The Last Sun Sentinel: Part 1

After fifty years of hell, the war First War of the Old Ones finally came to an end. This is the story of that day, and how it changed the Continent and its peoples forever.

Another explosion racked the deserts of Lo Ki’Lumin, lighting up the chill night like early morning, just for a moment. The orange-robed man strode briskly through the camp, nose pinched, eyes forward. It was true, what they said. War was, indeed, hell. The stench of sulfur, of expended magic, of death, rode heavy on the wind. The flutter and pound of footsteps was constant, the screams and wails of the injured and dying impossible to block out.

            It would soon be over, the man knew, but at the highest cost. He strode through the labyrinth of tents with purpose, unable to prevent the nervous puffs of flame expelled from his body every so often. He had come to perform a terrible deed. An atrocity, some would say. Personally, he was conflicted. It was, indeed, a terrible thing that he must do. But their options had run dry. This plan their last resort. Victory could not be allowed to go to the Old Ones or their followers. If it finally ended this half-century war, it was worth it. Right?

            The man questioned himself even as he approached the tent he was looking for. The creature--no, the soldier, he corrected himself--standing guard did its best to kneel. Mannerisms of the more humanoid races of the Continent were always difficult for the Lupin, with their thin, lupine legs and bulky upper bodies.

            “The kapitan awaits you, my Lord Sentinel,” the wolfman half-spoke, half-snarled.

          The man nodded to the guard as he passed, stooping to open the flap of the tent.

The interior of the tent was brightly lit, standing torches set up near its edges. The center of the tent was dominated by a roaring firepit roughly ten feet across on each side, edged by countless stones, each one carved with thaumic runes that allowed them to absorb some of the heat radiated from the inferno and keep it under control. To one side would have been a lounging area complete with vibrantly-colored lounging pillows and low tables with countless types of drink, alcoholic and otherwise, had they not all been appropriated to help in the war effort. In front of the firepit was a haggard-looking man, chainmail dull and ashen, hunched over a large wooden table with a map of the region while rubbing his bearded chin.

“Captain Willis,” the robed man greeted, clasping arms with the older man.

“Ah, yes. Hello, Ignatius.”

The captain, being human, lacked the fair complexion of most of the Ki’Lumin race, as well as their pointed ear. The captain instead had olive skin, wrinkled and scarred in places. Where the Sun Sentinel’s hair was a pristine, perfectly combed platinum blond, the captain had a messy mop of tangled black hair, on top of his head as well as on his face.

“How are the men?” the Sentinel asked his friend.

The captain sighed. “Not well, as I’m sure you can imagine. We’ve had to cut rations to half, medical supplies are running low, even with the alcohol and extra canvas and such accrued from around the camp--another decision the men aren’t all too happy with--our Life mages are beginning to run dry from the constant injured brought through the gates. And the front lines…well, I don’t suppose I need to tell you of all people how the front lines are doing.” The captain sighed. “We have to do it, don’t we, Ignatius? The last resort?”

Ignatius looked at the ground. “I am afraid so, my friend.”

“Gore it all,” the captain cursed under his breath. He turned back to the Sentinel. “Well then. It has been a pleasure, and an honor, to serve alongside you, my friend.” The captain made to leave the tent, then stopped as he grasped the flap. He turned back to look at his friend Ignatius, the Sun Sentinel, resignation in his eyes. “When people look back on this day in history, I hope they remember you fondly.” Captain Willis left the tent for the final time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ignatius peeked outside one final time. The sun was just beginning to rise. The reds and oranges, blues and yellows, painting the horizon would be beautiful, under different circumstances.

            “We are ready for you, Lord Sentinel.”

            Ignatius sighed and turned around. The massive bonfire dominating the tent had burned down to white-hot coals. A handful of Fire mages--human, Kentaran, Lupin, and Ki’Lumin alike--stood nearby, waiting. With practiced ease, the Sentinel materialized his relics out of nothingness. Flames engulfed his torso, head, and left hand and side. As the flames died out, the Sentinel’s relics--helm, cloak, sword, and ring--appeared on his form. The Sentinel removed the faceplate of his gleaming, ruddy helmet. He sighed, looking away from its image--that of a handsome man with high cheekbones--before shoving it back into place with a dull screech of metal against metal.

With that, the Sentinel reignited his Cloak--a veritable tapestry of leather, chainmail, and platemail; his Helm--thaumic runes engraved upon it at seemingly random points; his Ring--a small band of ruddy metal hot to the touch; and his Sword--a long, curved silver blade that shined orange in the light. With one hand extended, he siphoned his relics in their purest forms--bright orange fire--into the firepit.

Ignatius breathed deeply. This was it. There was no turning back now. The Sentinel stepped onto the white-hot coals as easily as a man might walk upon a plush carpet. Where any other man would have felt excruciating pain, the Sentinel felt only a dull, calming warmth. As Ignatius lay down in the firepit, arms crossed like a corpse at rest, the Fire mages readied themselves. They combed through the coals with metal rakes, pulling them to settle over the Sentinel’s body. As they covered his face, Ignatius closed his eyes, welcoming the red-tinged darkness.

Author's Note

Due to this story being much longer than any I've written previously, I've decided to break it into smaller pieces to make it more digestible for people.

As always, comments, questions, concerns are all greatly appreciated. And most of all, thanks for reading!

Reviews

[JayG]

Some things to think about:

• Readers are not seeking to know "story." They want to be made to live it, in real-time. So story doesn't lie in what happens, It lies in the heart and mind of the protagonist, our avatar. It lies in his/her struggle to control their situation, and to solve what THEY see as their problems. So by focusing on a chronicle of events, intermixed with explanations by the narrator, you're providing a detailed history of a fictional character. Informative? Definitely. Entertaining? No more than any other history book or report.

• The reader cannot hear your words or see your performance. The voice they "hear" as they read is very unlike the one you do when you read, because you begin reading already aware of the three questions a reader needs addressed quickly: Who am I? Where am I? What's going on. Without them a reader has facts which are free of the context that would make the story live. Have your computer read the words aloud to hear how different what the reader gets is from what you get when you read.

• In our school days we were taught only those writing skills that will make us useful to future employers, who need us to write essays, papers, and letters—all nonfiction applications, all meant to inform. So of course, we learn to write in that style: fact-based and author-centric. We EXPLAIN things to the reader—as you do here.

But people read fiction to be entertained by being moved, emotionally. They want to feel an emotional connection to the protagonist, not to the events. They want to be made to feel what the protagonist is feeling in the moment that character calls now. And that takes a set of writing skills that are emotion-based and character-centric—skills not even mentioned as existing in our school days. Why? Because they're professional skills unique to the fiction writing profession, and so learned as part of how to create scenes that sing to the reader, and not given us as part of our public education years. To successfully write fiction you need to fix that.

In short: You're working hard, and putting a lot of yourself into this work. But honest effort and a pure heart aren't enough. A bit of professional knowledge is necessary if our writing is to be appreciated by those who are used to seeing only professionally written fiction. So the solution? pick up a few tricks of the trade. After all it makes sense that to have your work compare to a pro—in any field—you need to know what the pro knows.

So visit the local library's fiction-writing section. It's filled with the views of pros in publishing, writing, and teaching. And it's free, which is always good.

You might dig around among the writing articles of my blog, to get a feel for what you need to work on. But in the end, for the best advice, go to the pro.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/