It's not often I write short stories. I finished the first draft of my latest novel, some 1350 pages in all, and it will take me at least a year to edit it to a presentable standard. So perhaps tapping out some shorts will help develop my world-building in the meanwhile. I'd love to hear what you feel. As an amateur writer, with no editorial staff or beta readers, your comments are valuable feedback. This is an alpha draft, organic and terribly me. Which I think is important. Hope you enjoy the read.
‘The Eye of Inxia’ © 2025 G. Osborne
Twas a sodden way, tromped by the worn heels of vagabonds and rumbled by the wheels of farm wagons on their to’ing and fro’ing from field to market. Rivulets from the hills raced through forest and felsenmeer, to diffuse themselves into the sluggish fens that bordered the autumnal lakes dividing the barony. Overhead—a gray emptiness dotted with crows.
Logar, Knight of Vannador, was alone on the road and thoroughly drenched. His next port of call, the Bed & Blanket Inn located just a few miles ahead, called to his soul like a siren. Saddle‑sore and chilled, he gritted his teeth and urged the horse to make haste, but the old beast, its fur steaming from the rain, just didn’t seem to share his discomfort and plodded sluggishly regardless. Logar felt pity for the old charger and eased off, knowing the destrier was simply too old to care.
Along the mud‑churned road, a scene of silent terror was met with. A dozen dead, flung by the fury of melee, lay half‑swallowed by a layer of mud about a broken wagon. Precariously angled, the wagon was trapped in the side ditch; its horse was missing. The knight dismounted and inspected the dead, rolling them over with his foot and reaching down to detach rings and purses, which were curiously untouched. These were bandits, and something compelled uncertainty. He reached the wagon and heard gentle crying from underneath, a crawlspace whose gaps were covered by tall grass. There was a young woman, battered black and blue, bruises the size of fists, and her linen dress stained with clay. She was insensible, so he gently pulled her out and carried her to the horse, raising her into the saddle.
“You’re safe now. I’m taking you to the inn. No need to worry.”
She floundered around, moaning, and for a moment met his eyes with a dazed smile before fainting and slumping forward, tightly gripping the old horse’s mane. Logar strode on, more desperate than ever for warmth and food.
The Bed & Blanket was aglow with the orange light of lanterns and fireplace. Small and cosy, the few clients were huddled near the hearth, quietly swilling ale and munching pastries filled with minced meat. Logar cradled the stray soul and carried her to one of the bedrooms, paying the barmaid in gold and silver rings, necklaces, and coins he’d retrieved from the bandits. Any potential costs were met in excess, and the barmaid’s family set about cleaning up and caring for the battered woman. Logar went to his room; the barmaid toying with a pair of shining rings, speculating their worth and winking at him as he took a brown bottle of beer.
“I will bring pottage and pasty soon, sir knight!”
Logar laughed and decided to dry out in privacy. Bringing food and fine beer, the maid was rewarded generously with a necklace of silver and topaz. Smitten by the knight’s stature and kindness, she tarried until morning and helped Logar dress, having dried his linens and boots. Seeing that the rescued lady was quietly asleep in her bed, Sir Logar was soon on his way to Darnadin with a clear sky and a ray‑lanced dawn.
Two days later, a wagon‑train is met, parked near a crossroads, where they have pitched awnings and set up stalls for their wares. Logar visits the beer tent, where his stature and good looks attract the daughter of the road‑master, who clings to his neck, full of flirts and laughter. She sells him horse‑feed, salves for his chafes, and a keg of apricot brandy. And then, as Logar’s flaws dictate, he is persuaded to retire for the afternoon to the confines of Avri’s painted wagon. In the evening, he offers old stories of his adventures by the campfire. The wagon folk listen to every word as if a precious gem; few notice the occasional flinch of the horses or the agitation of the dogs. Morning brings gentle goodbyes, and soon the knight resumes his way, needs sated.
Darnadin was a borderland wall with a village smashed up against it, deep in the northern vale. Guards roamed watchfully and peered into the wilderness from the towers. A misty place, where the woodsmen and hunters lived under threat of the strangeness that abode under the bramble frond and moon‑petal. Logar handed his scrolled message to the captain and saluted before heading off to the tavern. He’d need a few hours before marshaling the guard and addressing them—he was told to speak highly of their valued service; being in an amiable frame of mind was central, he surmised.
The tavern was a simple ale house with hearty fare, and the folk likewise were simple, honest, and unpolluted. Logar slammed his tired bottom onto the stout chair, and a large wooden tankard of foaming ale was soon afore him. He quickly drained it, and with a laugh, the ale‑maid put another in place of the empty.
“Oh, do get drunk, Sir, I’m all for nursing shining warriors!” Logar grinned as he peered up at her. “If sir needs a bed to rest, I will eagerly spread the sheets.” Logar laughed and passed her a silver ring set with a fire opal. “Then I will make haste in my spreading!”
Logar strode onto the shorn grassland next to the wooden keep that dominated Darnadin. The assembled guards listened to the formality, bored and polite. “And to finish, friends at arms, remember that once a man has lost all hope and all things, he can keep one yet. Against all odds, and against all enemies, he has one thing nobody can take: your love for those who are precious to you.” With that, Logar dismissed the troop and headed back to the inn for his last outbound night in the arms of the serving wench.
The road home was tedious. He’d seen it numerous times; the spectacular scenery was familiar by now, and the drudge almost unbearable. Even with a horse, he’d been traveling light; the regular stops were all graced with inns and welcoming abbeys. But abbeys had no lure for him. He was a passionate man, flawed certainly, but with his heart in the right place. The horse trudged on—a timeless soul dutifully bearing its rider from one indescribable place to another equally devoid. So they were.
