Yesteryear Fiction

A Brief History
By Caitlin Jackson



Before the 30 Golden Years of Peace, Meerth was plagued by one of the most powerful, malicious wizards of all time. His name was Drago.

Drago was said to be so malevolent, only pure evil could have created something of such magnitude. He would kill at random with a viciousness never seen before, and used the remains of his victims to enhance his dark magic. Burning crops, collapsing mines…he was a menace wherever he went. Many tried to stop the wizard, but to him they were nothing more than a mere annoyance, which he quickly executed.

The King of Meerth, had lost all hope of stopping Drago until one day a hooded figure requested an audience with his majesty. Desperate to find a solution, the King urgently met with the ominous presence. When the cloak was pulled back, the face of a woman was revealed. Raven-black hair with a few silver strands framed her perfectly constructed, marble-like features. Her eyes, like two ink pools, bore straight into the King’s soul. Fine lines enhanced the grim expression she wore.

The King stepped back in alarm as a feeling of ice ran through his veins. Without delay, the woman explained how her name was Jordonna, and she was The Sorceress from the Black Shadow Woods. She told the King she had a plan to defeat Drago.

“How?” the King questioned. “No one has even come close to killing him. What advantage do you have that none of the others had?”

A slight smile played across her lips. “The women in my family have always been more powerful than the arrogant men.”

An expression of incomprehension crossed the King’s face.

“Drago is my brother.”

* * *

Over the next few days, Jordonna prepared herself. Each morning she would seal a small portion of her magic in a clear jar and bury it in a nearby valley. After repeating the process for a fortnight, Jordonna knew the accumulation of abandoned magic in one spot would be enough to lure Drago to the area. Blinded by his hunger for power and magic, Jordonna knew her brother was not far off.

As expected, Drago showed up the next morning. The grass glittered like a field of fallen stars from the morning dew, the birds were chirping their high pitched melodies, and it was a perfect day for a battle.

“Hello brother!” she called down to her target from her higher vantage point.

Not the least bit surprised, Drago replied, “I was wondering when you would try your hand at stopping me.” He rolled up the sleeves of his lavish black robes in preparation. A look of amusement visibly showed across his neatly trimmed face as he continued. “I’m quite curious as to what your plan is. With half your powers in jars for the taking, I doubt you’ll even be the challenge I was expecting.”

Jordonna wanted to laugh at the thought of him defeating her “Don’t fret brother,” she reassured him, “I have a few tricks up my sleeves.”

Without warning, Jordonna felt a tight grip around her waist as she was hurled to the valley floor.

“There, a level playing field,” Drago smirked. Before Jordonna could get up, she was shoved by the invisible hand with a vice-like grip into a protruding boulder. Wincing, she tried to breathe as she continued to be thrown around.

Tired of the repetitive game, Jordonna gathered her strength, and not only broke free of the invisible hand, but sent a wall of power in her brother’s direction. The impact knocked him unconscious. Knowing this was her only chance, the sorceress worked quickly. Without much effort she wove a casing around Drago from the vines in the ground. Jordonna was acting fast, but unfortunately, not fast enough. Drago began to stir before she could complete the spell in its entirety. Making sure there was a bubble of protection around her, Jordonna began her final spell.

With closed eyes, she summoned her remaining powers, requested the help from Mother Earth, and called upon the ancient magic of her ancestors. While holding a pebble sized, red stone in the palm of her hand, she recited the incantations. It was one of the most complicated spells created. Layer upon layer of magic was woven together, so it would be impenetrable. Jordonna heard her shield deflect the bombardment of projectiles from her brother, but her concentration was unwavering.

Magic of every color swirled around her, growing in size with every passing moment. The pressure from the cornucopia of power began to weigh Jordonna down. Reciting the final word of power, she opened her eyes and shot the energy in every direction. Like a supernova, it exploded within the confines of the valley.

