epic fantasy, medieval fantasy
Follow the epic saga of Wilhelm III, a man who slowly descends into madness as his craving for revenge consumes his entire life, taking everything from him. There is love, death, and the realization that life is eventually, completely useless.
Hi! I am Cabe Warwick, an author and an artist. I am only fifteen, but I love to read, and I hope you see that in some of my work.
The hills are large, steadfast and solemn in their guard. Dark water cascades, a river of black pooling in large bodies of water. Nestled betwixt the mounds, a smaller pool of water rests in the echoes of a bootprint. The ridges are a hard contrast to the soft mud. The miniature body of water refracts the electric sky, shimmering in the darkness. The bolts of light crack the stratosphere of clouds. Air pops and snaps in its wake. Within the shallow depths of the puddle, lies a rock, cocooned silently in the muddy floor.
Suddenly, the dense chunk of rough earth shifts. Dirt floats in the water, but nonetheless, a small leg begins to take form, protruding from the undergrowth. An insect, a Black Garden ant to be exact. It emerges, clinging to the splintering dirt around it. It floats in a blanket of bubbles, spinning frantically toward the surface. It emerges from the water like a newborn child emerging from the womb, liquids encapsulating its escape. The small black creature bobs, glistening in the sparkling sky. It floats wildly, the puddle carving its movement to land.
Finally, it makes contact, rolling to the wet earth in the cacophonous noise surrounding it. White sticks clash, bouncing off each other, bouncing off shields. Motion pictures simply cannot capture the carnage. The battle is not choreographed, it is not clean. It is messy, and bloody, and savage. Chainmail protects the soldiers, a cold blanket of metal. And so, as armor envelopes most of the participants, warriors resort to blunt trauma. Blades are almost useless. The only option is brutal melee collision. Their bodies are packed closely together, noise echoing around them. If blade swinging is rare, stabbing is non-existent. Claustrophobia eats most of their hearts, spreading like wildfire. Men squirm, writhing and pushing, gasping.
The small black creature creeps through the masses, gliding between rocks and caked mud. Its legs struggle, wriggling along, racing to avoid death… all for not. A metal boot rises, and falls, the ant reeling in terror. The glistening insect is crushed, its grotesque innards emptying into the ground. In sadness, I regret to inform, it is dead. But then, as hundreds of men fall around it, it is, after all, just
Format : paperback
Page Count : 205