It came from the hedgerow, tall and wart‑covered, wielding a huge branch crudely worked into a club. The troll roared and advanced. Logar slipped off the back of the horse, and it ran aside to safety as he rotated his shield from his shoulder into place to block the blow—shattering into a cloud of fragments and spinning nails. The knight staggered back and drew his sword, presenting it in long‑point, moving slowly back as the troll waved its club chaotically. Logar circled and prepared for a tough fight. The troll lurched and fell backwards; a cruel arrow pierced its skull with a sickening squelch. Logar looked about and called out his thanks, but there was nobody. On inspection, the arrow was organic, made from mistletoe and warped with fey power. He shuddered at the cruel looking thing and took a final look at the troll before calling his warhorse to resume the trudge.
The next day, at the crossroads, the empty space left by the wagon‑train was punctuated by one area of colour. Saddened by the discovery of a flower‑strewn grave, he dismounted and offered flowers. About the grave were small straw dolls, tied with ribbon and small candles, and painted upon a round, smooth rock the name ‘Avri.’ Logar made a small prayer, distraught that this matched his lady‑friend’s name. He shook his head, deciding it had to be someone else. Filled with sympathy, he resumed his journey, feeling uneasy about his horse’s occasional flinches. An old battle horse would sense trouble; he knew that, though this was something else, something the horse couldn’t fathom. He continued towards the Bed & Blanket, some two days further towards home, paying close attention to the destrier’s ears, twitching alert and forward far too often. Logar became sure there was a wolf stalking them in the forest, but he saw nothing and decided the old horse was just edgy after the troll attack.
A small campfire was set in a secluded off‑road nook, surrounded by flowering gorse. The sky was bright and studded with glittering stars; Logar bundled up tightly and nestled into the flame‑warmed rocks. The night passed without incident.
Much of the next day was woefully familiar—boredom crushed Logar’s mind. The road was sodden, and the frequent drizzle saturated his cloak quickly. Persistent trudging rewarded him with a glimpse of the village and the Bed & Blanket. He made his way hither, yearning for the comforts promised by the barmaid on his return. A sad scene greeted him. The folk were riven with tears, and it became slowly apparent that the maid who had welcomed him before had been killed in an unfathomable accident. Details unspoken, Logar slumped into a seat with a face wracked by concern. He wanted to weep, but that would bring questions about his relationship—something he didn’t wish to afflict the relatives with. Logar paid the room fee and retired, huddled in the silent warmth with a basket of food and ale that the maid had kept ready for him.
The night did not go well, and by morning he was frayed, red‑eyed, and desperate to move on home. Logar emptied the pouch of treasure he’d lifted from the battle site and gave it to the barkeep to pay for the funeral expenses.
“She fell for you, kind sir.” Logar nodded in silence and, with a darkness about him, left to saddle up and reach Vannador.
The last day was one of familiar fields; even the horse knew where he was and was much more relaxed. Though the strange perking of ears continued, it seemed as if something unplaceable was twitching the horse. A strange few days, he thought. It will pass.
And the tragic death of the maid and the appearance of the grave, both signals of life’s delicate form, showing the need for gentleness and compassion to all.
By evening, he was barely awake. The red sunset had collapsed into a sacred cerulean; the stars paraded once more, eternally glittering to guide the wise home. But in the last embers of that eve, a shape—something undefinable—stopped the destrier in its tracks. His ears twisted and flicked about. He wasn’t going ahead. Stubborn, he refused again and again. Eventually, it allowed Logar to steer left and over the fields, which were clear ground and lit by the waxing moon. He kept going, knowing the tracks were easy to follow on the farms. Then, out of the darkened glade, a shape moved, barely an outline, black against black, solidifying slowly into a figure. Bearing a gnarled staff, visibly rooted and crowned with a living, squawking raven, stood a hooded figure. Cloak dragging with a rustle on the leaves, light, almost silent steps suggested a being of airy mist, exuding witch‑light and moon‑glister from her strangely lambent eyes:
“Knight, go no further tonight. Ahead is sure death; there are many foes in the dell yonder with hounds and riders, each a‑bristle with steel.”
She drew closer, and it became apparent it was the wounded woman from under the wagon, transformed with fine health and rich clothing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Warning you. Sleep under that tree,” she pointed.
Logar dismounted and moved around the horse to converse, though in the moment line of sight was broken by the destrier’s bulk; she already vanished. He looked about, startled, but there were no signs nor footprints. Cautiously, he led the horse under the cover of the broad‑leafed tree whose shadow was the deepest the area could afford. He settled with a blanket over him. Dawn would be hours away, but the wait he decided was manageable. Huddled defensively into the gnarled bole on a bed of gathered ferns, he exhaled a sigh and tried to relax. But the horse was soon alert again and agitated.
Minutes later, in the near distance, tumult arose as if battle had leapt upon an unsuspecting host, broken by unearthly screeches and the sounds of dying—noises he was well familiar with; but these were tainted with an unnerving frequency as if many were dying all at once with no resistance. Then, as quickly as it began, the night was once more crystal clear, eternal and silent.
The knight pondered his circumstance with wide, sleepless eyes and an unnatural sweat beading his brow. The darkness haunted him; his mind conjured shapes from the shadows. The air became cold, and he was disturbed often by the noise of scurrying mice across the damp, rotting leaves. An owl silently watched above him, occasionally poking him awake with its unrelenting hoot. Morning came, and there was no sign of the woman. With silence and rising concern, he saddled up and began to walk back to the road, considering that way safer by far in broad daylight. Both he and the horse were becoming traumatized. He was exhausted and could only think of home.
By the next noon, he was back at the Baron's castle, relieved and soaking in a giant bath of hot water. In his saddlebag he’d found a pair of conjoined dolls made from the green thorns of woven gorse twigs, yellow flowers adorning their heads. He had no idea how they got there, and he was increasingly irritated as to what their meaning might be. Later, a messenger pigeon from the outpost arrived, mentioning the strange, unexpected death of the ale‑maid and the request for an increased guard presence. The knight, perplexed that every maiden he’d embraced on his journey was now dead, pondered the strange coincidences and wondered vacantly about causality.
As the gloaming light of late evening cast its hue about the land, he retired to his tower bed, disturbed by his new understanding that he was the only common thread linking the dead women. He solaced within the pages of an old book for a while, trying to dispel the sadness and loss, to finally turn over and tug the blankets to his chin. And as a rising gale roared on the great slate spire above him, a shadow crossed the pale glass pane—a familiar, winsome pair of eyes peering directly into his own, effulgent and reflective in the waxing moon‑glow.