Suddenly, the light and magic stopped expanding, hovered for an instant, and just as vigorously flooded back to its epicenter. Instead of being reabsorbed by Jordonna, all of the power filled up the red stone. Once the process was complete, Jordonna fell to her knees in exhaustion. Never before had she felt so drained. Looking about, Drago was nowhere to be seen. Staring at the stone, she was amazed her plan had worked so efficiently. It took all of her powers to do it, but her brother, the most feared wizard of all time, was now trapped in the stone for eternity.

Riding once more to the capital, she presented the stone to the King. After having been warned of the tormented soul trapped inside, the King made sure to personally put it in the safest place he knew.

In return for her services, all she asked was for a place to rest. Lying on a comfortable bed, she sighed in relief. Magic, energy, and life now drained, Jordonna, Sorceress from Black Shadow Woods, closed her eyes for the last time.


- - -
I have been very sick the past few months, but am very excited to be writing again. This story is part of a series: “Remember the Dead” (July 14th), “Hand of Time” (August 15th), “In Their Honor” (September 13th), and most recently “A Royal View,” (November 19th).

A Royal View
By Caitlin Jackson


Stumbling across a small clearing, I spot a tall woman standing by her dapple grey horse. In her calloused palm she grips a severed hand, encrusted with blood. A feeling of foreboding washes over me, and I slowly creep back into the forest. This is no place for a country girl to be. Suddenly, I stop. On the severed hand’s finger I see a red stone catch the light. I would recognize that stone anywhere; it is what I have been seeking.

Staring through the branches, I size-up my opponent. This is not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill woman; she wears the uniform of a soldier, and her hair is caked in dirt and blood. At her side is a simple, long sword, and two daggers show above the tops of her boots. Still, I must try; the fate of my kingdom depends on me getting the Stone of Meerth back.

To most, the Stone is nothing more then an ornament on a ring; a few wizards may have heard how the Stone of Meerth amplifies their powers, but almost no one knows how the Stone really works, or who is trapped inside.

Crouching low, I prepare to charge, when I accidentally snap a twig beneath my bare foot. Instantly, the warrior turns around and hurls her dagger in my direction. Quickly, stopping the dagger with my mind, I narrowly avoid being killed. Realizing her training far surpasses my own, I decide I have no choice, but to use my magic to incapacitate her and take back the Stone.

With haste, I draw several runes in the air, causing her sword to disintegrate. Calling upon the magic of the earth, I raise several pebbles, and shoot them toward her. The soldier is unable to protect herself from the impact. The force of the pebbles knocks the wind out of her as she steps back gasping for air. Using this as a distraction, I gather the surrounding leaves and turn them into a vortex centered around her. My auburn locks escape from their braid and whip in every direction as the vortex spins faster. A stray leaf cuts my pale cheek bone as it flies by. Dispersing the leaves, I allow the now stunned woman to collapse.

Running toward her horse, I pick up the severed hand and remove the Stone of Meerth from its finger. The incantations etched on the band are still intact and its contents still preserved. Filled with relief I let my guard down. I am about to head back to camp when I feel the coldness of metal press into the flesh of my throat.

“Who are you?” I hear the woman demand with a growl as she holds the dagger closer.

I step on her toes and ram my elbow into her stomach, trying to throw her off balance. To my dismay it does not work, and in one fluid motion she hurls me to the ground. In a heart beat she pounces to my side, and holds the dagger to my throat once again.

“Stop!” I desperately cry, “I’m not trying to hurt you!”

“Who are you?” she repeats; what little patience she has dissipating from her vibrant, green eyes.

“I am your Queen. You must give me the Stone, and let me proceed back to the Capital...”

* * *

My eye lashes flutter as I wake up, speckled in morning dew. As I sit up I try to remember my dream, or rather, premonition of my encounter with the warrior and the stone. The gift of Sight is something I inherited from my mother.

“So the Stone is close by”, I think to myself, “but it is being guarded by a soldier who does not know what she possesses.”

