Dottie over at Tink's Place have come up with the idea for a Monday Morning Flash Fiction challenge. Each Monday a new picture prompt will be posted and if you choose to participate you post your story on Friday - 350 words, give or take.
I have to thank Blodeuedd at Book Girl of Mur-y-Castell for introducing me to this fun meme. I don't know if I'll be able to keep up with every week, but I'll give it a try from time to time.
The Image This Week:
Story By: Melissa
(Sorry, this one is from 2 weeks ago. I still owed you. This weeks will be up tonight.)
Bryant walked past the armor and swards hanging in the exhibition of history. A history so long past the metal was dulled and rusting. The dents where reminders of a time past where people battled to the death in large fields, on and off horses. There were stories told of this time. And the story that was told to keep peace in all the lands, scare the men from fighting, bringing death to the land by way of the singing sword again. The story of the war sirens.
Bryant didn't believe them, just stories that was all, he thought with a scowl, lip and nose twitching at the anger of how dumb his people had grown to be over years. So submissive, they don't even fight for themselves.
Bryant was convinced war was their answer. The Candoveans have been stopping trade caravans through their territory, the friendly neighbor they once were and now the enemy stealing what little we had to trade, and what we needed to survive. The Candoveans were a people that had grown selfish and demanding. But we need the supplies from Antelians on the other side. But now. Now they are taking the women and children who lived close to the borders, shrinking out land so we are all squeezing closer to the city.
Bryant had all but two on the council convinced. Those two were stopping the inevitable from happening. Just to superstitious. Bryant had an invisible ally on the council though, she will detain them away so he can get the army ready to leave.
Bryant charged, with his followers, into battle seated tall on his white steed, on the grounds his long lost ancestors had battled for all those years ago. The armor, even though still dented with dings of battle years past, was shining in the morning beam of light. The buffing helped, and hopefully was blinding his opposing army, not knowing where to swing.
The clash of metal and wood rose through the valley. Men screamed, falling to the blood muddied ground. Bryant was sweating and tiring from the weight of his armor, sword, and the fights. His horse dying beside him as he fights on.
Battling a man dressed for battle in only a leather loin cloth. Bryant heard the singing of a beautiful voice. The voice calling to him, he paused in swinging his sword, turning to see a beauty of glowing blue-green light. A woman was on the battlefield, but no one was attacking her. Only half the men seemed to even see her. Then she sang her voice strong all the men turned, drinking in her beauty.
She raised her hands, singing, the wind carrying her voice to all ears. As the men fell to their knees, then to the ground.
Bryant looked up as she came to his side. He ran a finger down his cheek, she sang for him. And he chocked his last breathe.