Le Monde de L'Écriture – Forum d'entraide littéraire

01 décembre 2020 à 21:40:43
Bienvenue, Invité. Merci de vous connecter ou de vous inscrire.


Le Monde de L'Écriture » Encore plus loin dans l'écriture ! » Textes non francophones » On a summer night

Auteur Sujet: On a summer night  (Lu 5006 fois)

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
On a summer night
« le: 23 avril 2007 à 17:56:08 »
J'ai une idée pour faire un texte de fantasy épique depuis longtemps mais que je n'arrive jamais à me motiver pour l'écrire. Comme j'aime bien vos idées de romans feuilleton, je vais essayer d'en faire un aussi, en espérant que me fixer une écheance me permettra de bouger mes petites fesses.

Comme c'est de la fantasy épique, il y a plein de personnages. Chaque chapitre correspond au point de vue d'un personnage, écrit à la troisième personne limitée. Je m'engage devant la france entière et nos voisins européens à poster au moins un POV chaque semaine, la date exacte restant à determiner par la cour de cassation et les partis incriminés.

Dans le cas hautement probable où mes textes seraient d'une nullité extrème, je me reserve le droit de vous en infliger jusqu'à un par jour (art. 112 alinéa 2)

Bonne chance, vous en aurez besoin !
« Modifié: 26 avril 2007 à 17:29:51 par martlet »

Hors ligne Marygold

  • Comète Versifiante
  • Messages: 4 251
  • marmotte aphilosophique
Re : untitled (à venir)
« Réponse #1 le: 23 avril 2007 à 18:47:31 »
Citer
je vais essayer d'en faire un aussi, en espérant que me fixer une écheance me permettra de bouger mes petites fesses.
Il faut juste être vraiment honnête avec soi-même (moi j'ai tenté le roman feuilleton, mais il stagne à 2 envois à cause de ma volonté défaillante)

Citer
Dans le cas hautement probable où mes textes seraient d'une nullité extrème, je me reserve le droit de vous en infliger jusqu'à un par jour (art. 112 alinéa 2)
chuis pas sûre qu'on ait jugé que tes textes étaient d'une nullité extrême... alors y'a pas de raison pour que ça change ;)

Moi j'attends le premier envoi...
Oh yeah ! 8)

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
Re : untitled (à venir)
« Réponse #2 le: 24 avril 2007 à 18:03:08 »
Je viens juste de finir le premier chapitre...et de le jeter à la poubelle par erreur  :'(

Oui, je peux être vraiment stupide. Bon j'y retourne avant de déprimer.  :D

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
Re : untitled (à venir)
« Réponse #3 le: 26 avril 2007 à 17:29:36 »
Ayé, j'ai re-terminé le prologue, en espérant que cela vous plaise.


On a summer night : Prologue


It was dark on the plains now. The sound of shattered steal and dying men had subsided, and everything felt peaceful and calm again. The bright moon was the only source of light in the battlefield, shedding its rays on the sea of bodies laying scattered on the grass, all of them dressed in blue and blood.

Macerio himself looked more and more like a corpse, his exhaustion etched on his face. «The world has gone mad», he thought. Flies were already swarming, circling around the bodies of the fallen. At dawn people would join the flies, searching for weapons and jewels to turn into money in a town nearby.

To think that the most celebrated company of mercenaries should end this way...
That the death of one man could change the world he lived in...

How did it come to this ? Two days ago, Macerio was feasting with his men, celebrating the news of their renewed contract with Duke Renfrew and his promotion to Lieutenant. He had worked so hard to get to this position. His pride. Now he could not care less. The commander was dead and the captains were killing each other, the men accusing one another of the crime. The truth was that they were all too eager for power and control, that they had all dreamed of this day were they might reach the top of the ladder and lead the whole company. They were all responsible, each and everyone of them. Except maybe Zahakir.

Zahakir was an anomaly, the last true Wolf as Macerio saw him. But even a man like this could not hope to keep the world from falling apart, when madness had come to rule the mind of men.

Macerio waved the thought away. The Blue Wolves may very well be destroyed, but he was still alive, and if he wished to survive he had to kill one more of his own. Or he would fall, joining his friends as food for the birds of the plains.

The gash on his leg was worrying him, though. If it was infected, he would never make it to the closest town. He had to finish this, and fast. He took a firm grip on the hilt of his sword, resolute.

The pikeman was circling around him, waiting for the right time to push his advantage. Macerio thrust his sword straight to his head, and missed him by a hair. His single-handed blade almost slipped from his hand as he tried to recover his balance. His opponent was standing still, breathing heavily, right hand at the butt of his pike, left hand stretched out as a pivot point for the move to come. Macerio drew a long breath, knowing that the next pass would likely be the last.