Standing up, I shake off the forest’s debris, and prepare to meet my destiny.


- - -
I currently go to school and write for the Phoenix Dance Examiner. This story is part of a series: Remember the Dead (July 4th), Hand of Time (August 15th), and most recently In Their Honor (September 13th).

In Their Honor
By Caitlin Jackson


Piercing, green eyes peer over the hovering, twilight fog. In the distance the huntress spots one of the circling argonts. They are wolf-like predators, but their leathery skin, larger size, and sharper canines make them more dangerous. Releasing the tension in her longbow, she skewers the argont’s glowing eye with Elvin precision as the arrow heads deep into the skull. She incapacitates several more with her bow as the pack ventures closer.

Recklessly, one of the more arrogant argont charges her from behind. Anticipating the feeble attack, the trained warrior unsheathes her sword and pushes the blade straight into the beast’s chest cavity. Using her foot, she dislodges the carcass off the weapon, and confronts the rest of the pack.

Pouncing from the left, the deranged carnivore knocks her to the ground. With crazed yellow eyes, and russet fur on end, the hellhounds would turn anybody into a coward, but not this seasoned soldier; not Anya. Without hesitation, Anya drives a dagger into the monster’s stomach, and pounds its head in with the hilt of her sword. Heaving the limp body to one side, she hears the rest of the pack departing in fear. The argonts have decided this meal is not worth the casualties.

Battle complete, and dinner secured, Anya’s inner animal subsides until needed once again. Whistling a high-pitched note into the abyss, she summons her valiant steed Henkee. On cue, he gallops from the campsite, and stops at her side. Choosing the smaller of the deceased argonts, Anya hoists the demon-like creature onto the horse’s back, and calmly walks back to camp.



With a full belly, Anya settles in for the night. The meat from the argont has been taken care of, and the rest of its remains buried so not to attract bigger, hungrier predators. Tethered to a nearby tree, Henkee continues to graze. Shadows, created by the fire, dance cheerfully across its gray coat.

Anya stares into the flickering flames and cannot help but wonder how she evolved into the hardened warrior she now is. Amongst the erratic gold and orange hues, Anya spots a faint image of herself when she was younger, back when everything started, and her family had been taken from her.

Anya rode hard in pursuit of a band of rogue Northerners. They had destroyed her home and murdered her family; she was out for revenge.

Five long years had passed since Anya had last seen her family. She knew they had disowned her after she defied their orders and joined the military. Everyday her Mom and Dad performed back-breaking labor in the fields, so they could try and provide the best upbringing possible. They were resigned and content with their current lives, but they always hoped one day their children could do better. Anya’s parents wanted her to live the life of a lady fair; to marry a man with a higher station and take care of a family of her own. Anya wanted to be obedient and gain her parents’ approval, but she could not convince herself to do so when the Kingdom was being harassed by unprovoked invaders from the North and was on the brink of war. A natural instinct told her she must protect the Kingdom, so her family could remain safe.

After running away at fifteen, Anya was quickly submersed in the life of a soldier. With constant training and weekly battles along the border, it did not take long for Anya to establish a threatening reputation by becoming one of the most feared, but respected, warriors in the Kingdom.

Thinking the war against the North was over, the soldiers were allowed to go home and recuperate. Deciding five years was long enough, she ventured back to confront her family and hoped they would be proud of what she had done for the Kingdom and ultimately for them. As she reached the crest of the final hill, she was confused as to why her once cheerful home was now engulfed in flames and thick smoke. Jabbing her heels into her horse, she quickened her pace, but by the time she arrived the fire had spread to the crops.

