So, as the title says, I've started work on a collection! I'm about a third of the way finished, with all eleven stories fleshed out, and only the actual writing to be done. And now I'm basically just looking for as much feedback as possible as I move towards self-publishing.
What follows is the very first part of the very first story: Heretic's Regiment This little preview is decidedly SFW–the steamy stuff doesn't come until a little bit later. Let me know what you gals (and guys) think! Feel free to rip it apart or praise it to high heaven–I'll appreciate it either way XD
Also, if you like what you see and want to be a Beta reader down the road (could be a while!), feel free to message me and we'll get to know each other a little bit better!
Heretic's Regiment
In a garden full of evergreens the crows are all asleep. They are still, idle, occupied with whatever crows dream, until the thundering sound of horses roars towards the garden and pagans begin falling left and right, bloodied, no more than a hundred yards away. It is over in minutes. Then the birds wake, flicker to life, lifting from tree limbs or fence posts and into the sky, cawing out their sudden agitation. They dive back to the earth to pick at the bodies. A loose cloud of black ripping away at skin and flesh until the first battalion, the pride of the western regiment, begins collecting the dead.
“What is the count?” Lord Commander Alrik asks, running a hand through his black hair streaked with white.
“Seventy seven. Seventy seven souls reclaimed by the light of God.”
Alrik nods. “Have you searched the manor yet?”
“Personally, m’lord. It is confirmed. Witches, all of them.” Alrik’s lieutenant, Nolyn, opens the bundle in his arms revealing an assortment of unholy items: small bits of bone, vials of blood, dessicated animals and insects.
Alrik glances briefly at the mess of fetishes and dark talismans. “The lord’s work be done,” he says before turning his attention to the pile of bodies in front of the dilapidated manor these heretics called home. “Begin the burial and the sealing,” the Lord commander says, his tone devoid of affect. His voice is cool and calm. Always cool and calm. “And do it quickly. The long rains are nearly upon us.”
“Long rains?” his lieutenant asks–a piercing whine to Alrik’s ears. “Is it ever bright in this godforsaken land?” The soldier looks up to the cloudy, grey sky. “Sun and women … I miss them dearly. One more than the other though.” The lieutenant finishes with a lascivious grin.
Alrik is barely listening to his second in command. There are only two things in the world that matter to the boy: killing, and… “That’s what I need. Sunlight, a pair of tits, and a nice, wet–”
Alrik holds up a hand to silence him. He tolerates the boy, one of the king’s bastards, but he is not fond of him. “Take me to the chaplain. ”
The lieutenant leads the Lord Commander through the garden at the outskirts of the manor grounds, towards the scores of bodies being devoured by hungry crows. As he always does when faced with the dead, friend or foe, Alrik pauses to say a litany for their souls. The fallen here today are in need of his prayer more than most–witches, sorcerers, and necromancers. Each and every one of them. He can only hope that, in death, they might repent and be redeemed.
A handful of the troops under Alrik’s command swat away the large birds brazenly pecking at flesh until each dead pagan is eventually carted off. The corpses will be burned, the ashes and charred bones buried in the same dark hole in the earth, then covered with a thick layer of salt. To keep any of the wretches from springing back to life through their dark magics. Alrik turns his back to the slaughter in the garden, his otherwise pristine cloak muddied at the fringe turning with him. Finishing his silent prayer, he motions Nolyn onward.
The regiment’s chaplain stands in the foyer of the manor. When he sees the Lord Commander, he offers a perfectly formed salute–fist to heart for loyalty and duty, then fingers to lips, with a head bowed in reverence for the one true God. Alrik returns the salute then follows the chaplain without another word, his lieutenant following closely behind.
The manor would fit comfortably in the wealthier parts of Brynvyn, the Estvallen capital. The rooms are spacious, the architecture is solid with a simple beauty that surprises Alrik. The only thing that keeps it from reminding him of his home country is the lack of decadence. Though there is much of it, the furniture is spartan. The simple, wooden chairs are unadorned, the sconces are little more than hoops of dark metal. Functional with no embellishment.
In each room, there are several thick blankets laid out in makeshift pallets. The owners must have been sharing the entire home with the dead outside–another thing unheard of in Estvall. In the east, servants are servants, and the thought of them sharing living quarters with their masters would be unthinkable.
As the chaplain moves through the house, waving his censer and spreading the stink of incense and god’s blessing around the cursed building, he recites his purifying ritual. “By the light and divine will this den of wretchedness is cleansed.”
When they reach the dining room, Alrik’s heart sinks as he surveys his troops’ handiwork. It is their holy duty to see this land cleansed of witchcraft, but the killing here is different from the massacre outside. This kind of scene has become all too familiar to him since his regiment began the cleansing of Alcae. The setting is different, the people are different, but the story is the same. On the dining table, there are rolls hardening and a pat of butter melting from the warmth of the still glowing hearth. There is salted pork and dried fish on a simple wood tray; boiled root vegetables with the skins intact, though starting to wrinkle, in a small metal container at the center of the table. And all around the spoiling feast are the dead.
This is why Alrik does not march with his men into combat as he otherwise would, as he has done in countless campaigns. The people outside had fought back–as futile an effort as it had been. The long hoes, the woodcutting axes or crude clubs, in their hands or next to their bodies, had made that plain as he walked among the fallen. But here … each body is slumped over in its chair, each one holding onto their kin with a white-knuckled grip made stronger still in death. They hadn’t fought back. From the look of it, they had hardly moved. Mother and father, son and daughter, all of them had simply waited for a soldier’s blade to fall.
“The Lord’s work be done,” the chaplain says, bringing the icon of the one true God to his lips–a circle of seven entwined rings–before instructing the soldiers to remove the bodies.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/2fz1vj/working_on_a_collection_of_scififantasyhorror