, some raised sword and consumed him. He fell to his knees. Black blood fell out of his neck, he was gone. “Tom!”

He fell to ground, lifeless, his corpse pale and his face, the expression of pain.

A dark, cold hand blanketed her mouth stopping her from screaming. Thin curls of smoke rose from the hand. Fear absorbed her. She knew what it was. The shadow pulled out a knife, it was black and like it’s hands and smoke also filled the air around it.

She tried to scream but she couldn't, the hand sucked in the sound like a void. The demon moves the knife toward her neck. Hopelessness fills her.

The knife is dragged across her neck, slitting her throat, drowning her in her own blood.
The rope that was binding her to the tree had gone. She fell to the floor dead.

Jack sat at the round table. The room was lit by candle light, a very dim setting for a very serious game. The wooden floor was old but well kept and regularly polished, the gangster obviously played often.

Jack checked for the flintlock at his belt and the ace of spades up his sleeve. They sat at either end of the wooden table, blanketed with green felt made from a combination of lion fur and dye made from a mint.

He c***ed the pistol, as quietly as he could, the click still sounded and the gangster obviously heard it, as his ears twitched.

“We need to get the piping fixed Charles,” The gangster looked at the man in the doorway. The gangster himself must of been thirty, he was only fourteen. The gangster looked back at him giving him a smirk.

The dealer, his friend and partner in this operation, gave him a worried look. Jack just nodded, a signal to start the game.

“Gentlemen, the game has now begun,” The dealer said, the worry showing on his face. He dealt them two cards each, which slid across the green felt.

Jack looked at his cards. A queen and a king. He pulled the king out and replaced it for the ace in his sleeve. No one noticed.

“Please place your bets” His friend said, the concern showing. Jack pushed in all his chips, keeping his poker face on. No expression at all showed on Jack’s face.

The gangster attempted to read his face but no information would come out. He also put in all his chips. Together they are worth 15 million jins. Enough money to move his family out of this wretched city and start a new life.

“Gentlemen, please show your cards,”

The gangster showed first “20,” he replied with a smirk on his face. But then smirk faded when Jack smiled.

“Blackjack, 21,”

“I win,” the gangster replied.

Jack pulled his flintlock pistol and aimed it at the gangsters face. “You obviously don’t understand, I got blackjack, Mack pull your gun,” But the dealer didn’t pull his gun on the gangster. But on Jack. When Jack turned his head he was looking down the barrel of his friends gun.

“Sorry Jack, self-preservation.”

“Mack, your sister, you can free her with the money.”

“The Gang released her two days ago, in exchange for your life.”

“Mack don’t do -”

“Sorry Jack, It’s nothing personal, just self-preservation.”

And with those final words from Mack, he pulled the trigger. The lead ball ripped through Jack’s chest. Jack also pulled his trigger and his bullet flew through the air and into the smart mouthed gangsters face. The bullet swam through his right eyeball and into his brain leaving a giant exit hole and mess at the back of his head, leaving his brain splattered on the wall painting it in blood.

Pain exploded in his own chest, the bullet ripped through his ribcage breaking multiple ribs, it then swam into his lungs and ripped his heart.

The pain ran through his nerves and overwhelmed the his brain. The blackness blanketed his vision then he collapsed. Dead.

They both faced each other, both perfectly balanced on the mountain ridge. Frode was dressed in blue robes, robes made of silk and lined with silver thread. Gared faced him dressed in red robes also made from silk, golden thread lined his.

They both felt the cold shoot up their robes giving them goose bumps which covered their skin. They felt the snow, which blanketed the mountain, under their bare feet. They held their bamboo poles, which had grips made of string. Both the poles had a fresh layer of snow on top of them, there was also a light dusting of snow on top of their hair, making it look white with age, though they were both only twenty years old.

They were both champions of rival houses of the mountain, but only one would be a sacrifice to it.

They stood there, staring at each other. Death awaited one. They were 20 metres apart, quite a distance to cross the thin ridge.

A gong sounded. It had begun. Gared took the first steps, shuffling along the edge not looking down. Frode was next, walking one foot in front of the other, nearly slipping and falling of the mountain with in seconds of the Duel beginning.

  They both carefully balanced along the ridge with care. The cold always grabbing at their feet trying to pull them to their doom.

Gared slipped as a gust picked up. His feet went out from underneath him, he was now holding onto the ridge by his hands. Frode took this as an opportunity. He launched at Gared, jumping five metres along the edge, a risky move. He kept his balance but Gared hit his shin his bamboo pole. Frode loses his balance, and slips on the snow covered ice. Frode’s feet hang over the edge, he put his weight forward, keeping his balance.

Gared uses this time to recover and he pulls himself up back onto the ridge and regains his balance. In seconds he swing his pole around to hit Frode in the stomach. Frode barely manages to keep his balance. He turns this time facing Gared.

Gared raises his pole above his head, bringing it down onto Frode, Frode blocked the strike from Gared. Frode brings his pole round, bringing Gared’s pole with it. He strikes Gared in the chest, pushing him backwards. Frode sweeps at Gared’s legs.

Gared kicks the pole out of Frode’s hands. The pole snaps into pieces as it descends down the mountainside, hitting multiple rocks on the way.

Frode is in shock. He blocks Gared’s pole as it come around the side of his head. The pole stings his forearm. The pole cracks. Frode grabs the end nearest to him and snaps the pole in two.

The end of the pole was sharp. The two halves clash as they both go for a strike to the head. A powerful fist makes contact with Frode’s cheekbone as Frode kicks out at Gared’s stomach making contact as soon as Gared hits him. Frode spits blood. The red fluid falls and hits a rock on the mountain edge staining it red.

As Frode spat, Gared kicked him in the chest sending him sprawling across the ridge. He got up and Gared’s pole hit him in the side of the face sendinging him off the mountain and to the depths below.

Victory for Gared wouldn’t last long.
There was a glint of metal across the other side a the ridge. An explosion sounded. Pain shot through Gared’s stomach, the lead ball penetrated his bowls and sent him off the edge, clutching his stomach. The mountain had claimed two sacrifices.



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