What I hope you're about to  scroll down and read was a competition entry for Ian Irvine’s more or less weekly book giveaways back in the day. They involved writing about whatever the competition of the week was. I had entered the previous two and placed in the top three, which was wonderful and was to net me some signed books, which I treasure. This third entry won me first prize, another set of signed books which I treasure more if anything.

Here's why. Under Ian’s rules once you won two prizes he raised the bar on your entries and you were unlikely to win any more. He did say that I was the only person to win three in a row, and I hope you won’t mind if I take some small pride in this. 

This competition was ‘Who would you be if you were a character in one of my books'. As my entry I wrote this short story ‘The Unnamed Fragment’. There are some loose references to a character in the first Three Worlds Trilogy, which I’d not read much of at that time, but this could be set anywhere as written and I've not attempted to tie it in any further though I could now.

The original entry was produced under really tight deadlines and as I said at the time needed more editing. I’ve gone over this, restored some passages I'd deleted before because I wasn't happy with they way they came out (though thanks to an idea given me by a friend I've come up with a different approach and am happier with them now)  and generally done my best to tidy it up a little. I hope you like it.

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The Unnamed Fragment

This fragment of a time long past was found buried deep in ancient pass cut into the very mountain rock. Sealed by arcane magics it has defied all attempts to open it until recently. In a small pocket of air surrounded by a massive rockfall we found what appears to be a journal which supports a version of a history which many consider so far fetched as to be fantastical. Nonetheless a small group of scholars has set forth strong arguments which support this as a true and factual, if subjective, account of a lost age. A time of wonder and terror whose like has never been seen in the great tales of recorded history. I present the first fragment we have translated here. A fragment of a truly great tale.

Llian of Chanthed

The Beginning

Where do I begin?

In my past ordinary people rose to new heights, and plumbed abyssal depths. We had to face our darkness; some found it in them to overcome their own evil, others fell into shadow, and a few, a very few rose out of the shadow and came, if not ‘into the light’ at least into themselves once more. Many simply died. Innocents often do.

Those times are past now, my part in them all but forgotten. I am a dusty old man with little to offer except knowledge. So here is my journal, let it stand as a record of my life. Perhaps one day someone will even read it.

So where do I begin?

Begin at the beginning…? I hate clichés. None of us can really say where this story begins. It is far bigger than any of us, and yet without any one of us, there would be no story; no bright heroes standing against the dark, no black villains serving evil, and maybe in the end no world at all, just a serene nothingness in which a primal madness lurks.

So where do I begin? Not at the beginning, for that is the stuff of legend, but here is my small part in the larger tale.

****

The door closed on my small home. It couldn't even slam shut any more, a tired echo of the place's tired owner, hardly making even the slightest ripple of sound. Here I was, back from another humdrum day in the Imperial Counting House of the Bright Empire, one drone among many, forgotten by all. 

You see, behind all the great events of the world are people like me, counting, endlessly counting. Men like the man I am now pay for these events, account for them and write endless lists of the costs and there are such costs as never make it into the tales. Little grey men who no-one knows or cares about lie behind the great tales, making our lists and tallies for future generations to see.  The banality of it all threatened to overwhelm me.

So to the void with it. It was time to just accept that I was never going to be more than some very minor functionary who mattered to nobody, and this mundane, drab existence was all that was left me. At least I was still alive and should be grateful for that.

My gaze swept round my room, where the dusty relics of a once-bright life reminded me that once I'd been more than this, that once I had treated every day as a gift, that once I had known the intensity of a lightning-edged life, that once I had believed in something and that once I had dedicated my entire being to a cause, even if no-one remembered or cared today. That once, every day, I had felt truly alive.

As I looked, I saw the old battered helmet that had saved my life more times than I could remember, which had come back to me when the young man I'd given it to had passed on. It's replacement, made for me by my good friend The Griffin, and the last helmet which it seemed was the final conceit of a man living in the past. It had never seen battle and its empty gaze was magisterial; accusing; a reproach. I turned it to face the wall, unable to face its unspoken demands. 

The rest of the room contained similar things. The seal of commendation from the old sword-scholar, the silver cup presented to me for my service in times past, paintings of old battles, and many weapons. Some were trophies, some were gifts, and one or two I'd even made myself.

