Okay so I wrote this as a prologue to a book I'm thinking of writing. If I get lots of positive 'reviews' and comments I'll go ahead, friendly criticism welcomed!! It may seem weird but the book starts at the end, then goes through his life as a sort of flashback...you should understand once you've read it, so here goes ..... The Goldenboy - Prologue The sun was setting over the burnt, blackened battlefield. Upon a throne of corpses lay Sigurd; his blood pooling around him. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged and uneven, but he was alive. A soldier jogged up to him and knelt on the bloody ground. Sigurd opened his eyes. It was Kaedr, thankfully. The only person whom Sigurd would have allowed to disturb him at such a time. "Sir, I've radio-ed a medical team, they're on the way now Sir" "Bloody hell Kaedr it's been years since you met me, and you still call me Sir. I'm going to die, will you please call me Sigurd for once. Oh and call off the medical team, I'm not having them fussing over me in my last hour." "But Sir ... I mean Sigurd, you can't just give up." Kaedr stuttered. Sigurd closed his eyes again. "Kaedr my life is flashing before my eyes, you know what that means. I'm gonna' die today, and I intend to do it right here, just you and me." Kaedr sat and watched Sigurd, his eyes seemed to be looming around beneath his lids. It was freaky, but nothing a grizzled old veteran like Kaedr would be bothered by. Sigurd spoke; a final rasp from his mouth. "Aye ... My life flashes before my eyes", he opens his eyes and gazes straight at Kaedr, "I tell you what though old friend, it's a damn good one to watch, you an' me, we been through some tough times together. You're like a brother to me, bonded through the blood and grime of a life of warfare. It's you that's made my life worth watching Kaedr, so thank you. When I sit at my place in Valhalla, I'll git' ye a space if I have to throw Odin himself out of his throne. Then we can look back an' laugh about our adventures over a pint 'o beer. Make sure your life is worth watching Kaedr, 'cause one day you'll be in this same position, watching it flash before your eyes." With that Sigurd let out his last, long breath. His eyes glazed over and the light winked out of them. His mouth was set forever in a warriors' defiance. Kaedr lent forwards and gently closed Sigurd's eyes. "You're right old friend, it's been a damn good 'un. Don't you worry, I'll carry on your legacy, I'll earn my place in Valhalla, though I've no doubt you'll find another excuse to wrestle with the Gods. Farewell, for now, Sigurd Goldenboy, one day may we meet again." With that, Kaedr picked up Sigurd's limp frame and began carrying it back to the camp. The blood-red sunset blazed over his shoulder, like a final respect to Sigurd, and his life of battle and bloodshed. END OF PROLOGUE. BELOW IS THE TOTALLY UNCONNECTED FIGHT CHAPTER THAT WAS REQUESTED So it came to pass, that Sigurd, who had ever been known as the Golden Boy; passed through the great gates of Tralia-Nosa, city of nightmares. The ancient prophecy was to be fulfilled; the Golden Boy was to rise against the great evil in a shining clash from which only one could return. As Sigurd walked down the hallway he noticed every tiny detail, like a condemned man would. In its prime and glory this city would have been an awe to behold. Everywhere were there intricate carvings of gold, silver, and other precious materials. The great oaken floor, now dirty and broken, would have gleamed with light and life. The present darkness would have been penetrated by glorious rainbow coloured light that spilled from shining orbs and torches set into the walls and high ceiling. As Sigurd walked down the hallway, he realised that the fate of the people rested upon him. If he was beaten, then Skorn’s rule would go unquestioned. The golden light from Sigurd’s skin bounced off a mirror. As Sigurd saw his reflection he wondered if he even stood a chance. Weapons from thousands of years past combined with the latest killing utensils. He stood there and saw a boy with golden skin; armed with diamond infused knight-style shield, a Plasma Node mini MG (PmMG) and a titamond edged short sword was stuck in his belt. It looked like a fairytale knight had