The pikeman suddenly thrust his long weapon forward, first with both hands, pushing on his right foot, then released his left hand to allow the point to pierce as far as possible. Macerio’s shield shattered with the impact, the swordsman rolling to the ground, his left wrist broken. Moaning and dizzy, resisting the urge to threw up, he finally managed to rise to his feet. The pikeman was laying face down in the grass, struggling for consciousness, having broken several ribs in the shock.

Macerio barely managed to walk to him before falling on his knees, blood trickling from his wound. The pikeman was looking away, resignation in his face. « Finish me, Lieutenant. I deserve it. », he said in a whisper.

Macerio lifted his sword with both hands, preparing to deliver the deadly blow, and screamed at the pain in his wrist. « Fuck it. I don’t have time for this. »

He painfully sheathed his sword and began running awkwardly toward the woods, hoping to get some distance between him and the corpses before dawn.

« Where are you going ? », said a voice at his back. A voice he knew so well.

Macerio’s heart missed a beat and his legs stopped. He looked at the sky, tears coming to his eyes. Then, slowly muttering to himself : « Oh no, not him. God, not him. »

As drops of rain started falling from the dark-blue sky, the voice of Zahakir Kamran rose again.

« You won’t find shelter in the woods, if that’s what you seek. You will find it nowhere, marked as you are. A Wolf belongs to a pack. You can’t survive on your own. »

Macerio swallowed hard, not daring to look behind. Eyes and mind racing, he realized the pikeman had lost consciousness. He envied him.

« There is no pack, Captain, not anymore. Just wolves killing wolves. Are you here to kill me ? »

The rain intensified, the swollen drops beating his face hard in the raising wind.

Zahakir laughed. « My job is to kill traitors, not cowards. Goro is not far and I want his head. Yours may wait. Anyway, if you want to die so much, you will have plenty of chances in the coming days. Farewell, we won’t meet again. »

Macerio turned in astonishment, only to see the shadow of the man, already far, running in the rain through the blood-soaked battle-field.


***


In the pitch-black night and with the rain falling so hard, the bright moon was as much a help as a threat, its light revealing the shadows of friends and enemies alike. Goro sighed. « Shut up I said ! I don’t want us to be heard or seen so close to this butchery. And keep walking ! »

But no one would listen to Goro, the Traitor and Murderer. At this rate, he would soon lose the loyalty of the last of his men. Why did it turn that way ?

The coup has been carefully planned for months. The words of the messenger had been crystal clear : « We can’t afford to have the Wolves running between our legs when we strike the first blow. You must put an end to this. The time for planning is passed, you must act now. Tadji dies tonight.»

Slicing his throat in his sleep had been too easy. After the last spasm, Goro had withdrawn in his mind, wondering why the man had frightened him and the men for so long. He was flesh and bones, like anyone else. And now he was dead.

The warning has been given very soon after Goro had managed to slip away from the camp. After that, everything was a blur. And blood. And death.

Goro kept loosing himself in his thoughts, while his men talked and laughed to push back the night and the visions of death and bloodshed that would not let go of them.

They did not notice him until they heard Mathim scream, his eyes looking in horror at his neatly severed arm. By then it was to late. The razor-sharp double-edged sword gutted the first of the twins, who fell in the arms of his horror-struck brother. A brother who lost his head half a second later, shedding blood on Goro’s sea blue dress.

Zahakir Kamran stood still while the remaining mercenaries were making the smartest and most important decision of their lives. They flew, leaving their captain to handle the demon he had unleashed on the burning plains.

Zahakir was watching the blood on his sword being slowly washed by the rain.

« So this is what you want, Zahakir ? After all these years fighting side by side ! »

« Goro, my quarry. Why did you do this to yourself ? The Order can’t save you here. »

« Tadji’s death was inevitable. Even if I had not taken the matter in hands, someone else would have. There is no place for The Blue Wolves in this time !»

Zahakir spat. « Please, don’t waste your breath. Not that it will matter for much longer. »

Goro unsheathed, his moist hands shaking on the hilt of his rapier. « So be it. »

The clash of the blades sent waves of pain throughout Goro’s body, forcing him to retreat, muscles numb with pain.

Zahakir smiled, his eyes narrowed.

Goro charged, sword pointed forward, screaming in the night. Zahakir dodged, adding a  deep cut to Goro’s leg, just above the knee. Goro tried a desperate sequence, hacking, cutting and thrusting. Zahakir parried, blocked and dodged each blow, never missing a step.

The two swords locked once again, Goro using all of his strength to prevent Zahakir from throwing him to the ground. His sword broke before its owner, sending the two men rolling together in the mud. Goro was dead before touching the ground, Zahakir’s blade deeply buried in his stomach. Panting, Zahakir paused to look at the young face before disengaging his sword from the warm body.