Image by GoogleFX.
‘The Eye of Inxia’
By G. Osborne (2470 Words)
Twas a sodden way, tromped by the worn heels of vagabonds and rumbled by the wheels of farm wagons on their to’ing and fro’ing from field to market. Rivulets from the hills raced through forest and felsenmeer, to diffuse themselves into the sluggish fens that bordered the autumnal lakes dividing the barony. Overhead—a gray emptiness dotted with crows.
Logar, Knight of Vannador, was alone on the road and thoroughly drenched. His next port of call, the Bed & Blanket Inn located just a few miles ahead, called to his soul like a siren. Saddle‑sore and chilled, he gritted his teeth and urged the horse to make haste, but the old beast, its fur steaming from the rain, just didn’t seem to share his discomfort and plodded sluggishly regardless. Logar felt pity for the old charger and eased off, knowing the destrier was simply too old to care.
Along the mud‑churned road, a scene of silent terror was met with. A dozen dead, flung by the fury of melee, lay half‑swallowed by a layer of mud about a broken wagon. Precariously angled, the wagon was trapped in the side ditch; its horse was missing. The knight dismounted and inspected the dead, rolling them over with his foot and reaching down to detach rings and purses, which were curiously untouched. These were bandits, and something compelled uncertainty. He reached the wagon and heard gentle crying from underneath, a crawlspace whose gaps were covered by tall grass. There was a young woman, battered black and blue, bruises the size of fists, and her linen dress stained with clay. She was insensible, so he gently pulled her out and carried her to the horse, raising her into the saddle.
“You’re safe now. I’m taking you to the inn. No need to worry.”
She floundered around, moaning, and for a moment met his eyes with a dazed smile before fainting and slumping forward, tightly gripping the old horse’s mane. Logar strode on, more desperate than ever for warmth and food.
The Bed & Blanket was aglow with the orange light of lanterns and fireplace. Small and cosy, the few clients were huddled near the hearth, quietly swilling ale and munching pastries filled with minced meat. Logar cradled the stray soul and carried her to one of the bedrooms, paying the barmaid in gold and silver rings, necklaces, and coins he’d retrieved from the bandits. Any potential costs were met in excess, and the barmaid’s family set about cleaning up and caring for the battered woman. Logar went to his room; the barmaid toying with a pair of shining rings, speculating their worth and winking at him as he took a brown bottle of beer.
“I will bring pottage and pasty soon, sir knight!”
Logar laughed and decided to dry out in privacy. Bringing food and fine beer, the maid was rewarded generously with a necklace of silver and topaz. Smitten by the knight’s stature and kindness, she tarried until morning and helped Logar dress, having dried his linens and boots. Seeing that the rescued lady was quietly asleep in her bed, Sir Logar was soon on his way to Darnadin with a clear sky and a ray‑lanced dawn.
Two days later, a wagon‑train is met, parked near a crossroads, where they have pitched awnings and set up stalls for their wares. Logar visits the beer tent, where his stature and good looks attract the daughter of the road‑master, who clings to his neck, full of flirts and laughter. She sells him horse‑feed, salves for his chafes, and a keg of apricot brandy. And then, as Logar’s flaws dictate, he is persuaded to retire for the afternoon to the confines of Avri’s painted wagon. In the evening, he offers old stories of his adventures by the campfire. The wagon folk listen to every word as if a precious gem; few notice the occasional flinch of the horses or the agitation of the dogs. Morning brings gentle goodbyes, and soon the knight resumes his way, needs sated.
Darnadin was a borderland wall with a village smashed up against it, deep in the northern vale. Guards roamed watchfully and peered into the wilderness from the towers. A misty place, where the woodsmen and hunters lived under threat of the strangeness that abode under the bramble frond and moon‑petal. Logar handed his scrolled message to the captain and saluted before heading off to the tavern. He’d need a few hours before marshaling the guard and addressing them—he was told to speak highly of their valued service; being in an amiable frame of mind was central, he surmised.
The tavern was a simple ale house with hearty fare, and the folk likewise were simple, honest, and unpolluted. Logar slammed his tired bottom onto the stout chair, and a large wooden tankard of foaming ale was soon afore him. He quickly drained it, and with a laugh, the ale‑maid put another in place of the empty.
“Oh, do get drunk, Sir, I’m all for nursing shining warriors!” Logar grinned as he peered up at her. “If sir needs a bed to rest, I will eagerly spread the sheets.” Logar laughed and passed her a silver ring set with a fire opal. “Then I will make haste in my spreading!”
Logar strode onto the shorn grassland next to the wooden keep that dominated Darnadin. The assembled guards listened to the formality, bored and polite. “And to finish, friends at arms, remember that once a man has lost all hope and all things, he can keep one yet. Against all odds, and against all enemies, he has one thing nobody can take: your love for those who are precious to you.” With that, Logar dismissed the troop and headed back to the inn for his last outbound night in the arms of the serving wench.
The road home was tedious. He’d seen it numerous times; the spectacular scenery was familiar by now, and the drudge almost unbearable. Even with a horse, he’d been traveling light; the regular stops were all graced with inns and welcoming abbeys. But abbeys had no lure for him. He was a passionate man, flawed certainly, but with his heart in the right place. The horse trudged on—a timeless soul dutifully bearing its rider from one indescribable place to another equally devoid. So they were.
It came from the hedgerow, tall and wart‑covered, wielding a huge branch crudely worked into a club. The troll roared and advanced. Logar slipped off the back of the horse, and it ran aside to safety as he rotated his shield from his shoulder into place to block the blow—shattering into a cloud of fragments and spinning nails. The knight staggered back and drew his sword, presenting it in long‑point, moving slowly back as the troll waved its club chaotically. Logar circled and prepared for a tough fight. The troll lurched and fell backwards; a cruel arrow pierced its skull with a sickening squelch. Logar looked about and called out his thanks, but there was nobody. On inspection, the arrow was organic, made from mistletoe and warped with fey power. He shuddered at the cruel looking thing and took a final look at the troll before calling his warhorse to resume the trudge.