Abandoning her horse, she ran into the burning house to save her family. Once inside, she found her mom, dad, and two sisters bound in the corner. The fire had eaten away their flesh to the point where they were almost unrecognizable. Overcome with grief, Anya flees from the collapsing hut. Standing in the front yard she watched her home turn to ash. Uncontrollable tears etched trails in her soot covered face as a blanket of regrets smothered her. Anya wished she had not been so scared of her parents’ scorn and that she had the courage to see them earlier. She had fought countless battles without any hint of fear, but just the thought of facing their disappointment was unbearable to her. Now she would never see them again

Anya’s good-hearted family did not deserve this fate. Only cold, heartless bastards could be so cowardly as to kill such peaceful people. Judging by the destruction she saw, Anya knew the perpetrators could not have wandered far, and would be weighed down by stolen goods. They needed to be held accountable for their actions, and Anya was going to be the one to make sure justice was served.

Spurred on by her personal vendetta, Anya was able to catch up with the savage villains by the time night had fallen; perfect for a surprise attack. Hiding behind a moss-covered, tree stump, Anya sized up her opponents. All together there were five; four asleep and one on watch. They lay around a small fire-pit with their horses tied to a tree. Bags of food sat close to the horses bearing her family’s brand.

Anya easily crept behind the watchman and silently snapped his neck before he knew she was there. Heading to the next victim, she held her dagger to his throat. About to slice into his neck Anya looked at his resting face and stopped. This man, who had performed countless acts of violence, did not deserve an instant death in the middle of the night by a mystery assailant.

“Murderer!” she cried, and plunged the dagger straight into his heart. Right before impact she relished in her enemy’s terrified expression. A feeling of contentment washed over her. Turning to her left, she confronted the other three Northerners. Still covered in black soot, Anya used this to her advantage. With only her green eyes visible, she became a difficult target as she disappeared in and out of the shadows.

Wielding her sword and dagger, she played with her prey like a cat torturing a mouse. She knew she could kill the fiends at any time, but she wanted to prolong the process and fully enjoy every moment. The remaining three adversaries came from every direction, and she blocked and parried their blows as if dancing in a circle. Each step was graceful and deliberate. Their large, lumbering bodies were no match against Anya’s lithe limbs.

Wanting to inflict pain upon her family’s murderers, she took charge and chopped off the nearest killer’s forearm, and was not even fazed by the blood spurting from his maimed appendage. Swiftly, she ducked to the ground, avoiding a blow from behind. In retaliation, she used her razor sharp sword to cut through the Northern invader’s ankles. Anya left the now fallen brute, to bleed to death as she focused her attention on the final two victims.

Ready to put an end to their miserable lives, she gripped her weapons tightly as she charged. In one fluid motion, she decapitated one assailant, and sliced through the other’s stomach.

As the last body fell, Anya stood in the clearing assessing the carnage around her. Pools of dark blood surrounded the executioner, turning the ground soggy. Satisfied with her work, she sat by the fire and wept over the loss of her family. The slaughter had quelled her anger, but ultimately left her empty. Her vengeful actions did not bring her family back. In fact, her family would have been appalled that she had chosen to honor their memory with such barbarism.



* * *



Opening her tear filled eyes to blinding rays of sunshine; Anya realizes she must have fallen asleep while remembering the past last night. The memories stirred a latent anger in her she wished to keep silenced. Ever since that horrid day, six years ago, a surge of relentless guilt festers deep within each time she thinks of her family. Anya wants to forgive herself and obtain closure, but the military has hardened her heart. The soldier’s only release is through malevolence on the battlefield. Whenever confronted by a Northern invader, a torrent of endless rage consumes her, and she will not stop until they are dead. She wants to guarantee the scum who inflicted irreconcilable pain upon her, will never torture another soul. Her parents would not like the person she has become, but she is dealing with their loss the only way she knows how. Anya still wants to make them proud, and she hopes maybe one day she will.

In deep concentration, Anya gathers her belongings, and prepares to continue her journey. As she packs, she opens one of the previously unused saddle bags. Realizing the bag is already occupied, she empties its contents. To her horror, she finds a severed, ringed hand, covered in dried blood.