« Lived in the mud. Died in the mud. »

Zahakir stood up and gave a last look at the still eyes of his once brother-at-arms. After a minute, he left the body behind him to start a long walk toward the mountains. And complete his duty.

« What a shitty weather. »
« Modifié: 02 mai 2007 à 09:44:54 par martlet »

Hors ligne Marygold

  • Comète Versifiante
  • Messages: 4 251
  • marmotte aphilosophique
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #4 le: 26 avril 2007 à 20:53:47 »
Que dire ? ça me plaît :) J'aime beaucoup ton style et ce prologue ne fait que confirmer ce que j'avais déjà dit : j'adore lire tes textes anglais !
Le démarrage in medias res est vraiment bien fait... j'aurais pu ne rien comprendre (j'ai toujours du mal dans la fantasy avec des débuts comme ça, parce que je ne comprends pas la moitié des noms propres) mais là ça passe très bien. Donc bien joué. Et puis, le personnage de Zahakir est évidemment très bien posé. J'adore ses deux "entrées surprises", tu as le sens de la mise en scène ! ^^

Par contre, y'a 2-3 trucs que je n'ai pas bien compris (c'était inévitable) :
That the most celebrated company of mercenaries should end this way...
That the death of one man could changed the world he lived in...

là, je ne comprends pas les deux "that" qui commencent des principales... pour moi un "that" comme ça se rapporte à un verbe introducteur, et j'en trouve pas !

He took a firm grip on the hilt a his sword, resolute
j'ai passé deux minutes sur cette phrase à tenter de comprendre... et là je viens d'avoir la révélation : est-ce que ça serait pas "of" à la place de "a" ?
Goro, my quarry -> qu'est-ce qu'il lui dit là, exactement ? comment tu traduirais "quarry" ?
Goro unsheathed -> Là c'est juste le verbe que je ne connais pas

Voilà... en conclusion : j'attends la suite !! ;)
Oh yeah ! 8)

Hors ligne Kailiana

  • Palimpseste Astral
  • Messages: 3 769
  • Lial' | Calamar placide
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #5 le: 27 avril 2007 à 17:30:19 »
Un début très sympathique  :) J'ai eu un peu de mal à entrer dedans durant les premiers paragraphes (la faute surement à l'anglais) mais ensuite j'ai été curieuse de lire la suite, et les noms de tes personnages sont très bien trouvé.
Bref, j'attends la suite pour mieux juger, pour un texte long c'est dur de se contenter du simple début ^^
Si la réalité dépasse la fiction, c'est parce que la réalité n'est en rien tenue à la vraisemblance.
Mark Twain

La théorie, c'est quand on sait tout et que rien ne fonctionne. La pratique, c'est quand tout fonctionne et que personne ne sait pourquoi.
Einstein

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #6 le: 01 mai 2007 à 14:40:18 »
Sanaa

Sanaa Byron took the compliment with a pinch of salt.

Sure, anyone could notice that her handle on the training blade was better with each passing day, but she knew that in a real fight her twelve-year-old body would put her at a great disadvantage and make any kind of training pretty much useless.

“ You are the most gifted pupil I have ever had ” he had said. Maybe he meant it. The thing with being the only child of a Duke, Sanaa thought, is that you could trust no one, especially not men. Nobles saw her as a political pawn to keep in mind and exploit or discard. Peasants would tell her she was the smartest and most beautiful lady they had ever seen, whatever they really thought. And all of them could be a threat, or be used against her.

Sanaa wiped the sweet from her forehead with the back of her hand and let out a deep sigh. She left the training room and climbed down the stairs, turned right, left, right again, all of this without even looking, lost in her thoughts as she was.

She had made that mistake once, not long after the passing of her mother, when she so desperately needed someone to talk to. She had confided the secrets of her family – her secrets - to a boy her age she had met in the village bordering the castle. They had had so much fun this day that they had promised to see each other again a week later, “same place, same time”, in the old ramshackle house. It was just beside a very old and huge tree that the villagers called “the old witch” because of the peculiar disposition of its branches and leaves which made it look like witch hair.

Sadly, they did not have to wait for that long. The following morning, at dawn, her father woke her up early for a walk. As they passed through the village in direction of her secret meeting place, people watching them with a fearful look, Sanaa began to fear that her plan had been unveiled, that she would be forbidden to see the boy again.

As they stopped just in front of the huge tree to look at the foliage, she died inside.

She was still standing there long after her father had come back to the castle. Motionless, eyes fixed on the tree, she kept struggling to understand what she was seeing. “What did I do ?”, she asked herself.

The small body was hanging by a rope, the legs slightly moving in the wind.