The next day, at the crossroads, the empty space left by the wagon‑train was punctuated by one area of colour. Saddened by the discovery of a flower‑strewn grave, he dismounted and offered flowers. About the grave were small straw dolls, tied with ribbon and small candles, and painted upon a round, smooth rock the name ‘Avri.’ Logar made a small prayer, distraught that this matched his lady‑friend’s name. He shook his head, deciding it had to be someone else. Filled with sympathy, he resumed his journey, feeling uneasy about his horse’s occasional flinches. An old battle horse would sense trouble; he knew that, though this was something else, something the horse couldn’t fathom. He continued towards the Bed & Blanket, some two days further towards home, paying close attention to the destrier’s ears, twitching alert and forward far too often. Logar became sure there was a wolf stalking them in the forest, but he saw nothing and decided the old horse was just edgy after the troll attack.
A small campfire was set in a secluded off‑road nook, surrounded by flowering gorse. The sky was bright and studded with glittering stars; Logar bundled up tightly and nestled into the flame‑warmed rocks. The night passed without incident.
Much of the next day was woefully familiar—boredom crushed Logar’s mind. The road was sodden, and the frequent drizzle saturated his cloak quickly. Persistent trudging rewarded him with a glimpse of the village and the Bed & Blanket. He made his way hither, yearning for the comforts promised by the barmaid on his return. A sad scene greeted him. The folk were riven with tears, and it became slowly apparent that the maid who had welcomed him before had been killed in an unfathomable accident. Details unspoken, Logar slumped into a seat with a face wracked by concern. He wanted to weep, but that would bring questions about his relationship—something he didn’t wish to afflict the relatives with. Logar paid the room fee and retired, huddled in the silent warmth with a basket of food and ale that the maid had kept ready for him.
The night did not go well, and by morning he was frayed, red‑eyed, and desperate to move on home. Logar emptied the pouch of treasure he’d lifted from the battle site and gave it to the barkeep to pay for the funeral expenses.
“She fell for you, kind sir.” Logar nodded in silence and, with a darkness about him, left to saddle up and reach Vannador.
The last day was one of familiar fields; even the horse knew where he was and was much more relaxed. Though the strange perking of ears continued, it seemed as if something unplaceable was twitching the horse. A strange few days, he thought. It will pass.
And the tragic death of the maid and the appearance of the grave, both signals of life’s delicate form, showing the need for gentleness and compassion to all.
By evening, he was barely awake. The red sunset had collapsed into a sacred cerulean; the stars paraded once more, eternally glittering to guide the wise home. But in the last embers of that eve, a shape—something undefinable—stopped the destrier in its tracks. His ears twisted and flicked about. He wasn’t going ahead. Stubborn, he refused again and again. Eventually, it allowed Logar to steer left and over the fields, which were clear ground and lit by the waxing moon. He kept going, knowing the tracks were easy to follow on the farms. Then, out of the darkened glade, a shape moved, barely an outline, black against black, solidifying slowly into a figure. Bearing a gnarled staff, visibly rooted and crowned with a living, squawking raven, stood a hooded figure. Cloak dragging with a rustle on the leaves, light, almost silent steps suggested a being of airy mist, exuding witch‑light and moon‑glister from her strangely lambent eyes:
“Knight, go no further tonight. Ahead is sure death; there are many foes in the dell yonder with hounds and riders, each a‑bristle with steel.”
She drew closer, and it became apparent it was the wounded woman from under the wagon, transformed with fine health and rich clothing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Warning you. Sleep under that tree,” she pointed.
Logar dismounted and moved around the horse to converse, though in the moment line of sight was broken by the destrier’s bulk; she already vanished. He looked about, startled, but there were no signs nor footprints. Cautiously, he led the horse under the cover of the broad‑leafed tree whose shadow was the deepest the area could afford. He settled with a blanket over him. Dawn would be hours away, but the wait he decided was manageable. Huddled defensively into the gnarled bole on a bed of gathered ferns, he exhaled a sigh and tried to relax. But the horse was soon alert again and agitated.
Minutes later, in the near distance, tumult arose as if battle had leapt upon an unsuspecting host, broken by unearthly screeches and the sounds of dying—noises he was well familiar with; but these were tainted with an unnerving frequency as if many were dying all at once with no resistance. Then, as quickly as it began, the night was once more crystal clear, eternal and silent.
The knight pondered his circumstance with wide, sleepless eyes and an unnatural sweat beading his brow. The darkness haunted him; his mind conjured shapes from the shadows. The air became cold, and he was disturbed often by the noise of scurrying mice across the damp, rotting leaves. An owl silently watched above him, occasionally poking him awake with its unrelenting hoot. Morning came, and there was no sign of the woman. With silence and rising concern, he saddled up and began to walk back to the road, considering that way safer by far in broad daylight. Both he and the horse were becoming traumatized. He was exhausted and could only think of home.
By the next noon, he was back at the Baron's castle, relieved and soaking in a giant bath of hot water. In his saddlebag he’d found a pair of conjoined dolls made from the green thorns of woven gorse twigs, yellow flowers adorning their heads. He had no idea how they got there, and he was increasingly irritated as to what their meaning might be. Later, a messenger pigeon from the outpost arrived, mentioning the strange, unexpected death of the ale‑maid and the request for an increased guard presence. The knight, perplexed that every maiden he’d embraced on his journey was now dead, pondered the strange coincidences and wondered vacantly about causality.
As the gloaming light of late evening cast its hue about the land, he retired to his tower bed, disturbed by his new understanding that he was the only common thread linking the dead women. He solace‑d within the pages of an old book for a while, trying to dispel the sadness and loss, to finally turn over and tug the blankets to his chin. And as a rising gale roared on the great slate spire above him, a shadow crossed the pale glass pane—a familiar, winsome pair of eyes peering directly into his own, effulgent and reflective in the waxing moon‑glow.
