Well of embers past

Reads: 417  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic




The metal spoke with a hiss to its tongue as taris plunged the searing glaives end into the cooling waters of his smithing bench sealing its new death dealing form.

His eyes weary, sore and red, they burned for rest as he sliced the blade along the sharpening stone adding the final touches to the sword. An exhausted body, he forced his arm throwing it with a clang it landed in the pile of weapons, maces, axes, anything that would cleave the head of the enemy.


"You have done well taris, for a common slave."

A low gravely voice grunted from the back of the smithing hut.

"Lord gret will be pleased, no bonds this night but a guard will still haunt your door.

For your efforts a nordheim dancer for your pleasure, enjoy."

 a guard escorted taris to his quarters. 


The nordheim entertainer whirled through the door smiling as best she could, like Taris she too was snatched from her homeland by a dafari raid. However she was enslaved to bring gratification to her captors so night after night she would endure the howls they would produce like rabid dogs.

Her beauty would steal the breath from a gods mouth as if the worlds oceans had poured their deep blue entrancing colour into her eyes sparking the embers of any man that dare gaze upon her, taris moved not an inch as his eyes fixed on the stained dirt of his hut. 


Only a torn cloth gave shelter to her lower body given the name the shared cloth by her dafarian cannibal captors but in another life she was known as heria. Her olive skin absorbed the moons rays as they seeped in through tiny gaps of the weathered sheet hanging on the window breathing an allurement into her body as she twirled and danced for the smith.


The entertainer slowed as her eyes locked onto the enslaved taris. His mind clouded like a dense fog, his thoughts ran in chaotic streams forcing him to relive that day.

He remembered when they came,

Out of the mist before any creature stirred. He was twelve living with his mother and father tending the simple farm they had built from nothing.


The first screams woke taris, a sound so terrible he would never forget. His mother bundling him to the kitchen where his father waited at the storeroom hatch hurrying them down the stairs and out of sight.


It was deathly quiet in that storeroom, sounds pierced the ears of young taris-arrows splitting the very air slung outside soaked in oil that blazed embers propelling them onto huts. He could even hear the horrid sound of metal slicing through flesh as the dafarians went from hut to hut killing everyone. Silence drew breath as only footsteps above on the floorboards echoed through. Tears streamed down the face of young taris as his parents and himself were dragged into the morning sun forced into the dirt. Lord gret of the dafari was heartless and thrived on killing. He wasted no time slitting the throats of taris's parents but when it came to the young boy, gret snarled. His face freshly painted with the blood of the villagers, he grinned, he had a use for young taris. He cut the boy with a small blade on the back of his hand and remarked. "You belong to me now boy." The villagers had been piled onto wagons to be taken back to their camp to be sacrificed to the god yog and after the offering they would feast on the flesh of their latest victims celebrating into the night. Taris was marched past the dead villagers, some eyes still open with nightmarish looks washed upon their faces stained with dirt, blood and tears, taris held back his sick stomach as he wondered would he be better off in the cold comfort of that wagon.


The ritual was a bloody mess of bodies thrown into the well of yog, a god the dafarians served killing and offering the flesh of their victims as payment to him.

Flames lapped at the clear sky that night as taris's parents along with his village filled the air as their flesh charred and smoked and after the dafari feasted.



Taris looked to heria awakening from his thoughts, the same sadness filled their eyes,

Vengeance, freedom wove deep chasms in their hearts.

The nordheim dancer lifted her cloth, tucked under in a thin string of lace a blade flickered with a thirst under the moon. Taris's eyes flashed over the blade running a finger down its crafted edge, they would wait for an hour of darkness.


The small blade punctured the guards neck outside taris's hut slumping him to the ground with a horrid gurgling. Taris's hand as if possessed by some demon led him to each dafari as they slept slicing their throats like they did to his village eight years ago.


Lord gret slept peacefully and did not wake as taris ended his life and his tribe of murderous cannibals. The two slaves made their way to the well of yog where so many had been slain and burned, so many they had seen butchered.


An old dafari priest stood by the well.

"Yog will take you."

He said as his eyes flashed pure white  and a flurry of tribal tongue spewed forth.

The well illuminated as flames shot into the air and the enormous god yog formed,roaring, stretching its many tentacles.


Taris looked to heria, without any words spoken they understood what must be done to obtain their freedom.

He gripped the handle and lunged at his enemy with a mighty roar that filled the valley.

"What happened next father?"

A small boy asked looking up at his da.

"Well, maybe that's for another time, come on, it's late."

"Father, your hand is scarred."


"Well........ that happened a long time ago, let's go, bed time.



Submitted: January 13, 2019

© Copyright 2022 hobby. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Facebook Comments

More Fantasy Short Stories

Other Content by hobby

Book / Fantasy

Book / Other

Short Story / Romance