She had cried and cried that night, driven close to madness by this sight she knew she could never forget. She had cried, before and after her father had struck her. After that night, she had never cried again.

She stopped at the entrance of the inner gardens, her gaze unfocused. “And now I’m starting this all over again”, she thought. The kindness of the old sword master puzzled her. People said that he came hear after he had fled the war in the north. The truth, he had told Sanaa, was that he had actually fought in the war. Not for pride or honors, but to protect his family. Yet, when he came back home after the peace treaty had been signed, there was no one left to protect.  His daughter had died first, of what the scholars called Mycobacterium tuberculosis. The physician had tried to save her using bleeding and blood draining, but the stars were not properly aligned in the sky for these medicines to work properly and the moon had already passed through the sign of the Gemini, which was an unmistakable sign of bad luck.

When the disease spread to her two boys, their mother left them in the physician’s care and began a pilgrimage to Saint-Robert cathedral, the holy place of the Order of the Church.

A group of pilgrims found her a few days later laying in the middle of the road, where she had died of exhaustion. Her children had preceded her in the afterworld.

Giacomo, for it was his name, sworn fealty to the Duke just after he came to the village. Sanaa was very small and her mother still with her, but she immediately liked her “grizzled bear”, as she used to call him. When her friend from the village died, she stopped talking to Giacomo.  Until two years ago, when Giacomo came to give her the news. By order of her father, and as the Duke’s only child, she had to learn the use of weapons, to defend the duchy if necessary.

What made the training sessions so painful was not the exercises, not the weight of the training blade, not the occasional blow. It was the man’s kindness. And her love for the old man, the power she had to kill him, simply by loving him too much.

Now walking in the gardens, she remembered that her father had not always been like that, at least not when her mother was still alive. She had died giving birth to a little brother when Sanaa was five. None of them had survived the night. Since then, for whatever reason, the Duke seemed to have developed a kind of irrational hate for women in general. Maybe because they were able to catch a glimpse of the rotted soul in his body, or merely because they made him recall his lost wife. Still, Sanaa had no special treatment. They never spoke to each other and it was clear that whatever might happen, Sanaa would never get anything from him, even after his death.

She often wondered how someone like him managed to attract so many brilliant men. They all seemed drawn to him, just as he was drawn to them. Giacomo was not the only one.

Rousing herself, she raced to the steaming pool, eager for the sweet sensation of her body resting in the hot water. “ Anything else can wait ”, she muttered to herself.

The pool had been built on a hot spring that was found during the building of the castle, by their oldest remembered ancestor. Rather than finding another place, he insisted that the castle  should be built on top of it, making it a private pool in the inner gardens.

Sanaa tried the water with her feet, one after the other, then circled around the pool like a lion before its quarry. She finally dived in the water, giggling at the bubbles forming against her skin, then laughing at her giggle. She pushed downward with her feet, trying to touch the bottom of the pool.

When she was small, her mother used to tell her about the legend of the Burning Duchess, one of their ancestors. “ It is said ”, she told her in a very serious, scary tone, “ that the Burning Duchess was the first bride of Leoland the ill-fated. He met her on the return of a journey southward to negotiate a treaty with the count of Heron. It is said that her red hair looked like fire and that her eyes were so brightly green she could kill you with her gaze. Leoland fell instantly in love with her and brought her right to the castle. The wedding was celebrated on the first day of summer. It was so hot then that the duke and his bride spent most of the day in the pool. After a while, the temperature went up, and up, to the point that the duke thought he was going to choke. He left the pool in a hurry for the castle caves where it was much cooler. When he came back at night, his bride was not there. No one ever saw her again. It is said that, being so much like fire, her body melted in the water, and to this day the warmth of this pool is the only evidence that remains of her life. Some say that when one look underwater, one can see some of her red hair in the darker corners of the pool. ”

This was many years ago, still Sanaa couldn’t help herself from hoping she might someday find a red thread which would prove her that the legend was real, that magic existed, that she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her dull life in a boring castle filled with boring people.

She let herself rise to the surface to draw breath, and sighed, resting her head against the marbled stone which encircled the water. And fell asleep.
« Modifié: 01 mai 2007 à 14:43:41 par martlet »

Hors ligne Marygold

  • Comète Versifiante
  • Messages: 4 251
  • marmotte aphilosophique
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #7 le: 01 mai 2007 à 15:11:32 »
J’aime bien !! :)
Un nouveau personnage bien planté, pour lequel on a beaucoup d’empathie (son père est vraiment horrible… comment peut-on mettre devant les yeux de sa petite fille un spectacle aussi ignoble ?)
La légende de la Burning Duchess est très … belle (ce n’est pas vraiment le bon terme, enfin, j’ai aimé ! Et c'est bien raconté)

Je t’ai rajouté dans "romans feuilletons", mais si tu pouvais donner une idée de la fréquence (1 envoi par semaine ? environ 2 pages ?)