I can see you’ve uploaded The Eye of Inxia For Edit.pdf. I’ll correct the punctuation while leaving the wording and structure unchanged.
‘The Eye of Inxia’
By G. Osborne (2470 Words)
Twas a sodden way, tromped by the worn heels of vagabonds and rumbled by the wheels of farm wagons on their to’ing and fro’ing from field to market. Rivulets from the hills raced through forest and felsenmeer, to diffuse themselves into the sluggish fens that bordered the autumnal lakes dividing the barony. Overhead—a gray emptiness dotted with crows.
Logar, Knight of Vannador, was alone on the road and thoroughly drenched. His next port of call, the Bed & Blanket Inn located just a few miles ahead, called to his soul like a siren. Saddle‑sore and chilled, he gritted his teeth and urged the horse to make haste, but the old beast, its fur steaming from the rain, just didn’t seem to share his discomfort and plodded sluggishly regardless. Logar felt pity for the old charger and eased off, knowing the destrier was simply too old to care.
Along the mud‑churned road, a scene of silent terror was met with. A dozen dead, flung by the fury of melee, lay half‑swallowed by a layer of mud about a broken wagon. Precariously angled, the wagon was trapped in the side ditch; its horse was missing. The knight dismounted and inspected the dead, rolling them over with his foot and reaching down to detach rings and purses, which were curiously untouched. These were bandits, and something compelled uncertainty. He reached the wagon and heard gentle crying from underneath, a crawlspace whose gaps were covered by tall grass. There was a young woman, battered black and blue, bruises the size of fists, and her linen dress stained with clay. She was insensible, so he gently pulled her out and carried her to the horse, raising her into the saddle.
“You’re safe now. I’m taking you to the inn. No need to worry.”
She floundered around, moaning, and for a moment met his eyes with a dazed smile before fainting and slumping forward, tightly gripping the old horse’s mane. Logar strode on, more desperate than ever for warmth and food.
The Bed & Blanket was aglow with the orange light of lanterns and fireplace. Small and cosy, the few clients were huddled near the hearth, quietly swilling ale and munching pastries filled with minced meat. Logar cradled the stray soul and carried her to one of the bedrooms, paying the barmaid in gold and silver rings, necklaces, and coins he’d retrieved from the bandits. Any potential costs were met in excess, and the barmaid’s family set about cleaning up and caring for the battered woman. Logar went to his room; the barmaid toying with a pair of shining rings, speculating their worth and winking at him as he took a brown bottle of beer.
“I will bring pottage and pasty soon, sir knight!”
Logar laughed and decided to dry out in privacy. Bringing food and fine beer, the maid was rewarded generously with a necklace of silver and topaz. Smitten by the knight’s stature and kindness, she tarried until morning and helped Logar dress, having dried his linens and boots. Seeing that the rescued lady was quietly asleep in her bed, Sir Logar was soon on his way to Darnadin with a clear sky and a ray‑lanced dawn.
Two days later, a wagon‑train is met, parked near a crossroads, where they have pitched awnings and set up stalls for their wares. Logar visits the beer tent, where his stature and good looks attract the daughter of the road‑master, who clings to his neck, full of flirts and laughter. She sells him horse‑feed, salves for his chafes, and a keg of apricot brandy. And then, as Logar’s flaws dictate, he is persuaded to retire for the afternoon to the confines of Avri’s painted wagon. In the evening, he offers old stories of his adventures by the campfire. The wagon folk listen to every word as if a precious gem; few notice the occasional flinch of the horses or the agitation of the dogs. Morning brings gentle goodbyes, and soon the knight resumes his way, needs sated.
Darnadin was a borderland wall with a village smashed up against it, deep in the northern vale. Guards roamed watchfully and peered into the wilderness from the towers. A misty place, where the woodsmen and hunters lived under threat of the strangeness that abode under the bramble frond and moon‑petal. Logar handed his scrolled message to the captain and saluted before heading off to the tavern. He’d need a few hours before marshaling the guard and addressing them—he was told to speak highly of their valued service; being in an amiable frame of mind was central, he surmised.
The tavern was a simple ale house with hearty fare, and the folk likewise were simple, honest, and unpolluted. Logar slammed his tired bottom onto the stout chair, and a large wooden tankard of foaming ale was soon afore him. He quickly drained it, and with a laugh, the ale‑maid put another in place of the empty.
“Oh, do get drunk, Sir, I’m all for nursing shining warriors!” Logar grinned as he peered up at her. “If sir needs a bed to rest, I will eagerly spread the sheets.” Logar laughed and passed her a silver ring set with a fire opal. “Then I will make haste in my spreading!”
Logar strode onto the shorn grassland next to the wooden keep that dominated Darnadin. The assembled guards listened to the formality, bored and polite. “And to finish, friends at arms, remember that once a man has lost all hope and all things, he can keep one yet. Against all odds, and against all enemies, he has one thing nobody can take: your love for those who are precious to you.” With that, Logar dismissed the troop and headed back to the inn for his last outbound night in the arms of the serving wench.
The road home was tedious. He’d seen it numerous times; the spectacular scenery was familiar by now, and the drudge almost unbearable. Even with a horse, he’d been traveling light; the regular stops were all graced with inns and welcoming abbeys. But abbeys had no lure for him. He was a passionate man, flawed certainly, but with his heart in the right place. The horse trudged on—a timeless soul dutifully bearing its rider from one indescribable place to another equally devoid. So they were.
It came from the hedgerow, tall and wart‑covered, wielding a huge branch crudely worked into a club. The troll roared and advanced. Logar slipped off the back of the horse, and it ran aside to safety as he rotated his shield from his shoulder into place to block the blow—shattering into a cloud of fragments and spinning nails. The knight staggered back and drew his sword, presenting it in long‑point, moving slowly back as the troll waved its club chaotically. Logar circled and prepared for a tough fight. The troll lurched and fell backwards; a cruel arrow pierced its skull with a sickening squelch. Logar looked about and called out his thanks, but there was nobody. On inspection, the arrow was organic, made from mistletoe and warped with fey power. He shuddered at the cruel looking thing and took a final look at the troll before calling his warhorse to resume the trudge.