- - -
Besides reading and writing, I also enjoy dancing, art, and archery. “In Their Honor,” is the sequel to, “Hand of Time,” and, “Remember the Dead.”

Hand of Time
By Caitlin Jackson


Powerful hooves beat the ground as a warhorse is pushed past its physical limits. It wants to stop and cool off in the sprinkling of rain, but its rider urges it forward. She is not only on a mission, but also running for her life. Occasionally hearing a rush of feet behind her, she glances between the knotted trees, but sees no other inhabitants.

Her name is Anya; a born warrior. When the invaders from the North were attacking her home, she convinced the villages to ban together and fight, but instead led them to their doom. Now, being one of the few survivors, she must warn the remaining villages.

Tendrils of finger-like fog attempt to cling to the horse’s hooves, as if wanting to drag them back into the shadows. Both rider and stead sense the lurking of evil in every nook and cranny of the forest, and the adrenaline caused by their fear is their only drive. Glancing through the forest’s canopy, Anya sees only ominous rain clouds bruising the sky. Onward she journeys, until she eventually spots an opening in the trees.

A sudden burst of air assaults Anya’s face as they break through the last of the branches, and into a muddy clearing. With the smothering forest behind her, Anya finally inhales untainted oxygen. Color returns to her cheeks as life once again reenters her body. Breathing deeply, she slows the gelding down, and uses the saddle to halt the trembling of her exhausted muscles. Looking through her grungy locks of rain-soaked hair, she sees a village outpost in the distance. Relieved, she gently nudges her horse forward.

* * *

As she approaches the village, Anya immediately notices something is amiss. The wooden gates are wide open, but the sentries are missing and the guard towers are empty. Children’s toys lay in the street and restless chickens sit in their pens. Anya can see faint smoke exiting huts through chimneys, but not a single person can be found. She knocks on a nearby home, but no one answers. Letting herself in, she finds the shack empty.

Back outside, Anya surveys the village. There are no signs of an attack, and there are no signs of life besides the livestock. It is as if the entire village voluntarily stopped what they were doing and evacuated, leaving all possessions behind.

Suddenly, Anya sees a flash of red through a nearby window. Drawing her sword she cautiously sneaks up to the hut. Kicking down the flimsy door, she charges the home with a war cry.

The moment she enters she feels a sharp clunk on the head.

“You’re late!” scolds an old man in a crimson cloak.

In a dazed state, all Anya can manage to say is, “Who are you…”

“Who am I?” he repeats with slight amusement in his voice. With haste he hobbles to a table and chairs. Setting his staff on the floor and putting his knobby feet in a pot of water, he turns his calm, blue eyes towards her. “I am not but a humble Seer; a keeper of time if you will.” After slightly bowing his balding head, he turns his attention to the chessboard resting on the table. Moving his rook, he then waits for his invisible opponent’s t counterattack. Anya begins to think the man is daft, until the opponent’s chess piece begins to slide across the board on its own.

Confused, Anya tries to regain her composure, and once again takes a fighting stance. The Seer’s grey, bushy eyebrows and leathery face frown at her with annoyance.

“Put those weapons away and eat the stew I made for you,” he huffs, any hint of merriment gone from his voice.

“Where are all the villagers?” she shouts, still not completely trusting him.

The old man’s expression turns thoughtful. “Why don’t we see what the waters have to say?” Taking his feet out of the pot, he heaves it onto the table, sloshing its contents in every direction. Pulling two vials from his robes, he explains, “Five drops of my blood so the waters can identify me, and a bit of crushed owl bones to see through the darkness.”

Anya watches the Seer as he hovers over the pot. Slowly the waters begin to shift, and his eyes glaze over. Unaware of his surroundings, his face remains vacant as the container begins to shakes violently. Then abruptly everything stops and the old man comes back to the present. “Very interesting,” he mutters to himself.

“What is it?” Anya prompts. Forgetting her mistrust, she lowers her weapons, and steps closer.

