The Cretins (an Extract)

He ran through puddles of mud saturated with blood. His feet making squishing noises with each hurried step. They moved ever closer; silently and effortlessly – they were gaining ground with each passing second. Battles axes in one hand, bloodied shields in the other; their flawless armour gleamed in the mid-morning sun.

He cursed his uniform boots. They were at least two sizes too big; the only pair left and had had only one very careful, but also very dead, previous owner – the laces still encrusted with their dried blood and very possibly brain matter. With each step across the battlefield, the puddles grew deeper. His shoes sunk down into the mud and were pulled out with a loud squelch. This lost him precious seconds as he could sense them getting so close that he could feel their retched breath against his neck. Straight away he made the awful decision to leave his boots behind. Barefoot and cold, he trudged onwards.

Night fell and with it the temperate dropped. A pale half-moon shone and his breath gleamed in its light. His uniform jacket long missing, he huddled low against the cold. In the distance he could hear their grunting and their laughing and their yelling. Screams interrupted these. Some poor soul had been caught. A fellow soldier. Maybe. Or an animal. It was near impossible to tell the difference with its ferocity and sheer anguish. Images popped into his mind of past nightmares and what he had actually seen.

They were ruthless. Their clawed fingers were capable of tearing flesh with a single strike. Their gnarled snouts strong enough to tear limbs apart. The battle axes they carried were merely for show; to strike fear into any foe whom was unlucky enough to cross them. And in this instance, he was that unlucky foe. As they approached a battlefield, their axes were used as drums against their shields.

As a child he had been told stories about these monsters. They had been nicknamed Cretins. However they possessed no actual name. Nobody knew where they came from, only they arrived without warning and started attacking whoever and whatever lay in front. Whole armies had been destroyed by a handful of Cretins. It was only when they invaded his homeland that he took the decision to enlist.

His parents had owned a small farm in the far East of his country. It lay on the outskirts of a town named Da’rog. His father had trained him from a young age to be a soldier. It was as if his father had known that something evil was upon them. By the time he was a teenager, he was already a skilled swordsman.
Weeks before the actual invasion took place, rumours were abound that the Cretins were near. The rumours were all that it took for the villages in the vicinity to prepare for battle. However by this stage, his parents were too frail and weak, so he was forced to stay back and take care of them as the others went off to battle.
It was only a matter of days before word returned that nobody was known to have survived. Whole generations had been wiped out within seconds as fathers died alongside their sons. A day of mourning had been announced in Da’rog and he attended with his father in tow. His mother was left at home as it was unheard of for women to attend such an event. In the following days, black smoke could be seen on the horizon. The invasion had begun.


The screaming had subsided yet it still echoed inside his head. There was nothing he could have done to save whoever … or whatever … it was. His weapons had been lost within the first Days. The villages could not produce enough weaponry to adequately arm their soldiers. The Cretins had not been known to leave corpses lying around. Huge pits had been dug in which they were thrown. Corpses were just seen as an unnecessary obstacle. Any weapons that had been lying around were usually melted down to form their own weapons and armour.
He lay in hiding for what seemed like an eternity. A blanket of stars stretched out in front of him. Everything seemed so serene. That is until it was fractured by screaming; even louder and bloodier than before. It wasn’t just one scream either. Nor was it just male. Children’s screams and mother’s screams and father’s screams. A whole family had been caught. Oh God, he thought as he cupped his hands over his ears, please stop. Please. Stop, he shouted inside his head, just stop. Yet the screaming continued and grew ever louder. Inside his head he was yelling equally as loud but it did nothing. Stop. No more. Please. No more. I can’t take it. I just can’t take it anymore. Please stop. Just stop. I’m too tired and weak and hungry and sore and I really just can’t do this anymore. Please. I can’t take this anymore. Just stop
Please.

He awoke hunched in a ball. The pale half-moon still shone in the sky. He was unsure of how long he had been unconscious for, but was certain it couldn’t have been for too long. The screaming had finally stopped. For the longest time he stayed silent and unmoving. He daren’t even breath, straining his ears for any sound, for any movement, for any hope that somebody had survived. There was nothing.

Hours seemed to pass before he was able to work up the courage to move once more. He took one slow and agonising step forward. And another. His feet ached and pained but he continued on regardless. The night had become so cold that the mud was encrusted with ice. In the moonlight it gleamed like diamonds. As he neared he realised that not all of it was ice. Broken glass had been strewn across the now-hard surface. He cursed his missing shoes. Behind him he could hear their grunts and yells carried by the wind. They were near. He was faced with no alternative than to cross through.