Stood in a corner were my favourites, old friends, still edged for war and gleaming in thirsty anticipation of battles that never came, now quiet under their coating of oil and dust. My old sword, tried and true, the big axe which was so useful in the line, the new bow and its old, old arrows. All had their tales to tell, but there was no-one today who cared to hear the ramblings of a tired, grey old man. Time and war had moved on and the old Company I'd fought with and once lead had changed into something new, something I had no place in any more.

Well at least I could do something to brighten this dusty old place so I opened the chest which contained what was left of my armour, and started to clean everything in the room. If I was old, tired and dusty, well at least the things around me would shine and in their quiet gleam recall former glories. Perhaps I could make them ready for whatever might come their way when I was gone.

Some time later, all but lost in my task and the memories it summoned, I heard noise outside. What was it? I heard bells, horns, shouting, the ring of blades and....was that riders? I bent back to my task. Such things were no longer part of my life, and were for the young and passionate. The noises however continued, rising to a climax, and I heard the old war cry of my Company, repeated again and again. I resolved at least to see what was going on and just in case hefted the familiar weight of my sword.

****

Much of the rest of the journal is fragmentary and we are still working on the translation. Needless to say the revelations in it may turn our understanding of our own history upside down. The next clear passages fall close to the end.

Llian

****

There are times when I wish I'd never opened that damned door and had instead just let the noise sweep past me. This was definitely one of those times.  Their passing though my town had lit a fire which threatened to consume us all like chaff. For our part, we'd happened on something which might just make a difference to the great events unfolding around us and we were likely to die for it. On top of that, everything hurt and I do mean absolutely everything. I was getting far too old for this.

On the other hand I felt so alive, in spite of all the cuts, contusions, bruises and a bone deep fatigue which felt like a part of me which would never ever go. The last few weeks had been intense, terrifying, joyous, and most of all so very vital. Not vital in the sense of 'we carried the fate of the world' but vital in the sense of... well you know.

So the reason why this was one of the times I wished I'd not opened that damned door was simply that I was slowing everyone else down and this alone was going to kill us. It’s so very wrong that the young are vastly better at the grim business of running and jumping through this terrible conflict. However it's just a fact. They are.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that war is glorious. It's cold, grim, bloody and horrible, and it's only that the survivors feel such joy in being alive afterwards that gives it this terrible glamour we all hear about and lust after. Wanting to feel that way one more time had brought me to this pass. ‘There's no fool like an old one’, as the saying goes.

The horse stumbled and I nearly lost my seat. It was time to give these children a chance, to say something memorable and see if I still had one more thing left to give. Time to stand for who I was, or perhaps who I had been.

'I have run quite far enough for one day'. I said, half falling from the saddle.

There's was a look of shocked incomprehension on many of their faces. The young don't understand that old people don't feel as invincible and immortal as they do. They can't of course. One or two of them understood, though, Perhaps they themselves were just feeling those odd twinges which are the first sign of 'getting too old for this'. One, our leader, showed signs of relief. Perhaps he too had been thinking that I was slowing them down and was happy that a hard decision had been taken from him. I met his eyes and nodded, an unspoken understanding passing between us.

I didn't say much else, and wouldn't brook any sort of disagreement though some of them wanted to stay. I just took what I needed and sent them on their way. The terrain here was good and I'd spotted an overhanging slab of rock and another thing or two which I could use to some good effect, or so I hoped. The enemy was in for a surprise and if I had anything to say on the matter it wasn't going to be a pleasant one. Not pleasant. At all.

Now all I had to do was wait.

I didn't have to wait long. Just long enough to make hasty preparations and pen this entry. In fact it was a distressingly short wait, and if my young friends were to have any chance at all, this was going to have to work. 

****

Here is the last part of my tale.

So here it ends. This part is easy for I am dying now, and in this world which we made, someone must know something of what came before, someone must know of the terror we faced, the valour, the extravagant sacrifice, and the wonder which was this earth. Well, I have at least decided that it will be so. It seems that I am guilty of pride at the very last. But then, those who know me would say 'only at the last?'

So now, having painfully applied myself to write one last passage, for did I tell you I am dying, bleeding and sealed in a tomb of my own making? I would have it that someone knows what was done. Maybe, if I’m lucky, someone will. Someone. 

