Publication History |
Dermanassian had dreamt of the burning river. Yet still he was taken aback
when, as dusk approached, he rounded the mountaintop and saw the river
mighty and serpentine in the valley beneath, a village and its fields lassoed in a
thin loop of fire.
As he descended, he saw that the moat was patched together from converted
and widened irrigation channels. Raised drawbridges of stone and iron sat at
intersections of road and river, allowing the only access to the village. Distant
folk tended their flocks and fields, and the sharp ting of a hammer striking
metal drifted on the breeze. Wooden watchtowers dotted the village and its
encircled surrounds.
At the edge of Dermanassian's vision, a wagon neared the village at a wild
gallop. The wagon jerked and rocked and the horses ran as if possessed, leaving
a wide cloud of dust behind them. From even farther away, a second trail of
dust pursued the fleeing wagon. Given its sharp angle and greater speed,
Dermanassian judged that whatever created it would catch the wagon before it
reached the moat of fire.
Much too far away to lend his sword in the conflict -- if even he knew which
side to favor -- Dermanassian simply watched in the growing darkness. With a
start, he realized that the pursuer was a cat-like creature of monstrous
proportions, fully as large as the horses it raced after. Dermanassian knew the
wagon would not reach its destination. Its pursuer sprang upon the lead horse.
Even from the mountain, Dermanassian heard the horses’ terrified squeals as
one's back was broken and the others were dragged to the ground in a heap of
flying hooves. The wagon snapped like a series of distant firecrackers. Three
figures leapt from it, racing toward the fiery moat. Their cat-like pursuer
pounced upon them in a few strides. As the creature snapped them apart, the
last blush of sunset faded. Dermanassian saw no more.
The following morning, he warily completed the descent toward the flaming
river. His watchful eyes searched for any sign of the beast's return. His clothes,
all of the softest gray, blended easily with most terrain. His movements were
smooth and graceful. From a distance, the only notable thing about him the
cool, glow of the blue lotus sword. But the sword -- still naked, as it stubbornly
cut through all attempts to sheath it -- swung behind him in a harness of black
cording and so was not visible to any villagers who might have glanced up the
mountain's slope.
Upon closer inspection, of course, there was much about Dermanassian that
was different. His shiny black hair was pulled into a thick braid tied with the
same cording that formed the sword's harness. His skin had been called bronzy
by some, who likened it to brown silk over burnished gold. His heavily lidded
black eyes were quick, but methodical. More than all this, however, were the
distinctive angular features of a desert elf.
Dermanassian passed the shattered and blood-stained boards that had been the
wagon. Its cargo of cloth and hides was torn apart and scattered. There was no
sign of the four horses or the three people except dark, gooey smears in the
earth that smelled rancid as the morning sun heated them. Learning what he
could from the wreck and his curiosity increased tenfold, he moved on to the
river's banks.
He squinted in the heat rising from the burning river. The river was rushing and
wide; its shimmering flames flickered their ever-changing reds and yellows,
oranges and blues, and even whites high above its banks, dancing and crackling
as they swept downstream. Dermanassian did not know the source of the river,
whether a blistering spring from the very center of the globe or another world
altogether. He did not know the end of the river, whether it filled an unknown
fiery lake or steamed into a faraway ocean. The village, however, was there in
the distance and he wished to see what sort of people would populate such a
place. More, he had been hoping to find and replenish his dwindling supplies
and find a bed. Even a clean hayloft would be luxury after weeks crossing the
mountains.
He frowned with distaste at the thought of the swimming through the river.
Certainly he had protections, but testing them against such an obstacle would
be foolish. Instead he went to the nearest drawbridge, sat in the field, and
waited.
It was hours before riders appeared on the other side, their figures blurred as
he gazed at them through the fire. The four rode wide farm horses more
accustomed to harnesses and yokes than the weight of riders upon their broad
backs. A dark gelding with a crooked blaze down his nose smacked his lips
uncomfortably at his bit and stomped his feathered feet in protest. An old sway-
backed stallion rolled his eyes. The riders looked no more at ease than their
mounts, armed with a mix of poorly-balanced spears and javelins that they
gripped like pitchforks. Their faces were hard and unnaturally lean.
"Who're you?" Without preamble or welcome, the oldest of the men called
over the continuous crackling of the burning river. His hand twitched on the
leather reins and his dappled mare flicked her bob-tail in response. He
reminded Dermanassian of fear-biters -- dogs that became more aggressive as
they became more scared...
when, as dusk approached, he rounded the mountaintop and saw the river
mighty and serpentine in the valley beneath, a village and its fields lassoed in a
thin loop of fire.
As he descended, he saw that the moat was patched together from converted
and widened irrigation channels. Raised drawbridges of stone and iron sat at
intersections of road and river, allowing the only access to the village. Distant
folk tended their flocks and fields, and the sharp ting of a hammer striking
metal drifted on the breeze. Wooden watchtowers dotted the village and its
encircled surrounds.