ridden through the modern world. What was the point of a diamond infused shield, it was rumoured that Skorn had found Kaethlon, one of the two godswords. These swords could cut through anything, except the skin of their true owner, who was also the only one that could wield them. Kaethlon’s brother sword, Nuangra, was lost, nobody knew of its whereabouts. Sigurd reached the huge oak doors, and stopped. The doors were old, with silver handles fashioned into the likeness of a lion’s head. Behind those doors lay his death, or the freedom of all those who opposed Skorn. Sigurd was tempted to look back, just to catch a glance of the outside world. He shook his head, flicked the safety catch off his gun and pushed through the door. Sigurd had heard tales of Skorn, the silver one, but nothing could prepare him for the real thing. Nobody had ever survived an encounter with Skorn, save his most valued minions, so nobody knew what he looked like. He was huge, at least seven foot tall. Skorn had biologically improved himself his skeletal system was totally reinforced with carbon-fibre, and his bones were almost unbreakable. As well as night vision, Skorn had seen fit to give himself X-Ray, infra-red and thermal imaging vision sensors. He had totally replaced his muscles and tendons with seamless metal structures for strength. His skull was protected by a double thick layer of his carbon-fibre bone. As well as defensive measures, Skorn had equipped himself with enough weaponry to sink a fleet of nuclear warships. All in all, he looked like a huge mech-suit with a layer of silver skin stretched over the top. Kaethlon, the second of the godswords hung at his belt. The room Sigurd found himself in wasn’t all too big, but he immediately took in potential hiding places, or places that Skorn’s massive bulk wouldn’t allow him to follow. In the middle of the stone floor was a sort of rectangular hole covered over by what looked like green glass, but probably wasn’t. In the hole was a replica of the mighty godsword Nuangra. All of these details Sigurd took in a second. Skorn had not noticed Sigurd, who, deciding that just killing him was more important than doing it nobly and honourably; lined up the sight on his gun with Skorns head. Squeezing the trigger, he sent twelve bolts of lightning-fast sizzling plasma speeding towards Skorns’ head. They hit him straight in the forehead, ripping through the skin... ...to dissipate with a crackle against the bone, now visible, shining metallically. Skorns’ eyes immediately snapped onto Sigurd, and twitched as his various visors swapped, analysing Sigurd for threats. Raising a gun of his own, he began to aim at Sigurd. Reacting quickly, Sigurd rendered the gun useless with another burst of plasma nodes. An angry light flashed in Skorns’ red eyes, and he threw the gun at Sigurd. The immense force knocked Sigurd back against the wall. He slumped to the ground, dazed. He glanced at the gun that had been thrown at him; it was a shotgun, hefty and powerful. Sigurd scrambled to his feet. Skorn raised his empty hand, making to pick Sigurd up and crush him. Sigurd raised the useless shotgun above his head, and with a great cry of effort, brought it smashing down onto Skorns’ outstretched hand. To any other being such a blow would have shattered the bones, metal strength or not. Skorns’ hand was battered away by the force of the shotgun, which fell to the ground. Skorn decided to revert to medieval weaponry, and drew a huge warhammer. Knowing that Sigurd couldn’t harm him, he took his time, and opened his legs to give himself a firmer stance. Using both his hands he raised the warhammer over his head. Sigurd was backed into a corner and had to get out of it, and he knew how, but it would require perfect timing. Skorn smashed the hammer down, but Sigurd nimbly sidestepped, then dived straight through Skorns widened legs. He rolled, jumping up and drawing his sword in one fluid motion. He ran to where his shield lay abandoned, picking it up, he turned to face Skorn. Skorn started to advance, and then stopped. He looked at Sigurd, who returned with a fierce warrior’s glare. He looked the mighty man-monster in the eye, and was shocked. He saw that behind the shining skin and metal bone, deep within the