Sinon, un petit problème de compréhension :
Citer
Sanaa took the compliment with a pinch of salt.
c'est sûrement un jeu de mot, mais je voudrais être sûre que ce n'est pas un sens spécial que j'aurais raté : compliment=compliment ? (c'est idiot dit comme ça mais bon...) et pinch of salt= une pincée de sel ?
Oh yeah ! 8)

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
Re : Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #8 le: 01 mai 2007 à 16:34:28 »
J’aime bien !! :)
Un nouveau personnage bien planté, pour lequel on a beaucoup d’empathie (son père est vraiment horrible… comment peut-on mettre devant les yeux de sa petite fille un spectacle aussi ignoble ?)

Moi même j'étais choqué en l'écrivant. Ce sera un des enjeux de l'histoire de mon côté, d'arriver à répondre à cette question à la fin.

Citer
Je t’ai rajouté dans "romans feuilletons", mais si tu pouvais donner une idée de la fréquence (1 envoi par semaine ? environ 2 pages ?)

Oui, à peu près un envoi par semaine. Je me fixe environ 1500 mots par chapitre, ce qui fait 2 pages sous Word.

Citer
Sinon, un petit problème de compréhension :
Citer
Sanaa took the compliment with a pinch of salt.

C'est juste une expression. En français on doit pouvoir traduire par :
Sanaa accepta le compliment avec reserves / sans y croire totalement.

La phrase faisant référence à "You are the most gifted pupil I have ever had" un peu plus loin.

Merci de m'avoir lu  ;)

Hors ligne Marygold

  • Comète Versifiante
  • Messages: 4 251
  • marmotte aphilosophique
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #9 le: 01 mai 2007 à 16:47:10 »
Citer
C'est juste une expression. En français on doit pouvoir traduire par :
Sanaa accepta le compliment avec reserves / sans y croire totalement.

La phrase faisant référence à "You are the most gifted pupil I have ever had" un peu plus loin.
ok, j'avais donc compris l'idée, mais je ne connaissais pas l'expression (wéé, si je tombe sur un truc comme ça dans mon texte de concours, je te bénirai mille fois !;D)

C'est bon pour le roman feuilleton alors ! (je rajoute les éléments manquants)
Oh yeah ! 8)

Hors ligne Kailiana

  • Palimpseste Astral
  • Messages: 3 769
  • Lial' | Calamar placide
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #10 le: 05 mai 2007 à 18:36:46 »
Un chapitre intéressant, qui me donne envie de lire la suite  ^^ Tu as réussi à rendre Sanaa attachante très rapidement, et j'aime bien son nom. En fait j'aime bien tous les noms de tes personnages, je ne sais pas comment tu fais.

Quant à l'épisode du "pendu", je m'y attendais un peu avec ce qu'il y avait avant, mais ça ne le rend pas régouissant pour autant. Ca me fait un peu penser au Trone de Fer (alors qu'il n'y a pas grand rapport, mais quelque chose dans l'ambiance ...)

La suite quand tu veux ^^
Si la réalité dépasse la fiction, c'est parce que la réalité n'est en rien tenue à la vraisemblance.
Mark Twain

La théorie, c'est quand on sait tout et que rien ne fonctionne. La pratique, c'est quand tout fonctionne et que personne ne sait pourquoi.
Einstein

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #11 le: 07 mai 2007 à 12:42:33 »
Merci pour ton commentaire. La suite devrait être prête pour mercredi. J'ai un peu de mal avec ce chapitre, je ne veux pas écrire des choses qui causeront des incohérences dans la suite du récit.

En parlant du Trône de Fer, je viens de me rendre compte que le nom "Sanaa" c'est pratiquement Sansa, mais je ne l'ai pas fais exprès  ???

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #12 le: 09 mai 2007 à 21:17:18 »
Voilà ! Je m'aperçois que je ne suis pas trop doué pour les dialogues mais au moins j'ai fait ce que j'ai pu.



Willhem


Willhem woke up shaking and crying, like every morning for the last fifteen years, with a vision of the young girl in his head. The one he could not bear to think of. The torment of his nights. And like every morning since his leaving of Matiaka, he could not help but add a few words, in a whisper, at the end of his morning prayer.

“Why are you doing this, Lady ? I don’t understand ! What are you trying to tell me ?”

He lay there for a minute, trying to think of nothing but the Lady and her Saints, cradling tightly the holy book in his arms. The coldness of the leather-bound object always appeased him. When everything was changing so fast, when he could not control his dreams, the holy scriptures at least did not change.