“You’ve had quite the journey, and it appears to only be the beginning,” he tells her, once again staring at his chess board. “You must now go west until you reach a castle. There you will find your villagers.”

“Why are they even there?” she questions, confused as to why they are so far from home.

Picking up his walking stick, he heads for the door. “I only know what the waters show me. Now eat,” and with that said he closes the door behind him.

Realizing how famished she is, Anya quickly pours herself a generous helping of chunky, vegetable stew. As she slurps the thick gravy, she runs outside to find the Seer, but he has vanished. Returning back to the table she studies the chessboard. After awhile it becomes apparent the game is being played all wrong; he is protecting the Queen instead of the King. “How odd,” she thinks to herself. “Then again, seers have a reputation for being abnormal.”

After her satisfying meal, Anya is back on her horse, heading west to the castle.

* * *

By the time she reaches her destination, night has fallen and echoing claps of thunder promises imminent rain. Eerie shadows appear with every flash of lightning, and Anya must calm her imagination as she enters the unguarded castle. Leaving her horse tethered in the courtyard, she strides confidently into the darkness.

The damp corridors smell of stagnant water, and the only light source is from the brewing electrical storm. Tapestries and art are missing from the stone walls, and all rugs on the floor are worn-out and frayed. Anya spies a door, and enters.

The total darkness of the room prevents her from proceeding. Planning her next move, she starts to see a faint, flickering ember in the distance. As if on cue, every torch becomes lit, and her surroundings are revealed. It is an undecorated, circular room, with a platform situated at the far end. There are many doors around the perimeter, and on the dais are two ornate chairs. She has found the Throne Room.

Hearing footsteps behind her, in one reflexive action, she whirls around and throws a knife at her attacker. Drawing her daggers, she runs through a series of blocks and counterstrikes as she backs him against a wall. Going in for the final blow, she suddenly finds herself airborne. Hurled across the room by an invisible force, she lands in a crumpled heap. Noticing a ball of light flying towards her, she swiftly rolls to safety. In a state of shock, Anya does not see the second ball of light until it is too late. Upon impact, Anya’s body fills with increasing warmth, until she can no longer feel or move her limbs. She is momentarily paralyzed.

Mischievous laughter echoes in the chambers as her attacker glides toward the platform. He is an intimidating man, dressed in black leather, who appears to find the entire situation amusing.

“For someone causing so much trouble, one would think you’d be more impressive,” he booms.

Attempting to break free from her temporary paralysis, she spits on the leader of the Northern invaders. “What have you done with the villagers?” she snarls.

Delight shows in his beady, black eyes. “It’s amazing what one can do with a few magic words. One can even transport an entire village to the dungeons with a snap of the fingers.” A crooked smile plays across his lips. “Although, snapping fingers can be challenging without a hand,” he says as he raises his stumped arm. “I have you to thank for this.”

Before she can deny the accusation, the ground begins to shake. Out of thin air the old Seer appears by Anya’s side. Instead of looking frail and crippled, he now stands surprising strong.

Recognition instantly spreads across the enemy’s face. Filled with rage, he flings a ball of fire in the Seer’s direction. The old man simply raises his hand and extinguishes it with ease. Closing his eyes in concentration, he produces a small hourglass from his robes and smashes it on the ground. In a matter of seconds each granule of sand multiplies into thousands, until the entire chamber is a swirling storm of sand. With a subtle wave of his hand, the Seer directs the sand around the Northerner’s demented leader. Through the cloud of dust, another fireball emerges, hitting Anya’s rescuer in the chest. Staggering back, the sand rains down uncontrollably as he loses his focus.

“I have out powered you old man!” the leather clad figure proclaims. “Your simpleton tricks and distractions don’t affect me!” With a superior laugh, an aura of flame ignites from his skin.

Then in one fluid motion, before anyone can react, the Seer conjures a vortex of sand and water, and shoots it at the human pyre. Upon impact, the granules instantaneously melt together to form molten glass. The sand hurricane then morphs the molten glass into an indestructible casing around the foe. He has become a grotesque statue.