eyes of the Silver One, he saw the remains of the man he had once been. Those eyes still held honour and were proud. A surprisingly human voice emanated from Skorn: “You have fought well, Sigurd Goldenboy, you have lived up to the tales that precede you. Though, inevitably, you must be destroyed, I will have you remembered; the Goldenboy that nearly bested Skorn the Silver One.” Then, as if a switch had been thrown, the spark of humanity within his eyes died, and once again he became Skorn the mighty. Sigurd had new hope though; he had seen the man behind the mask, a man, who could be killed. A sudden rage came over Sigurd as he thought of his dead family. With a yell, he charged at Skorn, who struck out with the warhammer. Given strength by his rage, Sigurd took the blow on his shield. With a maniacal laugh he raised his sword and slashed down with all his might. Skorn had given himself an eighth, internal layer of skin made of flexible metal. Sigurd’s diamond edged sword managed to penetrate this, and, fuelled by his rage, continued across his torso. Sigurd split Skorn from shoulder to hip. Blood spattered Sigurd’s golden skin as the sword finished its arc. Skorn reeled back in shock. Sigurd spun backwards, not having time to reflect on being the only one to have drawn the blood of the Silver One since his campaign started. Dropping his sword, Sigurd pulled a throwing knife from his belt and threw it towards Skorn. Not waiting to see if it hit, he released another two blades in quick succession. Looking up, Sigurd saw that all three knives had hit their target. Two knives protruded from between ribs and one, miraculously, had pierced his eye. It pleased Sigurd to see the blood welling from the wounds, though he knew that Skorn could survive without it. Skorn was angry. He dropped the warhammer and slowly pulled Kaethlon from its sheath. He took one step forward and then, as if changing his mind, swapped the godsword to his left hand. Sigurd was not scared, but the rage had left him, he was going to die and he knew it. He retrieved his sword, then turned and looked straight into the eyes of his death. He did not quail or flinch under the gaze of the mighty one. Skorn nodded in respect. They walked towards each other, both preparing for a straight on fight to the death. When Sigurd was in range, Skorn revealed why he had swapped Kaethlon to his left hand. With his right hand curled into a fist, he delivered a huge punch straight into Sigurd’s chest. Sigurd had had no time to raise his shield and took the full force of the blow straight to his ribs. He flew backwards, landing in the middle of the room. Dazed, Sigurd tried to clear his head. The green glassy cover was next to him, now he was close to it he saw that there were little craters covering its surface, where bullets had ricocheted off it. There were no holes though, none of the bullets had pierced it; it was strong then. Then Sigurd noticed something. His hand had passed through the cover, into the hole. He flexed his fingers experimentally, then grasped for the hilt of the model-Nuangra. As soon as he touched it he felt an overwhelming sense of righteousness. Then the truth hit home. What he held in his hand was no model; it was Nuangra, mightiest of the godswords, and it had just accepted him as its rightful owner. It was as if the sword had a soul, a life of its own that gave it the right to choose who wielded it. It had chosen Sigurd, and Sigurd felt an intangible bond between himself and the sword. Quite frankly, Sigurd would not be surprised if the sword did have a soul, it was a sword from the time of true magic, of which could rarely be found nowadays. The discovery of the sword had distracted Sigurd, but now an aching pain in his chest brought him back to his senses. The pain bespoke several broken ribs, but Sigurd didn’t have time to fret about that right now. Godsword in hand, the Goldenboy turned to face his opponent. Skorn glanced at the sword, and laughed. This heartened Sigurd, as it told him that Skorn did not know the truth of the sword. An element of surprise might give him the advantage he needed. Readying himself, Sigurd strode towards the mechanical man-monster. The fate of the world was about to be decided. Skorn opened the fight