I had made my preparations, set my traps and even  written a a short passage and got a little rest. It was not enough though, for when the first of the enemy showed his face round the bend of the ancient pass, the bone deep weariness had not lifted. I waited, and saw him grin nastily when he saw I was alone.

He came up towards me clambering easily over the rough terrain at a pace I could never hope to match, no signs of fatigue marring his easy passage. Let him come. He was not what I needed. I needed the men he was scouting for and as if on cue there they were in the passage behind. I took aim with one of my last old, precious arrows and let fly.

‘Die!’ I yelled.

He dodged it easily. He should have, for he was never my target. The arrow impacted the floor of the canyon where his comrades has gathered and the magics in the old, old arrow and in the ancient cutting combined in the way that their makers intended and an arcane blast swept down the length of the pass. Being old does have its advantages. It means you know a thing or two.

The lower part of the pass started to collapse, starting at the base, as blocks crumbled to their long dead makers’ design, starting the process of making the pass all but impenetrable. The ground started to shake and I stumbled, all but fell and there he was, standing on a rock above me, balancing easily as the world started to collapse around us.

‘Good move, old man’ he said, smiling a predatory smile which didn’t reach his hard, cold eyes. ‘But too little too late, for we have your measure and far more’.

With that he was on me, his words barely giving me time to draw my sword, his first thrust flickering past my frantic defence, scraping off the armour covering my chest as I desperately dodged and nearly lost my footing.

Beat followed beat followed beat followed beat  followed beat, set to the pounding of my heart and the drum of the falling canyon as we settled down into grand tactics of combat. Block and dodge and parry and riposte, cut and thrust and pummel and strike. Our concentration narrowed into the lightning-edged world in which the slightest mistake meant death.

To the outside we may have seemed evenly matched, but he was fast, this one, well trained in all the arts and lethal. That first thrust was meant to kill me, the second came for my eye and would have landed but for my old, battered helmet which yet again saved me. The next cut was barely blocked and my riposte dodged with easy contempt. Twice more he extended around my defence and only my armour turned the blow, twice more he avoided my counterattacks with effortless grace, but then I very nearly caught him and he learned caution. First passes over, we truly began, partners in a deadly dance.

Beat followed beat followed beat followed beat, as he danced around my blows to a measure only he could hear, in and out almost faster than the eye could see, the percussive music of combat lost against the background roar of falling rocks and the rolling thunder of blood in my ears. I was slowly losing, too old, too slow. I dug deep, used every trick, and came up with one final, desperate stratagem. 

Beat followed beat followed beat, the tempo rising ever faster, the song of steel, our cries and my desperate breaths becoming one continuous paean of battle but finally I stumbled after a particularly powerful quake, and with an agonising lack of speed his sword drove into my chest. My armour turned the blow, but something inside me broke and I staggered back, falling to my knees, spitting blood.

‘Once you were good, old man, but you’ve not kept up your skills. You are both patterned and slow’. He stood back, relaxed and smiling, breathing easily. My own breath was harsh and uncontrolled as I sucked in great gulps of air, each gulp accompanied by a stabbing pain deep in my chest. I did not answer. In truth I could not.

‘Get up. I would not have it said that a falling rock gave me victory’. He raised his sword for a final thrust.

I stood, swaying with fatigue and pain, sword held loosely in my hand as he drove towards me. I blocked as I had done before, just barely moving the sword aside and moved into a clumsy counterattack. He moved to defend himself, condescension written large on his face. Good lad. He had seen the pattern and was overconfident. Time to break it. I bound his sword on mine, spiralled around his and in a desperate burst of speed my point burst through his chainmail just under the heart. One last step before the dance was done. Not perfect, but good enough.

The shock on his face would have been comical under any other circumstance, but humour was not something I could afford so I fell upon him and drove the sword deeper into his chest. Even with this he still lived but was paralysed by the pain, his face twisted and dull. Blood dripped from the wound and like me he coughed, staining his mouth vermeil. Ironically it was only my sword jutting obscenely from his chest which kept him alive.

‘You tricked me, old man’. His voice was barely a whisper, dulled by pain and blood. ‘Well done’.

‘Patience and trickery were needed to beat youth and superior skill’. I said. ‘You were right about me. I am old and slow, but the patterns were there for you to find and for me to exploit. It was necessary. I am sorry. Go with honour into the void.’