His task complete, the Seer looks down at Anya, and begins to magically reverse the spell placed upon her. Struggling to avoid unconsciousness, Anya blacks out.



Upon awakening, Anya surveys her surroundings. Once again she finds herself on a horse, heading down a forest trail. Could she have fallen asleep?

“What an odd dream,” the warrior mumbles as sand falls from her hair.


- - -
Besides reading and writing, I also enjoy dancing, art, and archery. “Hand of Time,” is the sequel to, “Remember the Dead.”

Remember the Dead
By Caitlin Jackson


The wounded war horse staggered down the muddy path. Tendrils of vapor clung to its crusty hooves as it concentrated on its single task. Primarily from instinct, it continued one agonizing step at a time. This horse was bred for battle, just like its rider Anya. The warrior’s jade eyes darted frantically about as the cries of dying soldiers danced in her head. Rustling from dead branches sent shivers up her spine, and her weary nerves were slowly sending her to the brink of insanity. Anya placed an earth-covered hand to her injured head and thought back to her journey.

The Northerners; that’s who turned her rebellious. “If usurping the throne was not bad enough,” she distinctly remembered shouting at the town square, “they continue to wreak havoc in our kingdom. We cannot let them steal our possessions and burn our crops. We must fight for our land!” The soldier could still hear the villager’s roar of approval. How simple it had seemed. If they had fought for justice they would win, but to her dismay, she had led them to their doom.

Jerked back to the present, Anya’s stomach suddenly rose to her throat as she tumbled to the bemired path. Not only did she have another dizzy spell, but her horse’s injured leg gave out, yet again. This time, she knew neither one of them would be able to continue. She detested the idea of staying in the cursed forest, but she had no choice. As she summoned the last of her strength to shove her horse to the side of the road, a little voice nagged in the back of her mind. “You must warn the villages. You must tell the townsfolk reinforcements have abandoned the cause and defeat is upon them!”

“But I can’t,” she argued with herself, “I can barely collect firewood let alone travel to multiple villages…” A wisp of cold wind brushed against the soldier’s neck, causing her to whip around, sword drawn.

“This place will surely be the end of me,” she breathed heavily to herself once she established no one was there. Mist clung to the air making the would-be kindling damp and unusable. In hopes of viewing the sky, she studied the tangle of branches intertwined above her. It was hard to judge the time, but eventually she concluded dawn was far off and a fire must be lit. Taking out her blood encrusted dagger, she cut off her horse’s tail for kindling. She hoped the fire was big enough to for warmth, but small enough to keep her invisible to the enemy. Ignoring her hunger pains, she sat against her horse for extra warmth. Alas, it was not to be. The horse was dead. Trying not to think about it, she closed her eyes and dreamed. Or rather, remembered…

Metal sounded, arrows buzzed all around, and Anya was in the thick of it all. She did not care who she stabbed or decapitated, a merciless killer she was. Slicing people and having their intestines spill out came easily to her, and she never lost sleep over it. If the Gods did not want her to kill, they would not have made her so good at it.

Ruthlessly, Anya headed toward a higher vantage point, hacking without mercy at anything and everything standing in her way. Her once blond hair, now caked in dirt and blood, hung in her eyes as she surveyed the scene below. Silently, the leader cursed as she noticed her troops slowly retreating. Reinforcements should have arrived hours ago, but they were nowhere to be seen. Without the other troops defeat was inevitable. Suddenly, the full effect of what she had done struck her like a blazing arrow. She had promised these people a new beginning, but instead brought them to their burial ground.

“I must warn the villagers,” she thought to herself in a panic. “Once we are conquered, the enemy will continue to wreak havoc and destruction. I need to hurry so they have enough time to flee!” An unwanted tear escaped her eye and ran down her filthy face. “I owe them that much…”Winning the battle was no longer top priority; it had become a lost cause. Her new order of business was to inform the towns of their imminent downfall and save all she could.