The next day, at the crossroads, the empty space left by the wagon‑train was punctuated by one area of colour. Saddened by the discovery of a flower‑strewn grave, he dismounted and offered flowers. About the grave were small straw dolls, tied with ribbon and small candles, and painted upon a round, smooth rock the name ‘Avri.’ Logar made a small prayer, distraught that this matched his lady‑friend’s name. He shook his head, deciding it had to be someone else. Filled with sympathy, he resumed his journey, feeling uneasy about his horse’s occasional flinches. An old battle horse would sense trouble; he knew that, though this was something else, something the horse couldn’t fathom. He continued towards the Bed & Blanket, some two days further towards home, paying close attention to the destrier’s ears, twitching alert and forward far too often. Logar became sure there was a wolf stalking them in the forest, but he saw nothing and decided the old horse was just edgy after the troll attack.
A small campfire was set in a secluded off‑road nook, surrounded by flowering gorse. The sky was bright and studded with glittering stars; Logar bundled up tightly and nestled into the flame‑warmed rocks. The night passed without incident.
Much of the next day was woefully familiar—boredom crushed Logar’s mind. The road was sodden, and the frequent drizzle saturated his cloak quickly. Persistent trudging rewarded him with a glimpse of the village and the Bed & Blanket. He made his way hither, yearning for the comforts promised by the barmaid on his return. A sad scene greeted him. The folk were riven with tears, and it became slowly apparent that the maid who had welcomed him before had been killed in an unfathomable accident. Details unspoken, Logar slumped into a seat with a face wracked by concern. He wanted to weep, but that would bring questions about his relationship—something he didn’t wish to afflict the relatives with. Logar paid the room fee and retired, huddled in the silent warmth with a basket of food and ale that the maid had kept ready for him.
The night did not go well, and by morning he was frayed, red‑eyed, and desperate to move on home. Logar emptied the pouch of treasure he’d lifted from the battle site and gave it to the barkeep to pay for the funeral expenses.
“She fell for you, kind sir.” Logar nodded in silence and, with a darkness about him, left to saddle up and reach Vannador.
The last day was one of familiar fields; even the horse knew where he was and was much more relaxed. Though the strange perking of ears continued, it seemed as if something unplaceable was twitching the horse. A strange few days, he thought. It will pass.
And the tragic death of the maid and the appearance of the grave, both signals of life’s delicate form, showing the need for gentleness and compassion to all.
By evening, he was barely awake. The red sunset had collapsed into a sacred cerulean; the stars paraded once more, eternally glittering to guide the wise home. But in the last embers of that eve, a shape—something undefinable—stopped the destrier in its tracks. His ears twisted and flicked about. He wasn’t going ahead. Stubborn, he refused again and again. Eventually, it allowed Logar to steer left and over the fields, which were clear ground and lit by the waxing moon. He kept going, knowing the tracks were easy to follow on the farms. Then, out of the darkened glade, a shape moved, barely an outline, black against black, solidifying slowly into a figure. Bearing a gnarled staff, visibly rooted and crowned with a living, squawking raven, stood a hooded figure. Cloak dragging with a rustle on the leaves, light, almost silent steps suggested a being of airy mist, exuding witch‑light and moon‑glister from her strangely lambent eyes:
“Knight, go no further tonight. Ahead is sure death; there are many foes in the dell yonder with hounds and riders, each a‑bristle with steel.”
She drew closer, and it became apparent it was the wounded woman from under the wagon, transformed with fine health and rich clothing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Warning you. Sleep under that tree,” she pointed.
Logar dismounted and moved around the horse to converse, though in the moment line of sight was broken by the destrier’s bulk; she already vanished. He looked about, startled, but there were no signs nor footprints. Cautiously, he led the horse under the cover of the broad‑leafed tree whose shadow was the deepest the area could afford. He settled with a blanket over him. Dawn would be hours away, but the wait he decided was manageable. Huddled defensively into the gnarled bole on a bed of gathered ferns, he exhaled a sigh and tried to relax. But the horse was soon alert again and agitated.
Minutes later, in the near distance, tumult arose as if battle had leapt upon an unsuspecting host, broken by unearthly screeches and the sounds of dying—noises he was well familiar with; but these were tainted with an unnerving frequency as if many were dying all at once with no resistance. Then, as quickly as it began, the night was once more crystal clear, eternal and silent.
The knight pondered his circumstance with wide, sleepless eyes and an unnatural sweat beading his brow. The darkness haunted him; his mind conjured shapes from the shadows. The air became cold, and he was disturbed often by the noise of scurrying mice across the damp, rotting leaves. An owl silently watched above him, occasionally poking him awake with its unrelenting hoot. Morning came, and there was no sign of the woman. With silence and rising concern, he saddled up and began to walk back to the road, considering that way safer by far in broad daylight. Both he and the horse were becoming traumatized. He was exhausted and could only think of home.
By the next noon, he was back at the Baron's castle, relieved and soaking in a giant bath of hot water. In his saddlebag he’d found a pair of conjoined dolls made from the green thorns of woven gorse twigs, yellow flowers adorning their heads. He had no idea how they got there, and he was increasingly irritated as to what their meaning might be. Later, a messenger pigeon from the outpost arrived, mentioning the strange, unexpected death of the ale‑maid and the request for an increased guard presence. The knight, perplexed that every maiden he’d embraced on his journey was now dead, pondered the strange coincidences and wondered vacantly about causality.
As the gloaming light of late evening cast its hue about the land, he retired to his tower bed, disturbed by his new understanding that he was the only common thread linking the dead women. He solace‑d within the pages of an old book for a while, trying to dispel the sadness and loss, to finally turn over and tug the blankets to his chin. And as a rising gale roared on the great slate spire above him, a shadow crossed the pale glass pane—a familiar, winsome pair of eyes peering directly into his own, effulgent and reflective in the waxing moon‑glow.