Pain arched through his spine as the glass embedded itself into his soles. His blood mingled with the shards and with the ice. Each step felt like a mile as he could feel himself growing weaker with blood loss. His skin would stick to the frozen surface making it even harder to escape. Eventually, somehow, he reached the end and collapsed into a trench.

In the first weeks of the invasion, miles of trenches had been dug around the villages and through the farms. Some local farmers raised objections to this; his father included. However they were forced into silence by the soldiers carrying out the digging. His most regretful moment was knocking his own old and frail and weak father out with the handle of his sword. The only way he could forgive himself for this was that he was only following orders.

100views and not one comment. I would be highly interested to get some feedback - what people think of it. Both negative and positive.

godspal

your right you deserve feedback! and the people on this particular forum cower away from negative commentary because they refuse to deal with the backlash of their personal views.

okay. firstly your imagery is completely confusing or unnecessarily contrasting:

Battles axes in one hand, bloodied shields in the other; their flawless armour gleamed in the mid-morning sun.

this image makes little sense. if you compare this to the rest of the story you have described a prolonged war, then you describe a brutish force, so who has the flawless armour! it makes no sense! even if you say that the soldier is new to battle, an overstretched army wouldn't have new armour, and traditionally farmers were militia men who wouldn't have enough money to buy new armour. thats just one example. these images are strung through-out the story in general. (the feet, the moon etc.)

after that the constant switching between stream of consciousness, memory and present events makes the story spiral. instead of being cinematic, which i believe you are tying to go for, its makes for a foggy narrative therefore progressing the story in a fashion only the writer could understand.

if we look at other parts of the story the suspense you try to build is more wheezy then impacting. and i know this may seem harsh, but if you consider this, we have a man who trolling through glass filled muck, to what seems like certain death against a horrifying enemy, i doubt the finishing of an extract should end with this thought/image:

In the first weeks of the invasion, miles of trenches had been dug around the villages and through the farms. Some local farmers raised objections to this; his father included. However they were forced into silence by the soldiers carrying out the digging. His most regretful moment was knocking his own old and frail and weak father out with the handle of his sword. The only way he could forgive himself for this was that he was only following orders.

well its not all negative, there is some nice prose in here:

A pale half-moon shone and his breath gleamed in its light. His uniform jacket long missing, he huddled low against the cold. In the distance he could hear their grunting and their laughing and their yelling.

very world war I-esque, and isolating because we know that in the silent night noise seems aplified, and the comparision with the chilling cold that preceeds this makes for a very sensual prose.

godspal

Thanks for the feedback

godspal wrote: »

okay. firstly your imagery is completely confusing or unnecessarily contrasting:

this image makes little sense. if you compare this to the rest of the story you have described a prolonged war, then you describe a brutish force, so who has the flawless armour! it makes no sense! even if you say that the soldier is new to battle, an overstretched army wouldn't have new armour, and traditionally farmers were militia men who wouldn't have enough money to buy new armour. thats just one example. these images are strung through-out the story in general. (the feet, the moon etc.)

In the piece I posted, I tried to explain why their armour seemed new in the line;

Any weapons that had been lying around were usually melted down to form their own weapons and armour.

though I should probably consider re-writing that, to make it stick out more.

if we look at other parts of the story the suspense you try to build is more wheezy then impacting. and i know this may seem harsh, but if you consider this, we have a man who trolling through glass filled muck, to what seems like certain death against a horrifying enemy, i doubt the finishing of an extract should end with this thought/image:

That is true, I am trying to piece together a history as I go along, but sometimes it might get a little confused. Thanks - I'll try re-writing this

I'll post a bit more though --

It was believed that these trenches would stop the invasion in its tracks. That they would be the solution and the only way to stop the Cretins Once and For All. It didn’t happen this way, however, as the Cretins just used these trenches as a means of trapping the soldiers inside. The first Corpse Pits were located in these trenches.

With whatever strength he had left, he tore off some fabric from his uniform shirt and bandaged his feet the best he could; the blood that hadn’t congealed soaked up into the fabric. Once again he stayed silent and unmoving. There were no grunts or yells. There were no screams or cries. Just silence. Dead silence. He leaned against the wall of the trench and shut his eyes; almost instantly falling into a dream.