To Anya’s dismay, in order to reach her horse she would have to cut through mobs of people. She was almost to her ride when an enemy soldier appeared from nowhere and slammed the hilt of his sword against her head. Without thinking, as she fell to the ground in agony, she grabbed a dagger from her attacker’s boot. Instinctively, she dodged her enemy’s blade and stabbed the dagger into his stomach. After pocketing the weapon, she proceeded to her ride.

Slightly light-headed from the blow, she mounted her horse, and galloped away. She needed to ride fast so the villagers could have as much time as possible to escape. The problem was, the more the horse galloped the dizzier Anya became. She began to see faces in the trees and the now moving rocks. Unable to comprehend what was happening, she released the reigns, and let her horse lead the way as she blacked out entirely.

After an undetermined amount of time, Anya was jolted conscious as her horse slipped into a ditch along the road. Pain erupted in her skull causing the injured rider to see white lights before her eyes. Unwillingly, she fell off her horse and into a pool of stagnant water.

Sitting up against a dirt mound, she gazed around her at the surroundings. The sky was blocked by a blanket of woven branches, and the woods were filled with an unnatural silence. If Anya did not know better, she would have thought the forest was completely abandoned. She vaguely remembered hearing from the other riders about a haunted shortcut. She wished with all her might this was not the path. Either way, she had never come across this place before, and hoped she never would again. It sent an eerie chill though her body, leaving her with a disconcerted feeling. Pushing away the claws of fear, she pulled herself together. Regaining what little composure she could, she began the task of getting her now injured horse out of the shallow ditch.


Unable to breathe, Anya slammed back into the present with bony fingers tightening around her throat. A cold whisper in her ear made her want to scream in terror, but her airway was too constricted. After avoiding the enemy for so long, she knew they had finally found her. Breaking away from her would-be assassin’s grasp, she spun around, daggers drawn, only to find no one was there. Gasping for air, her eyes frantically search the darkness.

A wolf cried in the distance as she heard a rush of many feet. Fear finally possessing her, she turned around, and bolted. Running blindly, she dashed away, her mind no longer thinking coherently. Believing the souls of the men she killed were chasing her, she continued to crash through the woods.

Finding her voice, she lets out a scream of anguish as she stumbled upon an unknown barrier. Now on the forest floor she strained to make out her obstacle. A ray of moonlight broke through the tangled tree boughs, revealing the corpse of a soldier. She gasped in horror as she viewed the painful mask of death it wore. It looked as if its life was sucked out of its unhinged jaw. The terror of this man’s death was nothing compared to the realization that she knew him. He was the messenger who was sent to summon reinforcements.

Hearing the approach of her pursuer, she jumped to her feet, brandishing her still drawn daggers. Finally, her follower burst into the clearing allowing her to see the wild look in its eyes. Stopping, it protectively paced in front of the dead body. It was the soldier’s horse.

Sighing with relief, Anya stored her weapons. Grabbing the horse’s reigns, she calmed the gelding down. Weakened by hunger, she opened a saddle bag in search of any shred of food. Before she could peer inside, a hand of ice unexpectedly seized her forearm. Instantly, she drew her sword and swept it in a wide ark upon the attacker. A rush of departing footsteps sounded as an echo of pain reverberated through the trees. Quickly, she turned around to confront her foe, but once again she found herself hacking at misty air. Her wide eyes desperately searched for any sign of the attacker, but found nothing. Even so, she could still feel the heavy breath of the unseen wind.

Thoroughly spooked, she mounted the gelding. Jabbing her heels into its sides she galloped away at an intense speed. Somehow re-energized, she proceeded to leave the forest and warn the villagers.

Little did she know her pack now contained a severed, ringed hand, rotting away in a pool of congealing blood.


- - -
I am currently nineteen years old and attending the local community college.