The whispers travelled from the north is a writing prompt taken from Winter of the White Horde. The book is the standalone sequel to my middle grade (read that as aged 9 to 90 in terms of the small but enthusiastic fan base) Guardians of the Forest series. The section the prompt comes from is shown below.
Winter of the White Horde, and the other four books in Guardians of the Forest are all on sale at 99c/p throughout August, for the summer holiday. Find them here. (You need to scroll down the Amazon page to get them all!)
The whispers travelled from the north, riding the first snowflakes of winter. They piled themselves against the window of Callie’s study, high in a tower in the Citadel of Ilatias.
She shivered, drew her shawl closer over her shoulders. She had become engrossed reading a book rescued from Lady Melda’s library. Once it became apparent the lady was not returning to Ilatias any time soon, King Ieldon had ordered her house closed, the furniture covered. Rats, however, had invaded the stone, circular library, and King Ieldon worried for the safety of many priceless old manuscripts. Several had been given to Callie, including this thick tome.
She hadn’t opened it for some time. Today she reached for it, unsettled by an unexplained urgency, a sense of pending trouble, to renew her knowledge of the contents. The book bore the cumbersome title, The Ancient History of the Old Sleih and How They Came by Their Magic through Ponderous Schemes and Long Collusions with the Fabled Gryphon of the High Alps of Asfarlon. Its faded blue leather cover was rubbed smooth and shiny. Much of the silver lettering was missing. The contents fascinated her. Handling its fragile pages with her fingertips, Callie read how the Gryphon pendant she wore was forged by ancient Sleih in the High Alps of Asfarlon and infused with potent magic by Gryphon and Sleih Seers. The thrilling tale told how a dread Evil rose from the depths below the High Alps, spreading terror in the Madach lands as monstrous creatures flocked to the Evil’s summons.
Snuggling into her shawl, glad of the bright fire and the warm glow of lamps on the walls and her desk, Callie fingered the tiny gryphon she wore around her neck, with its blue head and green emerald eyes. The silver body, its tufted tail curled, lay on its side in repose, one sapphire blue wing rising up behind, the other closed against its flank.
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The mysteries deepen LOL
My contribution:
THE WHISPERS TRAVELLED FROM THE NORTH
Villagers living along England’s border with Scotland were anxiously meeting to discuss the best course of action.
The whispers travelled from the north – about an impending attack from the heathen Picts and Scots who lived largely in the highland region.
They had heard these whispers before and it usually meant a desperate struggle and resultant bloodbath with massive loss of life even among the women and children.
“We have to do something about these heathen hordes,” said one village elder John of Stonehaven.
There were mutterings among the assembled gathering.
“Yes, but what can we do,” said another. “They just sweep down over our defences and pillage, rape and plunder at will. Human life means nothing to them.”
A young man at the back of the meeting piped up.
“I think we can defeat them if we have enough longbows,” he said. “It has worked well in our wars against the French – so no reason for it not to work here.”
“Yes,” agreed John. “I’ve heard that too, but where are we going to get enough longbows and the archers to use them?”
“Well,” replied the young man. “I’ve just come up from London town and there is a company of archers who have just returned from France and are looking for their next fight.”
“Do you think they would reach here in time before the heathen attack?”
“Who knows?” said the young man. “We can but send a message and hope for the best.”
The meeting broke up with general agreement that a message would be sent forthwith to the archers to see if they were interested in helping and hopefully arrive in time before the next onslaught.
The villagers were on tenterhooks for the next few weeks as the whispers became much stronger.
“Any day, now. They will attack any day now,” they said.
It was a cool spring morning when inhabitants of the village closest to the Scottish border awoke to see a mass of humanity gathered on the hill beyond their ramparts.
John of Stonehaven sounded the alarm.
“Ready our defences, men,” he yelled. “The heathen will be upon us shortly.”
Men rushed to the walls with any weapons they could muster. A few owned swords or axes but most could only bring pitchforks or wooden staves with which to fight.
John knew the coming battle would be an uneven contest for the villagers because most were farmers and not trained in combat.
A roar erupted from the humanity on the hill as the hordes began their charge towards the waiting villagers.
“We’re doomed,” said one, his knuckles white as he gripped his weapon with both hands. “No doubt about it.”
The heathen were about one hundred yards from the village walls when a shower of arrows whistled overhead.
Men fell everywhere clutching their chests, groins, heads, screaming in agony.
White knuckles turned around to see several archers, bows once more at the ready, perched behind them on the ramparts.
“Where did they come from?” he inquired incredulously.
“Don’t know,” said another villager. “But thank God they’re here. At least now we will have a fighting chance.”
Those Scots! Always a thorn in the side LOL