with a diagonal slash to Sigurd’s chest. It was an unhurried, almost lazy move. Skorn expected Kaethlon to shear through Sigurd’s defences, and if Sigurd had had any other weapon it would have done so. Sigurd brought Nuangra upwards and parried the blow. The swords collided in a shower of sparks, and Skorn’s eyes widened with realisation. Sigurd took the advantage. He gave a powerful swing at Skorn’s head, Skorn recovered just enough to deflect the blow from his head, but the sword still grazed down his arm. Layers of silver skin peeled away to reveal the metal layer below which was now scratched and dented. No blood came from the dried up veins. Recovering, Skorn replied with a shower of blows that Sigurd was hard pressed to block. Sigurd deflected a blow from his arm, a stab to his chest and only just batted aside a swing vying to lop his head clean off his shoulders. Deciding that agility might even the fight a little, Sigurd dropped his shield. Skorn jabbed at his now unprotected arm, Sigurd had been distracted by making sure that the shield wouldn’t crush any toes, and failed to move the arm quickly enough. Just as he moved the offending limb out of the way, he felt Kaethlon slice through the muscle of his arm. Sigurd had been lucky; Skorn had chosen the wrong move – if h had sliced at Sigurd instead of jabbing at him he would have taken Sigurd’s arm off. It was only a minor scratch though, easily ignored. Seeing attack as the best form of defence, Sigurd laid into the offensive. Feinting a slash to Skorns hip, Sigurd twirled and hacked deep into his foe’s opposite shoulder. Wrenching the sword free in a massive spurt of blood Sigurd danced backwards then lunged forward with a stab to the midriff. Batting the sword aside, Skorn swung his own blade in a wide arc, then immediately followed up with a backhanded slash to Sigurd’s arm. Sigurd twisted, and in doing so caught the blow on his non-sword arm. Blood sprayed from the wound but Sigurd ignored it. Finishing his 360-degree twist he chopped at Skorn’s outstretched wrist. Sigurd’s blade cut deep, but he felt it stick in bone. For any normal man the severing of a main artery would have caused a slow bleeding to death, but not Skorn. Twisting his arm, Skorn nearly wrenched Nuangra from Sigurd’s grip, Sigurd stumbled but did not fall, and he felt his sword make its exit from Skorn’s wrist. Taking the advantage, Skorn sliced at Sigurd. Sigurd screamed as Skorn laid open his back. He fell to the floor, blood gushing from his wound. Red filled his vision. Skorn moved in for the kill. Raising his sword high he plunged it down on the writhing boy below him. Pure instinct told Sigurd to roll, and, rising to his feet he saw that Skorns’ weapon had sunk into the stone floor and stuck. With an enraged cry Sigurd hacked at the wrist. Driven by his rage, Sigurd’s sword ripped through bone and metal sinew, and totally severed the hand. Blood gushed from Skorn’s wrist with such ferocity that a red pool immediately formed on the cold stone floor. Skorn howled; he had not felt true pain in many centuries. Sigurd pulled Kaethlon from the stone, hand still locked onto the hilt. He threw the godsword out of the reach of its owner. Skorn tried to throw a punch, but Sigurd leapt aside and plunged his sword into Skorn’s guts. With an explosion of blood, gore, and other body parts not meant to be seen in the light of day; it exited through the small of the Silver One’s back. Skorn’s hands flew to the wound, from which oozed a thick silver substance. With a sense of finality, Sigurd watched the great mutant fall. Taking Nuangra, he plunged it through the monster’s heart – he was taking no chances. A mixture of blood and silver mucus burst from the wound, and the monster lay still. Adrenaline rush over, Sigurd collapsed, unconscious. Blood still flowed at an alarming rate from his back, but Sigurd could do nothing to stop it. He was utterly spent. The prophecy had been fulfilled; one had died, one had lived.
I have another totally unconnected chapter that I could post if you'd like it, but it is totally unconnected. It's a fight scene
I will tomorrow Bjorn, I'm goin bed now. Looming forward to reading the commets tmoz. Could you guys keep this bumped for me when it goes off active?