I can see you’ve uploaded The Eye of Inxia For Edit.pdf. I’ll correct the punctuation while leaving the wording and structure unchanged.
‘The Eye of Inxia’
By G. Osborne (2470 Words)
Twas a sodden way, tromped by the worn heels of vagabonds and rumbled by the wheels of farm wagons on their to’ing and fro’ing from field to market. Rivulets from the hills raced through forest and felsenmeer, to diffuse themselves into the sluggish fens that bordered the autumnal lakes dividing the barony. Overhead—a gray emptiness dotted with crows.
Logar, Knight of Vannador, was alone on the road and thoroughly drenched. His next port of call, the Bed & Blanket Inn located just a few miles ahead, called to his soul like a siren. Saddle‑sore and chilled, he gritted his teeth and urged the horse to make haste, but the old beast, its fur steaming from the rain, just didn’t seem to share his discomfort and plodded sluggishly regardless. Logar felt pity for the old charger and eased off, knowing the destrier was simply too old to care.
Along the mud‑churned road, a scene of silent terror was met with. A dozen dead, flung by the fury of melee, lay half‑swallowed by a layer of mud about a broken wagon. Precariously angled, the wagon was trapped in the side ditch; its horse was missing. The knight dismounted and inspected the dead, rolling them over with his foot and reaching down to detach rings and purses, which were curiously untouched. These were bandits, and something compelled uncertainty. He reached the wagon and heard gentle crying from underneath, a crawlspace whose gaps were covered by tall grass. There was a young woman, battered black and blue, bruises the size of fists, and her linen dress stained with clay. She was insensible, so he gently pulled her out and carried her to the horse, raising her into the saddle.
“You’re safe now. I’m taking you to the inn. No need to worry.”
She floundered around, moaning, and for a moment met his eyes with a dazed smile before fainting and slumping forward, tightly gripping the old horse’s mane. Logar strode on, more desperate than ever for warmth and food.
The Bed & Blanket was aglow with the orange light of lanterns and fireplace. Small and cosy, the few clients were huddled near the hearth, quietly swilling ale and munching pastries filled with minced meat. Logar cradled the stray soul and carried her to one of the bedrooms, paying the barmaid in gold and silver rings, necklaces, and coins he’d retrieved from the bandits. Any potential costs were met in excess, and the barmaid’s family set about cleaning up and caring for the battered woman. Logar went to his room; the barmaid toying with a pair of shining rings, speculating their worth and winking at him as he took a brown bottle of beer.
“I will bring pottage and pasty soon, sir knight!”
Logar laughed and decided to dry out in privacy. Bringing food and fine beer, the maid was rewarded generously with a necklace of silver and topaz. Smitten by the knight’s stature and kindness, she tarried until morning and helped Logar dress, having dried his linens and boots. Seeing that the rescued lady was quietly asleep in her bed, Sir Logar was soon on his way to Darnadin with a clear sky and a ray‑lanced dawn.
Two days later, a wagon‑train is met, parked near a crossroads, where they have pitched awnings and set up stalls for their wares. Logar visits the beer tent, where his stature and good looks attract the daughter of the road‑master, who clings to his neck, full of flirts and laughter. She sells him horse‑feed, salves for his chafes, and a keg of apricot brandy. And then, as Logar’s flaws dictate, he is persuaded to retire for the afternoon to the confines of Avri’s painted wagon. In the evening, he offers old stories of his adventures by the campfire. The wagon folk listen to every word as if a precious gem; few notice the occasional flinch of the horses or the agitation of the dogs. Morning brings gentle goodbyes, and soon the knight resumes his way, needs sated.
Darnadin was a borderland wall with a village smashed up against it, deep in the northern vale. Guards roamed watchfully and peered into the wilderness from the towers. A misty place, where the woodsmen and hunters lived under threat of the strangeness that abode under the bramble frond and moon‑petal. Logar handed his scrolled message to the captain and saluted before heading off to the tavern. He’d need a few hours before marshaling the guard and addressing them—he was told to speak highly of their valued service; being in an amiable frame of mind was central, he surmised.
The tavern was a simple ale house with hearty fare, and the folk likewise were simple, honest, and unpolluted. Logar slammed his tired bottom onto the stout chair, and a large wooden tankard of foaming ale was soon afore him. He quickly drained it, and with a laugh, the ale‑maid put another in place of the empty.
“Oh, do get drunk, Sir, I’m all for nursing shining warriors!” Logar grinned as he peered up at her. “If sir needs a bed to rest, I will eagerly spread the sheets.” Logar laughed and passed her a silver ring set with a fire opal. “Then I will make haste in my spreading!”
Logar strode onto the shorn grassland next to the wooden keep that dominated Darnadin. The assembled guards listened to the formality, bored and polite. “And to finish, friends at arms, remember that once a man has lost all hope and all things, he can keep one yet. Against all odds, and against all enemies, he has one thing nobody can take: your love for those who are precious to you.” With that, Logar dismissed the troop and headed back to the inn for his last outbound night in the arms of the serving wench.
The road home was tedious. He’d seen it numerous times; the spectacular scenery was familiar by now, and the drudge almost unbearable. Even with a horse, he’d been traveling light; the regular stops were all graced with inns and welcoming abbeys. But abbeys had no lure for him. He was a passionate man, flawed certainly, but with his heart in the right place. The horse trudged on—a timeless soul dutifully bearing its rider from one indescribable place to another equally devoid. So they were.
It came from the hedgerow, tall and wart‑covered, wielding a huge branch crudely worked into a club. The troll roared and advanced. Logar slipped off the back of the horse, and it ran aside to safety as he rotated his shield from his shoulder into place to block the blow—shattering into a cloud of fragments and spinning nails. The knight staggered back and drew his sword, presenting it in long‑point, moving slowly back as the troll waved its club chaotically. Logar circled and prepared for a tough fight. The troll lurched and fell backwards; a cruel arrow pierced its skull with a sickening squelch. Logar looked about and called out his thanks, but there was nobody. On inspection, the arrow was organic, made from mistletoe and warped with fey power. He shuddered at the cruel looking thing and took a final look at the troll before calling his warhorse to resume the trudge.
