.:Men Of No Hearts:.
The weather was cold and icy, turning what little of the rain that had fallen from the sky and onto the roofs of the houses into icicles, hanging down from the wooden roofs like miniature stalactites. Even though the light-men had been out since the sun had begun to set that evening, lighting the streetlamps, and the occupants of the houses had been lighting their candles and fireplaces, the majority of them had shuttered their windows against the streets outside, and the city was mostly in darkness against the blackness of the sky.
Storekeepers had locked up several hours before hand, some travelling back to the warmth of their homes and a plate of good food prepared by the wife, while other chose to retire to the numerous taverns and inns around, down the different streets. Even the beggars were at rest, sleeping the alcoves or down Lyolf-ends and back streets. Homeless dogs, cats and children dozed beside public bins, ignored by the few people still out at this lonely hour. This was the city of Sewel.
In the east of Sewel, in a small one-roomed wooden bungalow, a small boy named was sitting on the reed mat before the burning hearth. The boy was nearly seven, with fine green hair and maroon eyes, sat a played with a small pile of toy bricks under his mother's watchful eye. His father had been asleep in his chair for most of the evening, tired from his watch duty on the walls. The man suddenly woke, for he suddenly leapt to his feet from his chair.
"Umae!" he hissed urgently. He was standing at one of the windows, squinting out into the streets beyond, his voice trembling. "Umae, come here quickly; something is wrong!"
His wife didn't have time to ask exactly what, when suddenly the family heard a low, pounding noise that shook the air around them, vibrating so much that the while house seemed to be shaking. It took the three boys a few seconds to realise that this was the city bell, and if it was ringing at all, that could only mean one thing…
The boy's father threw open the front door suddenly, to reveal a hunched man carrying a lantern, who jumped back as the man raised his fists. "Legan!" he gasped, stepping backwards. "Peace, but be quick!"
"Mrol!" cried the boy's father, surprised. "Forgive me, old friend, but what his going on? I though, with the bell, you were surely an attacker."
"No," the old man answered, "but they shall be here soon, too, and they do not knock or care for children." His eyes fixed on the child, who was whimpering and shrank back towards his mother. "Look, I dare not linger, but the gates are opening and we must all flee. A Dark Knight has arrived at the East Gate with an army of almost six thousand of the Lyolf."
The boy's father eyes opened wide with terror, and behind him, his wife gasped, clutching the child back close to her. The boys shuddered, though they didn't understand what was going on. Who were the Lyolf? And what – though they'd heard the name before – was a Dark Knight?
"One of the Dark Knights? The wall scouts must have got it wrong," their father was saying. "A Prince would never bother about Sewel; we're insignificant to them."
"Well, whatever the reason, they're here," said the old man, glancing over his shoulder as people ran up to doors, hammered on them, spoke to the owners, then ran off, leaving them to gather up those from the household and make for the gates. "And the mayor has ordered the other gates be opened so all that can might try to get out safely. Goodbye, old friend."
The boy's father looked like he was in shock, but he hugged the old man tightly, shaking with fear. Then, before the child knew it, the old man was gone, and his father was running to another chest in one corner of the home, pulling open the lid and throwing various items of clothes over to his family. Suddenly, before they knew what was happening, they were outside in the icy air. Grabbing his wife's hand in one hand, his son's in the other, the man began to run.
The warning bell was still ringing, and there was pandemonium on the streets. People were running everywhere, carrying torches, lanterns, belongings, and screaming children; and his father was speeding up, grabbing his son's hand. The boy didn't complain.
"Keep up!" his father shouted back to him, and the boy, panicking, whimpered and broke into a headlong run in order to keep up with his father.
"Slow down!" he sobbed, stumbling on the uneven cobbles. "Daddy, slow down!"
But his father either couldn't hear or wasn't about to agree to his son's pleas, and the boy's legs were growing tiered and was dragging on the man's hand. He pushed himself to run a little faster, but suddenly there was a scream from high above them, and the warning bell stopped ringing.
Everyone in the street stopped, including the boy, staring up at the big black silhouette, which was the city wall. Then all hell broke loose. "The bell!" the people shouted, and then the screaming started again, people running blindly left from right.
The boy was knocked sideways as people ran into him, and he was sent crashing into the wall of a house, loosing his father's hand. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the fact that his hat had come off, eyes darting left to fight, and his heart froze. His father was nowhere to be seen.
"Daddy!" screamed the little boy, running into the crowd, grabbing at the coats at random men, hoping, praying it to be his father. "Daddy?"
But the men weren't his father, and all pulled themselves free or swatted the little boy away. The boy cowered back, but told himself everything was going to be alright. Any moment now, his father would appear from in the depths of the panic, scoop him up in his arms, and run with him back to where his mother was waiting anxiously for their return, and getting in peoples' way.
But after a few minutes, the boy began to panic: there was no sign of his father anywhere, and he could feel the pulsing terror of the crowd around him. He tried again, grabbing at people of any sex now, but it was hopeless: none were his family.
Suddenly, his father's words echoed in the boy's head. If you ever get lost out in the city, go to the East Gate, all right? You know where that is, don't you?