With that I stood and wrenched the sword out of his chest.. He expired in a great gout of heart’s blood and sighed his final breath away.  I stood over the body and saluted, yelling the old war cry of the Company; an affirmation of my being alive as much as marking this death. It was a poor effort, hoarse and lacking power, but as good broken ribs allowed. The meagre best I could do for another young life I had taken.

Once more I had to play a waiting game. One way or another I wouldn’t last much longer for I could feel myself bleeding inside but I busied myself with such things as I could, taking off the massively dented chest plates, binding my ribs as tightly as I could bear and dealing with all the injuries the last fight had gifted me. Every second saw my young friends get further away and I hoped I had done enough, but if I needed it I had one last card to play. Only one. I really was too old for this shit.

Far too soon I heard noise at the far end of the pass. The noise of armour, horses and the shouts of  disciplined men. I hoped that would be all, that getting round or over the barrier would slow them enough to allow my friends to escape, but soon after I heard something that was not quite thunder; something which set my teeth on edge, something terribly wrong. It came again and again, a casual display of power which no mere human should wield. This was far worse than I had ever anticipated. Not in my nightmares' worst nightmares. We must have found something far more important than we ever knew to bring this after us.

The last part of what I’d so naively thought of as an impenetrable rockfall vanished, twisting into nothingness, vanishing somewhere other. My skin crawled and fear threatened to consume me. Not for my life, for that was lost already, but for the screaming madness which was to come.

Men marched purposefully up the gap that had been created, arraying themselves in disciplined ranks up the sides of the final approach to my position. I was not concerned. This was pure theatre. My end would not come at the hands of these men. I would not be so lucky.

Time to play my part.

I clambered slowly and painfully up a pile of rocks to better see what came, silhouetting myself against the sky, making myself an easy target. I took off my helmet and let it fall, dropped my sword and took up my bow and last two arrows, but did not draw: for what purpose would it serve?

The curtain rose on the final act. A group of men came up the approach in close order, shields raised and closely locked in apparent deference to my position. I smiled, or rather I tried to. I think it would be fair to say that the twisted expression I managed to raise in no way resembled a genuine smile but was a grimace made from equal parts of pain and fear. It was the best I had.

The shields parted in that almost magical way that only years of discipline and practise can achieve and a figure strode forward, clad all in pure white in shocking contrast to the stained, dark uniforms around her. Slim and straight like an arrow, beautiful and deadly like a spear; a dream of a woman, a nightmare beyond all nightmares.

‘You’. I whispered.

‘Me’. She said, her voice carrying clearly to all. She smiled. It was a beautiful red-lipped smile framing perfect teeth, but it was a shark’s smile and the hungry, ravening force behind her once-wonderful eyes was not touched by anything resembling human emotion. The void looked out at me, barely veiled behind a thin shell of humanity.

‘You have become old and weak, and further you are dying. All I have to do is wait.’

‘But you don’t want to wait. You want to draw my pain out as long as you can, make my soul scream in agony and break my very essence before the end, do you not?’ My voice was hoarse, gasping, each breath an effort, and yet I felt so alive. Everything in my life had led to this one moment.  

‘Oh you know me so well, and this moment is so sweet. I had not thought to feel such joy in revenging myself upon you for the defeat you and your Company inflicted on me, not thought..’

I leapt, and for an instant I saw surprise in those perfect features. Pain exploded in my chest as I fell upon her, driving the arrow deep into her limpid eye. The arrow’s magic flared and it was consumed in an instant, but for that instant she was unable to act and I shot my final arrow into the overhang. Again the magics combined as their makers had intended, tons of rock fell on us like the footfall of an angry god, and red hot agony ripped my consciousness away.

****

I woke hours later in a freak pocket of air. Broken, bleeding, more dead than alive. But if  anyone should wonder whether feeling alive for those few flashing instants was worth the insanity and pain which followed I tell you......

Yes it was.

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So there it is, in one Ian’s stories I'd be a minor civil servant who'd once been more, and plays a small part in the larger events which shake the world, possibly finding some small piece of information which would in turn affect a larger event. I'd die broken and in pain, under a rockslide I'd triggered myself completely unremarked by anyone, just a tired old man who died somewhere.

I did enjoy writing this, which of course will mean its rubbish! But it was a great competition idea and I had a lot of fun entering.