The next day, at the crossroads, the empty space left by the wagon‑train was punctuated by one area of colour. Saddened by the discovery of a flower‑strewn grave, he dismounted and offered flowers. About the grave were small straw dolls, tied with ribbon and small candles, and painted upon a round, smooth rock the name ‘Avri.’ Logar made a small prayer, distraught that this matched his lady‑friend’s name. He shook his head, deciding it had to be someone else. Filled with sympathy, he resumed his journey, feeling uneasy about his horse’s occasional flinches. An old battle horse would sense trouble; he knew that, though this was something else, something the horse couldn’t fathom. He continued towards the Bed & Blanket, some two days further towards home, paying close attention to the destrier’s ears, twitching alert and forward far too often. Logar became sure there was a wolf stalking them in the forest, but he saw nothing and decided the old horse was just edgy after the troll attack.
A small campfire was set in a secluded off‑road nook, surrounded by flowering gorse. The sky was bright and studded with glittering stars; Logar bundled up tightly and nestled into the flame‑warmed rocks. The night passed without incident.
Much of the next day was woefully familiar—boredom crushed Logar’s mind. The road was sodden, and the frequent drizzle saturated his cloak quickly. Persistent trudging rewarded him with a glimpse of the village and the Bed & Blanket. He made his way hither, yearning for the comforts promised by the barmaid on his return. A sad scene greeted him. The folk were riven with tears, and it became slowly apparent that the maid who had welcomed him before had been killed in an unfathomable accident. Details unspoken, Logar slumped into a seat with a face wracked by concern. He wanted to weep, but that would bring questions about his relationship—something he didn’t wish to afflict the relatives with. Logar paid the room fee and retired, huddled in the silent warmth with a basket of food and ale that the maid had kept ready for him.
The night did not go well, and by morning he was frayed, red‑eyed, and desperate to move on home. Logar emptied the pouch of treasure he’d lifted from the battle site and gave it to the barkeep to pay for the funeral expenses.
“She fell for you, kind sir.” Logar nodded in silence and, with a darkness about him, left to saddle up and reach Vannador.
The last day was one of familiar fields; even the horse knew where he was and was much more relaxed. Though the strange perking of ears continued, it seemed as if something unplaceable was twitching the horse. A strange few days, he thought. It will pass.
And the tragic death of the maid and the appearance of the grave, both signals of life’s delicate form, showing the need for gentleness and compassion to all.
By evening, he was barely awake. The red sunset had collapsed into a sacred cerulean; the stars paraded once more, eternally glittering to guide the wise home. But in the last embers of that eve, a shape—something undefinable—stopped the destrier in its tracks. His ears twisted and flicked about. He wasn’t going ahead. Stubborn, he refused again and again. Eventually, it allowed Logar to steer left and over the fields, which were clear ground and lit by the waxing moon. He kept going, knowing the tracks were easy to follow on the farms. Then, out of the darkened glade, a shape moved, barely an outline, black against black, solidifying slowly into a figure. Bearing a gnarled staff, visibly rooted and crowned with a living, squawking raven, stood a hooded figure. Cloak dragging with a rustle on the leaves, light, almost silent steps suggested a being of airy mist, exuding witch‑light and moon‑glister from her strangely lambent eyes:
“Knight, go no further tonight. Ahead is sure death; there are many foes in the dell yonder with hounds and riders, each a‑bristle with steel.”
She drew closer, and it became apparent it was the wounded woman from under the wagon, transformed with fine health and rich clothing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Warning you. Sleep under that tree,” she pointed.
Logar dismounted and moved around the horse to converse, though in the moment line of sight was broken by the destrier’s bulk; she already vanished. He looked about, startled, but there were no signs nor footprints. Cautiously, he led the horse under the cover of the broad‑leafed tree whose shadow was the deepest the area could afford. He settled with a blanket over him. Dawn would be hours away, but the wait he decided was manageable. Huddled defensively into the gnarled bole on a bed of gathered ferns, he exhaled a sigh and tried to relax. But the horse was soon alert again and agitated.
Minutes later, in the near distance, tumult arose as if battle had leapt upon an unsuspecting host, broken by unearthly screeches and the sounds of dying—noises he was well familiar with; but these were tainted with an unnerving frequency as if many were dying all at once with no resistance. Then, as quickly as it began, the night was once more crystal clear, eternal and silent.
The knight pondered his circumstance with wide, sleepless eyes and an unnatural sweat beading his brow. The darkness haunted him; his mind conjured shapes from the shadows. The air became cold, and he was disturbed often by the noise of scurrying mice across the damp, rotting leaves. An owl silently watched above him, occasionally poking him awake with its unrelenting hoot. Morning came, and there was no sign of the woman. With silence and rising concern, he saddled up and began to walk back to the road, considering that way safer by far in broad daylight. Both he and the horse were becoming traumatized. He was exhausted and could only think of home.
By the next noon, he was back at the Baron's castle, relieved and soaking in a giant bath of hot water. In his saddlebag he’d found a pair of conjoined dolls made from the green thorns of woven gorse twigs, yellow flowers adorning their heads. He had no idea how they got there, and he was increasingly irritated as to what their meaning might be. Later, a messenger pigeon from the outpost arrived, mentioning the strange, unexpected death of the ale‑maid and the request for an increased guard presence. The knight, perplexed that every maiden he’d embraced on his journey was now dead, pondered the strange coincidences and wondered vacantly about causality.
As the gloaming light of late evening cast its hue about the land, he retired to his tower bed, disturbed by his new understanding that he was the only common thread linking the dead women. He solace‑d within the pages of an old book for a while, trying to dispel the sadness and loss, to finally turn over and tug the blankets to his chin. And as a rising gale roared on the great slate spire above him, a shadow crossed the pale glass pane—a familiar, winsome pair of eyes peering directly into his own, effulgent and reflective in the waxing moon‑glow.
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