Quintar

• Paul Preston, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2011

• Prologue <> The Last Quintan <>
3rd day of the 5th 1331AD
Lightning streaked through the night, tearing scars into the skies with flashes of yellow and white. Thunder shattered the silence of night a few seconds later, while rain tore at the rooves of every building, trying unsuccessfully to wash away the sadness of the land. Bodies littered the hills and hallways of the castle, its glorious peaks now tainted with the blood of courage. The city, left in ruins, the houses falling apart, was all that remained of the city Quintar, the city of the Queen and the city of faith. The troops brave; but it is the brave who refuse to see defeat in the face of death. Tyrell, the last of the Quintans, fled from the scene ahead of the invisible beasts behind him, their teeth barred and claws as sharp as ever, although they could not be seen. He thought of how the city, once glorious, was now in ruins.
“A hole!” he said suddenly and softly to no one in particular as his horse raced. His horse of course made no reply. He couldn’t remember any time that the Spawner of Evil was able to reach this far into the Holy Lands. The digging monsters must have been worked ruthlessly, and no other holes could be anywhere else or they would have been noticed.
A barely audible screech came from the city below. He knew it was the Fearon. Only the Fearon, invisible as they were, were stupid enough to give away their position with continues cries.
Judging by the faintness of the screech, he knew they were losing ground but he had no intention of giving them even a chance of getting him.
His horse ran faster.
Another screech tore itself from the Fearon. Now they were very close, Tyrell thought grimly. It had been a day since he left the ruins of Quintar but still the invisible beasts were after him. How they could keep up he could not fathom. His horse grew weary of running despite the adrenaline of the chase pumping through every part of its body.
It was raining gently as he raced through the light forest; the trees around him looking as if with sympathy for him. His head throbbed from built up pressure and his legs sore from riding. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer, he knew, and sooner or later they would catch up.
As if on cue the horrific figure of a Fearon appeared just in the corner of his peripheral vision. As they always did when they struck, its metallic plates of armour covering its entire body were exposed as it attacked. Its long claws protruding from the metal of its armour, it lashed at the rear of the horse hurling him onto the forest floor. His horse came soon after and he felt his leg snap as the horse landed on it. Panic and pain were mixed in a deadly brood as he searched for his battleaxe. It was out of reach; by a metre.
A Fearon appeared, very close to his face, and Tyrell prepared for his death.
Light surged through the forest.