At the edge of Dermanassian's vision, a wagon neared the village at a wild
gallop. The wagon jerked and rocked and the horses ran as if possessed, leaving
a wide cloud of dust behind them. From even farther away, a second trail of
dust pursued the fleeing wagon. Given its sharp angle and greater speed,
Dermanassian judged that whatever created it would catch the wagon before it
reached the moat of fire.
Much too far away to lend his sword in the conflict -- if even he knew which
side to favor -- Dermanassian simply watched in the growing darkness. With a
start, he realized that the pursuer was a cat-like creature of monstrous
proportions, fully as large as the horses it raced after. Dermanassian knew the
wagon would not reach its destination. Its pursuer sprang upon the lead horse.
Even from the mountain, Dermanassian heard the horses’ terrified squeals as
one's back was broken and the others were dragged to the ground in a heap of
flying hooves. The wagon snapped like a series of distant firecrackers. Three
figures leapt from it, racing toward the fiery moat. Their cat-like pursuer
pounced upon them in a few strides. As the creature snapped them apart, the
last blush of sunset faded. Dermanassian saw no more.
The following morning, he warily completed the descent toward the flaming
river. His watchful eyes searched for any sign of the beast's return. His clothes,
all of the softest gray, blended easily with most terrain. His movements were
smooth and graceful. From a distance, the only notable thing about him the
cool, glow of the blue lotus sword. But the sword -- still naked, as it stubbornly
cut through all attempts to sheath it -- swung behind him in a harness of black
cording and so was not visible to any villagers who might have glanced up the
mountain's slope.
Upon closer inspection, of course, there was much about Dermanassian that
was different. His shiny black hair was pulled into a thick braid tied with the
same cording that formed the sword's harness. His skin had been called bronzy
by some, who likened it to brown silk over burnished gold. His heavily lidded
black eyes were quick, but methodical. More than all this, however, were the
distinctive angular features of a desert elf.
Dermanassian passed the shattered and blood-stained boards that had been the
wagon. Its cargo of cloth and hides was torn apart and scattered. There was no
sign of the four horses or the three people except dark, gooey smears in the
earth that smelled rancid as the morning sun heated them. Learning what he
could from the wreck and his curiosity increased tenfold, he moved on to the
river's banks.
He squinted in the heat rising from the burning river. The river was rushing and
wide; its shimmering flames flickered their ever-changing reds and yellows,
oranges and blues, and even whites high above its banks, dancing and crackling
as they swept downstream. Dermanassian did not know the source of the river,
whether a blistering spring from the very center of the globe or another world
altogether. He did not know the end of the river, whether it filled an unknown
fiery lake or steamed into a faraway ocean. The village, however, was there in
the distance and he wished to see what sort of people would populate such a
place. More, he had been hoping to find and replenish his dwindling supplies
and find a bed. Even a clean hayloft would be luxury after weeks crossing the
mountains.
He frowned with distaste at the thought of the swimming through the river.
Certainly he had protections, but testing them against such an obstacle would
be foolish. Instead he went to the nearest drawbridge, sat in the field, and
waited.
It was hours before riders appeared on the other side, their figures blurred as
he gazed at them through the fire. The four rode wide farm horses more
accustomed to harnesses and yokes than the weight of riders upon their broad
backs. A dark gelding with a crooked blaze down his nose smacked his lips
uncomfortably at his bit and stomped his feathered feet in protest. An old sway-
backed stallion rolled his eyes. The riders looked no more at ease than their
mounts, armed with a mix of poorly-balanced spears and javelins that they
gripped like pitchforks. Their faces were hard and unnaturally lean.
"Who're you?" Without preamble or welcome, the oldest of the men called
over the continuous crackling of the burning river. His hand twitched on the
leather reins and his dappled mare flicked her bob-tail in response. He
reminded Dermanassian of fear-biters -- dogs that became more aggressive as
they became more scared...
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| The Burning River By SC Bryce |
First Printing:
Flashing Swords, Vol. 1, Issue 1,
Howard Andrew Jones, ed. (Jan.
2005), at www.SwordandSorcery.org.
Flashing Swords, Vol. 1, Issue 1,
Howard Andrew Jones, ed. (Jan.
2005), at www.SwordandSorcery.org.
Second Printing:
Universe Pathways, Issue 2, George
Sotirhos, et al., eds. (Jul. 2006)
(Revised).
Universe Pathways, Issue 2, George
Sotirhos, et al., eds. (Jul. 2006)
(Revised).
Third Printing:
Universe Pathways, George
Sotirhos, et al., eds. (Oct. 2006)
(Greek).
Universe Pathways, George
Sotirhos, et al., eds. (Oct. 2006)
(Greek).
 |
Readers' Comments |
| "I love the burning river..." "A very nasty beastie..." "Well worth reading..." "Very cool..." "Excellent..." "Wonderful build up..." "Strong and purposeful..." "Good fun..." "A fine piece of adventure fantasy..." "Gripping..." "Your descriptive ability is amazing..." "Great coup de grace..." "Very well written..." "I really enjoyed reading it..." "Detailed and vivid..." "Very real..." "Inventive..." "Great beast..." "You capture action so well..." "Exciting..." "Fun to read..." "Very entertaining..." "Well done..." |
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