Minds Writing Contest submission, 1 Sept 2021


I wrote this in response to a writing prompt on Minds: https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1279870076492714003
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‘Why are there so many dead snags here?’
‘Those are all that’s left of the town trees.’
‘How could there be so many? They don’t even look burnt.’
The horse commander just shook his head. ‘Volarien! Take two muckers and do a sweep on foot. This overgrowth must have happened since the sacking. There could be elf or human remains under it all.’
‘Sir,’ the rider replied, and beckoned to two others. Tying their mounts to a snag, they left their lances leaning together and moved about on foot.
The rest of the warband moved on, picking their way through the faint trails, left by… game? Itinerants? Up ahead were the remains of the Tower – the Library had been right next to it. The commander shook his head – such loss!
There was a mound of overgrowth, brambles and nettles and bracken, ahead. Grey stone peeked out of the green – this must have been the wall. There was the shell of the Gatehouse. There were young saplings sprouting from the wall. 
‘Sir! Here are bones!’ Volarien called out. He and his mates had found something in the gatehouse.
The commander called his tracker. ‘Tuval! Take a look at this and see what kind of story you can work out.’ The others stopped moving, so the tracker could see the ground undisturbed.
Tuval dismounted and squatted down. ‘Cooking fire, sir. See the bones? By the size and thickness, they were eating one of their own.’
‘A pity they didn’t do that before the siege,’ the commander humphed. ‘But they probably were anyway. Life means nothing to the Foul Folk.’
‘Are there any bones of our own folk?’
‘I think there are, sir – look, this is a jawbone. It’s an elf or a man. The earth is packed hard, they stayed here for several days.’ Tuval rooted about, and pulled out – a piece of cloth. It was covered with massive bloodstains, but recognisable as part of a Woodelf tabard, worn over armour. ‘This was… one of ours.’
The commander nodded grimly. ‘May the Powers rest them,’ he said. 
One of the other foot-sweepers said, ‘Ow!’ Everyone looked at him. ‘I just hit my shin on some teeth,’ he looked at the commander. He was standing right next to a small mound of vegetation.
Tuval stepped over to him, trying not to disturb the ground. He pulled up the top of a skull. ‘There was a skeleton on a spear, almost lying flat,’ he reported. Looking at it, he said, ‘This was a shaman. They always chip their teeth into points, see? That’s what you walked in to.’
‘Best get a potion for any marks those teeth left,’ ordered the commander. ‘It could be septic, or cursed, being a shaman skull.’
‘So,’ announced the tracker, ‘it looks like they impaled the shaman on a spear. The spear goes lengthwise through the whole skeleton.’
‘What a way to go,’ someone muttered.
‘They probably decided they didn’t need magic any more after they’d won.’ The commander had a sour look on his face, as sour as an elf could look.
Tuval looked at the skull with distaste. Unthinking, he tossed it over his shoulder, and one of the lads, deftly sweeping out his cavalry sword, slashed upwards at it as it came towards him. The skull shattered, but instead of bone shards scattering everywhere, it turned to green dust with a sound like a small explosion.
‘WOOOAAR-EEEEGH!’ a phantasmal scream shattered the gravelike quiet of the gatehouse. A spectral, translucent shaman suddenly appeared among them. It leapt at the elf that had broken the skull, ghostly fingers grabbing his throat. The elf tried to pull the phantom off of himself, but his fingers could only grasp air.
‘What the sod?’ erupted the commander. Some of the elves stabbed at the phantom, with predictable results. The commander saw it all, and realised he needed something more. Reaching into his belt, he pulled out a silver dagger. He jabbed at the head of the phantom, and it sunk in to the hilt! The phantom burst into sparks, leaving a smell like a sewer.
The elf that had been attacked dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. ‘We’re going to need a cleric to cleanse this place, I think,’ said the commander. ‘The Sack of Tumgelion will forever be a stain on our history. But given time, we will rebuild.’ He re-sheathed the silver dagger. ‘And we have all the time in the world!’