Three quick knocks on his door broke his meditation. “What is it ?”

“Archbishop Willhem ? Cardinal Richard and the Patriarch are waiting for your report in the sanctuary. ”

Willhem quickly rubbed his eyes and bolted from his bed. “Tell them I’m coming !”

Willhem heaved a sigh as the sound of footstep subsided and began to regain his composure, trying not to think about the thousands of lives at stake in this audience. If only he could convince the Patriarch to take action, maybe the Lady would finally forgive him.

He closed the door softly behind him, leaving his demons in the small room.

***

« Willhem, this is ridiculous ! Duke Byron has been a friend of the Order for years, as was his father before him ! He would never dare ! », screamed the old Patriarch in his high-pitched, strident voice.

Willhem thought his ears would bleed. All he could do was pray for this report to finish soon. Fortunately, he was in the best place on earth for praying.

The cathedral Saint-Robert had been the siege of the Order for as long as anyone – or any book - could remember. It was said that the cathedral had been built at the beginning of the world, when the Order was created by Her. In these primitive times, truths were often entwined with fairy tales, but it was not hard for Willhem to believe the legend. It was much harder to think that such an edifice could have been built by human hands. Whether one considered its 200-foot-tall dome or its capacity to hold more than 8000 worshipers between its walls, it was arguably the most impressive religious building in the world.

Richard snorted. « Willhem only says that Duke Renshaw did not order the plunders on Duke Byron’s territory. And if he really did not, and I believe Willhem’s word on this, who did ? Renshaw and Byron are the only major lords in the South.”

“But why would he burn his own village ? And what about the Blue Wolves ? What if they have decided to take the matter in their own hands, without waiting for Renshaw’s orders ?”

Willhem stood up. “Patriarch, the Wolves are no more. My spies report that Tadji was killed three days ago, and most of his men have died in the battle to take his place. Even if some of them are still alive they are no threat at this time, and they certainly would not try to attract attention.”

Richard seemed like stunt by the news. « Tadji was slain ? The man seemed indestructible. Have you proof of this ? »

« No confirmation yet, but with Tadji alive I doubt the captains could have managed such a mutiny. The man was deeply respected by his followers. »

« Patriarch, if what Willhem found out is true indeed, we must act now or the felon will take advantage of the situation. If Duke Byron is capable of burning one of his own villages only to have a reason to wage war, then he must have already prepared himself for battle. If the Order does not assert its authority as soon as possible, it will be a huge blow at our reputation when the conflict turns into a war. The people will rise against us and the nobles will seize this opportunity to free themselves from the Church. They all want to be King. »

“Richard, there is no King in this land, nor shall there be. The Lady said that no man shall rule his kind, or he would doom us all. The Order is the only rightful authority.”

Willhem opened the mouth to object, but the patriarch lifted his hand. « And we cannot condemn Duke Byron without a hearing. Cardinal Richard, you will find him and see that he explains himself. », he concluded in a shriek.

Willhem started pacing, restless. « Patriarch, there will soon be war out there. It could start at anytime. Richard has no training in battle, what you ask him is plain suicide. Patriarch, I beg you, let me go to Duke Byron and send Richard to advise Renshaw. With the Blue Wolves out of the equation, the Duke will need all the help he can get. »

The Patriarch stood still for a minute, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Suddenly, the old man stood up, shrieking « Very well. Archbishop Willhem, you will go to the Byron castle with a banner of the Order giving you full authority to question the Duke on his intentions. Try to find out what happened with the Wolves at the same time. We cannot afford to have some of them running loose in the country. I know you will manage. Richard, you know what you have to do. Keep Renshaw in sight and advise him the best you can. Don’t let him get killed before we have a clear view of the situation. I will recall Cardinal Latran from Hôrn to take care of business here while you two are away. We might need him soon, if things go for the worst.  »

« Hôrn is a long way from here, Patriarch. If you call home the best swordsman of the Order to do paperwork, you better have a good reason », said Richard with puzzlement.

« Oh, I do, I do. And I’m sure Latran can use a quill as well as a sword, don’t worry. Now go ! ».

***

The two old friends walked silently under the archways surrounding the long gallery to the exit. At thirty-eight, Willhem was almost a decade younger than his Cardinal and friend but with his tired features he could have been mistaken for Richard’s older brother.

Richard looked tired too, but unhappy most of all.

“What is in you mind, friend, that you won’t say to me ?”

Richard looked at his friend in the eyes, as if searching for something to hold on to. “Sorry. I was pondering this new situation. I wonder what the Byron seeks to achieve, by forcing Renshaw to war. He may very well win, but even if he does...he can’t expect the other lords to let him seize Renshaw’s territory without protest.”