"Yes," whispered the boy, just like he had done all the times his father had asked him this, and it was true.
Good, so if you're ever lost, go to the East Gate and I shall find you there. Or if not, just talk to one of the Wall Patrols, and they'll take you home.
So, feeling slightly relieved, the boy turned and began to run towards the East Gate. It troubled him that everyone seemed to be running away from the gate, but no one stopped him, and that just made the boy calmer. If there were less people near the gate, the easier it would be for his father to find him there.
Even before he reached the East Gate, he knew something was wrong. There were no patrols near or around the wall there, and the streets and houses were completely deserted. The gate was shut tightly, barred and locked, and someone had lit great burning fires around the base of the gates on the inside, as though in a self-defence type way. The boy stopped when he saw this, alarmed, but then he ventured forwards, holding his hand up to shield his face. Then he turned away.
Somewhere outside the city walls, someone laughed manically, and the boy froze. Wall Patrols! That had to be it, and if they were outside, then maybe they'd be able to help him. It didn't occur to him that no one alive could have made a laugh like that, but the boy's head was swimming. If he couldn't get through the main gates, he'd have to use the drains. They were to small for a man to squeeze into, but a boy of his age could; he and his friends used to sneak through the drain and outside the city to explore around the walls, until a patrol saw them and ordered them back inside.
The boy headed for this now, just a few meters away from the burning fire, which smelt strongly of oil and wood. The boy reached the drain quickly, going down on his hands and knees. He peered through the small tunnel and saw the glow of torches from outside. That meant there was defiantly patrols out there, and without a backwards glance, the boy was stretched out on his stomach, dragging himself through by his fingertips, ignoring the stench that accompanied the tunnel, the grim caked onto the inside of the drain. He held his breath and squinted through his eyes. And then he was out in fresh air again, and the boy scrambled down onto the soft yellow sand of the desert, which surrounded Sewel, but he'd misjudged the fall, and fell heavily on his ankle. He whimpered, but pulled himself back up onto his feet, ignoring the flare of pain.
He glanced round, looking for the patrols… And went pale. Instead of the normal human patrols he was used to, the boy as looking across at some unholy army, and suddenly he remembered what that man Mrol had told his father: some person called a Dark Knight had come to the East Gate, accompanied by some things called Lyolfs. The boy hadn't known what a Lyolf was, but now he thought he did, and he sourly wished he'd never left the safety of the crowd. These…things, these Lyolfs were creatures from his darkest nightmares, and the boy was almost sick.
Lyolfs were tall, ugly beasts, nearly seven feet tall, with warped bodies. Bodies of mummies – the dead type – all parchment coloured and dry, their ribs sticking out starkly underneath their dehydrated skin. They had skeletal feet, more like claws than anything else, and hands of some unknown beast, with nails of about six centimetres long. A rattlesnake's tail – in perfect proportion to the bodies – hung down from the beats' lower back, each with its own perfectly formed rattle at the end.
For a moment, the boy could not properly see what these things had for heads, but then he did. The Lyolfs had heads that strongly resembled a cat's head; sandy coloured, but with a thick mane of fiery reds, yellows and oranges, and when one opened its mouth to scent the air, the boy caught sight of huge, monstrous teeth inside of its jaws. These were the Lyolfs, scary, inhuman beasts that haunted children's dreams. And they were here now, outside of Sewel, six thousand of them. Waiting for something. And the boy was in their sights.
With a whimper, the boy turned and flung himself back up inside the drain, but he suddenly was being lifted high up in the air, and he screamed, lashing out wildly. The Dark Knight laughed, amused, but he did not release the back of the boy's collar.
"What do we have here?" he hissed, turning his wrist so that he could stare the boy dead in the eyes. "Why, it's a little escapee. How extraordinary."
The boy stopped struggling immediately, frozen by the burning evil in the Dark Night's eyes behind the mask of burning bronze. But his own eyes were filled with tears of anger and hate, and suddenly he found mobility, and he lashed out again. The Knight only laughed and held him at arm's length. Then he whispered a spell under his breath, looking at the now furiously struggling boy in his grasp. There was a flash of light and suddenly the boy was still. The Dark Knight dropped him to the ground, then turned to his army.
"Enough of this nonsense!" he roared at them, indicating the city. "It's time to show our dear King what we Dark Knights can really do! KILL THEM ALL!"
With a deafening roar, the Lyolfs surged forwards towards the city gates before them. The Dark Knight watched them enter, eyes darkened yet contented beneath the mask – the symbol of his cult. This was good – the King of Igorance was away at his neice's birthday celebrations in the Tirrius land, and was a long ride away from his own land at this time. Now was the perfect time to display the Knight's power. But this wasn't their main goal.
"And after Sewel," the Dark Knight said coldly, ignoring the terrified screams from within the city walls, "we go for the real test. We shall awaken the dragon, and we shall give her an offering – of royal blood! Princess Eloryn, you're future awaits thee!"
Yay! Another pyscho villan to ruin every story! PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! Thanks to Pirate and martini the brave - the support was welcomed! Llamas, Ginger-Bizkit.