A story.

I wrote this story and as I'ma big lord of the rings fan I thought some of you might appreciate it.

It was a cool quiet morning; the only movement was the swaying of the thin trees against a grey sky, the only sound the creaking of branches. The ground was roughly hewn with dips and curves stretching far. A fresh blanket of crunchy grass was sprawled as far as could be seen .All was silent as the ancient trees surveyed the land as they always had done, and always would.
It was six o’clock in the morning, 2 miles from the city of great Lewis and a day’s journey from blackberry village on foot.
A few lonely crows where surveying the land enjoying the gentle breeze and crooning softly.
Without warning the sound of heavy hooves echoed over the hills.
A rider, cloaked in a worn garment tinged with blue was thundering across the plains at a maddening pace.
His steed was a great chestnut brown beast that was tearing up great clods of earth and sending leaves scattering in its wake.
The rider was old, with keen blue eyes that sparked with fear , a wide pointed hat was perched on his head shadowing his face . He resembled a once smooth stone that had been hacked and hewn by the rough sea, and perhaps that suited him, for he had seen and done much in his time.
In his withered hands he held a dark brown beaten staff, strong and hardwearing, as he made his way across the plains.
He kept riding he did not stop, although both he and his steed where weary.
Leaves and branches whipped past his greying head stinging him with bitter frozen wind, like cruel hands. He was afraid, terrified, they had found him.
And they were coming.
He wished more than ever that he could enjoy the beautiful landscape, rolling hills and silent lakes were all ignored now.
He could hear the hooves, echoing over the plains, threatening to crush him with their thunderous anthem.
Then came the shouting voices, angry and hateful, searching for him with frightful pace.
Barthagus Twiggle was a wizard, perhaps a good one in his time.
Yet whenever that time had been, had long since passed.
Now he was an old man, and an old fool too. He thought to himself.
Meddling in affairs that didn’t concern him.
They had once, when he was proud and strong but not now.
Never slackening his pace he came to a steep hill strewn with scattered rock and patches of grass. A small stream was wrapped around its base and grassy cliffs jutted around it forming a rocky enclosure.
Feeling terror clutching at his chest he spun around daring a glimpse.
They were close, four of them, weren’t there five?
One was clothed in a blood red garment another in murky green.
The third had armour that shone with dark blue and the fourth was a dazzling yellow.
They had much stronger steeds all dark coloured and going at a terrible pace,
“Faster” he murmured to himself and sped down the hill, dodging the scattered terrain.
With a leap he crashed into the stream sending glistening spouts of water into the air.
The angry voices closed in; there was little chance of escape now.
Ahead there was a gathering of tall trees leading down to a valley, through which a small road twisted.
So close.
“There he is “roared a harsh voice.
The blinding shapes were metres away; he caught a glimpse of glistening steel amongst the startled stream.
“Draenir!” he shouted to the horse “morkit!”
As though maddened the horse gave a screech and double its pace, the fierce hooves smashing the ground just behind them. Something glinting sped past his head followed by another shout.
Too close now.
They were on both sides now swords drawn, their faces completely masked in its own colour. Some held bows, others cruel swords, and they all wore the same glinting armour and tattered cloaks. They were Assassins that was of little doubt
They had come for him, on whose orders he knew not, but it mattered little now.
“Stop or we shall cut you down” hissed a leering voice.
The trees were just ahead. Dark green and gold. A searing blade just missed his head as he swerved to the side.
But he had missed something, on a small hill, shrouded with trees a figure cloaked in white stood, a dark crossbow laid in his hands.
“No!” barthagus yelled.
The horse reared on its hind legs the assassins leapt forward keen blades dancing across a grey sky.
The white figure fired.
There was an echoing screech. The cold sky seemed to be swaying threatening to engulf him. He was thrown to the ground in a tumble of robes. He felt leaves and stones beneath him as he tumbled downwards, branches groped at him and weeds snatched at his face. He leapt up; they would be after him soon. He was in a large glade of trees that cast all beneath them in shadow.
Behind him lay the hill which he had tumbled from, the assassins only a dozen metres away. He sped through the leafy barriers snapping branches and crushing saplings. His breath coming in frozen heavy gasps, a shroud of fear was quietly pursuing him.
The road was ahead, and old beaten path that was crowned by slanting trees and lined with columns of proud branches.
He could almost taste escape, if he ran now, they might miss him.
He quickened his pace pushing aside brittle branches and bending leafy extensions in his hurry. A thicker branch swung back in answer striking his already beaten back.
He stumbled and fell, the ground was soft and scented but the stones were merciless.
He fell in a blizzard of old leaves and dead twigs for how long he knew not, but in this quiet forest riddled with mystery it seems to never end.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

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