Willhem slowly nodded. “Aren’t yo tired of all this ?”

“What ?”

“These wars. Politics. Alliances, betrayals, corruptions. We are the Order. We are supposed to remain neutral, encourage dialog between lords and discourage military actions. Yet it is always the same. Today we may have to support Renshaw, but tomorrow or in a year he will be the one  assaulting a smaller lord and trying to play us. It never stops.”

“If it did stop, there would be no more use for us. Who would come to the church ? People believe in the Lady has long as they find a use for Her. They are too simple-minded to understand the truth.”

Willhem snorted.
“I’d better be useless than trapped. That would be better than to remain the witness of this ever-repeating human tragedy. We used to be part of these “simple people”, Richard, don’t you remember ?”

You were. I am the bastard son of a Count and I was forced to join the Order. I never had a choice.”

The two men stopped before the opened gates.

“We always have a choice, Richard. Or maybe we never have one.”

“Willhem, my friend. Better days are coming, believe me. Soon, things will be different. But whatever is to come, you heard the Patriarch : There is still some work to be done before we can rest.”

Hors ligne Kailiana

  • Palimpseste Astral
  • Messages: 3 769
  • Lial' | Calamar placide
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #13 le: 15 mai 2007 à 22:38:38 »
C'est toujours intéressant, je ne vois pas grand chose d'autre à dire, je suis pas capable de critiquer le style en anglais  ;) Ce que je sais, c'est que j'aime bien lire cette histoire, même si j'ai toujours un peu de mal avec les premiers paragraphes en anglais, faut que je me remette dans la langue.
Et les dialogues ne m'ont pas du tout génée.
Si la réalité dépasse la fiction, c'est parce que la réalité n'est en rien tenue à la vraisemblance.
Mark Twain

La théorie, c'est quand on sait tout et que rien ne fonctionne. La pratique, c'est quand tout fonctionne et que personne ne sait pourquoi.
Einstein

Hors ligne martlet

  • Aède
  • Messages: 223
    • Onirismes
Re : On a summer night
« Réponse #14 le: 20 mai 2007 à 22:16:29 »
Sanaa

Her father had left two days ago with most of the remaining men and no one in the castle knew where or why. And now, there was something else. Rumors of war. The servants said that Duke Renshaw had burnt the small village of Pale, a village of the Byron Duchy close to the borders. They said that Renshaw had burnt it because the villagers had stolen cattle that belonged to Renshaw’s Duchy and murdered a young woman who had witnessed their crime.

Sanaa was not afraid of Renshaw. As much as she hated her father, she could not deny that he was a very clever man, and a formidable commander on the battlefield. Besides, it was unlikely that Renshaw would finally declare war, especially now that his hired mercenaries were out of the picture. It was a Renshaw tradition to maintain a small-sized regular army and to rely on mercenary troops when the events required it. This time it did not turn out so well.

Sanaa was more worried of what her father might do. She never talked to him, barely saw him, and she was increasingly aware that she had no idea who he really was anymore.

This train of thoughts finally led her to remember the teachings of Sun Wittgen. For Wittgen, the answer to every questions was in us, and could always be determined by reasoning. Sanaa knew that the old philosopher was not always right. For instance he said that the Lady did not exist and that the Order was as illegitimate as a king would be. Still, some of his theories had led to several very important inventions, such as the compass, the astrolabe, and an important improvement of the watermills. He was also known as a very efficient diplomat, mainly because he had helped in the negotiations to stop the war in the North, fifteen years ago.

In any case, she liked Wittgen’s naive belief that Man was the true ruler of the world, and that she could reach her goals and fulfill her dreams, even if the saints had decided otherwise.

Sanaa concentrated, trying to mimic the philosopher. What was her father doing now ? His leaving had to do with Renshaw, obviously. He could be trying to use his new numerical advantage to negotiate with the Duke or seize a couple of villages to get a ransom. Or he could declare war on Renshaw and catch him at his own game. Or he could do nothing, and wait. But then, why did he leave the castle with so many men ? No, he would probably fight.

What would the Order do, then ? They would never accept an open war. They would have to send someone with authority, but not the Patriarch. He was too old, and he was a symbol of the faith, they would not risk his death. A Cardinal, then. But she knew only one Cardinal, Richard “the handsome”, as she called him, and there were small chances that the Church would send him. He was a friend of her father.

How would her father react if the Order tried to interfere ? He would probably try to ga-

“Hold him tight ! This dog can still bite, it seems !” shouted a voice in the yard outside.

Her concentration was so intense that she had not even heard the sound of horses stopping just before the castle gates. A quick glance through a window showed her father and a dozen of his men, a couple of them holding a peasant whose torn clothes were soaked in blood.

The voice of Duke Byron roared in the court. “Take him to the cells, and keep both eyes on him. I want him to tell everything he knows, no matter the cost. But don’t kill him !”

Sanaa moved quickly away from the window, so that her father did not see her. She ran to her room as a plan began to form in her mind.


* * *


“Again, what is your name, dog ?”

Hands tied against the chair, the man stared at the floor. With his untrimmed beard speckled with dried blood, his broken teeth and his madman smile, he was a fearful sight.

The older guard moved behind the man while his younger friend was leaning against the door.
“Very well. Seems like you already have a bad leg, you won’t mind if I take care of the other ?”

Sanaa barely suppressed a cry as she heard the inhuman scream coming from the body below. She peered cautiously through the small hole in the thick stone floor separating the cells from the kitchen’s reserve. She had discovered it when she was a child, hiding from her mother during a hide-and-seek game. The hole was just big enough to see the inside of the cell, but was invisible unless you had your face on it. She had never found a use for it before today.

If she had not heard the man scream, she might have thought he was dead. His dark hair and beard were entangled on a very pale and dirty skin. His clothes were red with blood but were originally of a sea-blue shade. Sanaa started. A sea-blue dress ? The color of the Blue Wolves. So, this was the reason why he was here. Her father wanted to know what had happened on the plains, and what was better for that than a survivor of the slaughter ?

“You can kill me if you want, you will gain nothing from me.” the man grunted.

The guard at his back pressed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “You really don’t understand the mess you’ve put yourself in, do you ? Soon, you will wish you were dead. But first, we’ll let you think about all this for a little while. When morning comes, you’d better be more cooperative.”

The veteran began to walk to the door, but turned a last time toward his prisoner. “I know that you will not believe me, but we are your best friends here. Tomorrow, you should talk. If the Duke has to come himself...well, I could not wish that to my worst enemy.”

Sanaa heard the door close and the prisoner disappeared from her sight, his cell now dark and cold as a winter night. She shuddered at the last words of the guard. The thought of her father torturing the man...when did he become like this ? And why did he care so much about the mercenaries ? Sanaa was more angry than frightened now, angry and frustrated that she did not understand anything about what was happening in here, that she had no control about her life.

She rose from the dusty floor. “This has to change. Tonight.”


* * *


Fumbling in the darkness, she tried to figure out which cell it was. She looked again at the mouth of the corridor, but she was certain no one had heard her. She put the stolen key in the lock and turned it as slowly as she could.

The door silently opened on the bearded man. From closer, he looked even worse than before. Sanaa lit a candle and closed the door behind her. This is when she realized that his eyes were open, staring at her. She quickly backed off, before remembering that his hands and feet were tied and that, in his shape, he could not harm her.

“Who are you ?” he grunted.

“A friend.” she whispered.

The man laughed and coughed blood at the same time. “Its funny how everyone claims to be my friend today. This must be why I’m tied to this chair until every drop of my blood has left my body.”

“Hush, Mr Wolf. You knew what to expect when you joined a band of mercenaries. Its a little late for sobs and regrets.”

The man looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. “You’re a smart child, I reckon that. But what does a ten-year-old princess know about life, and death ?”

“I’m twelve.”

“You’re small for your age.”

“Thanks for the information. What happened with your friends ?”

“I’m Macerio.”

“You didn’t answer my question. I’m Sanaa.”

“Why should I talk to you ?”

“Maybe because I’m the only one who can save you. And because you’re afraid to die, even if you say you’re not. I heard it in your voice when you were tortured.”

“How...could you ? There was only the guards in the cell.”

“As you said, I’m smart. As I said, I can save you. Tell me what happened. The truth.”

“The truth ? Why would you care for the truth, Sanaa Byron ? Your father forgot to kiss you goodnight and you want to piss him off be freeing me, is that it ?”

The blow caught him napping. He spat blood. Sanaa rubbed her hurt hand. She didn’t know she could hit that hard.

“Sorry.”

“I guess I deserved it. You’re stronger than you look.”

“Will you tell me what happened or must I let you rot here ?”

Macerio looked away, heaving a sigh. “Very well. Since you seem so interested, I might as well start from the very beginning. It isn’t a fairy tale, child, so you’d rather listen carefully.”

He closed his eyes. “It is the story of the Blue Wolves, of their rise and of their fall. It is the story of a man who wished to change the world...”


 


Écrivez-nous :
Ou retrouvez-nous sur les réseaux sociaux :
Les textes postés sur le forum sont publiés sous licence Creative Commons BY-NC-ND. Merci de la respecter :)

SMF 2.0.17 | SMF © 2017, Simple Machines | Terms and Policies
Manuscript © Blocweb

Page générée en 0.064 secondes avec 22 requêtes.