His father stood before him. As elderly as he was, he was able to hold the broadsword with ease. His mother was upstairs huddled up in bed. The invasion was already in full swing. Dozens of villages had been burnt to the ground with nobody left alive. Da’rog was now a smouldering ruin.

It had been the first time he had ever heard their grunts and the drumming of battleaxe against shield. In the distance he could see their gleaming armour. He pleaded with his father to let him help but his father refused; the scar still fresh on his forehead. He cursed his father and ran off to join his squad. A few minutes down the road he could hear his mother’s screams and sobs. His father defiant until the very last moment; he was never going to give them the satisfaction of screaming.

godspal

His father stood before him. As elderly as he was, he was able to hold the broadsword with ease. His mother was upstairs huddled up in bed. The invasion was already in full swing. Dozens of villages had been burnt to the ground with nobody left alive. Da’rog was now a smouldering ruin.

Your using the full stop too much as punctuation. It offsets pacing, making the story move quiet stop-startedly

Now let me show an example of the difference, and you can tell which you think moves with more fluidity.

Horse hooves compacted the grey, brittle soil. The sound of each step retreated loudly across the plain. The leather bit moved across the steed’s dry tongue sloppily, while its owner lay back in the saddle. He dictated the trotting pace.

Horse hooves compacted the grey, brittle soil; each step retreating loudly across the plain, the leather bit moved across the steed’s dry tongue sloppily - while its owner lay back in the saddle, dictating the trotting pace.

Only just remembered I had this story, decided to edit it a bit, hopefully making some adequate changes -


He ran through puddles of mud saturated with blood, his feet making squishing noises with each hurried step. They moved ever closer; silently and effortlessly – they were gaining ground with each passing second. Battles axes in one hand, bloodied shields in the other; their flawless armour gleamed in the mid-morning sun.

He cursed his uniform boots, they were at least two sizes too big; the only pair left and had had only one very careful, but also very dead, previous owner – the laces still encrusted with dried blood and very possibly brain matter. With each step across the battlefield, the puddles grew deeper; his shoes sank into the mud and were pulled out with a loud squelch. This lost him precious seconds as he could sense them getting so close that he could feel their retched breath against his neck. Straight away he made the awful decision to leave his boots behind. Barefoot and cold, he trudged onwards.

Night fell and with it the temperate dropped, a pale half-moon shone and his breath gleamed in its light. His uniform jacket long missing, he huddled low against the cold. In the distance he could hear their grunting and their laughing and their yelling, which was interrupted by screaming, some poor soul had been caught. A fellow soldier. Maybe. Or an animal. It was near impossible to tell the difference. Images popped into his mind of past nightmares and what he had actually seen.

*

They were ruthless. Their clawed fingers were capable of tearing flesh from bone with a single strike, their gnarled snouts strong enough to tear limbs apart. The battle axes they carried were merely for show.
As a child he had been told stories about these monsters, who had been nicknamed Cretins, however they possessed no actual name. Nobody knew where they came from, only they arrived without warning and started attacking whoever and whatever lay in front. Whole regiments had been destroyed by a handful of Cretins, yet it was only when they invaded his homeland that he took notice and decided to enlist.

His parents had owned a small farm in the far East of his country, which lay on the outskirts of the town named Da’rog. His father had trained him from a young age to be a soldier, as if his father had known that something evil was upon them. By the time he was a teenager, he was already a skilled swordsman.
Weeks before the actual invasion took place rumours were abound that the Cretins were near. These were all that it took for the villages in the vicinity to prepare for battle. However by this stage, his parents were too frail and weak, so he was forced to stay back and take care of them as the others went off to battle. They received a heroes’ send-off as they took arms, said farewell to loved ones and departed. Yet he was forced to watch perched on his father’s fence, with the anger and jealousy bubbling in his veins; that was supposed to be his send-off, those were supposed to be his farewells.
It was only a matter of days before word returned that nobody was known to have survived. Whole generations had been wiped out within seconds as fathers died alongside their sons. A day of mourning had been announced in Da’rog and he attended with his father in tow. His mother was left at home as it was unheard of for women to attend such an event. In the following days, black smoke could be seen on the horizon.

The invasion had begun.

*

The screaming had subsided yet it still echoed inside his head. There was nothing he could have done to save whoever … or whatever … it was; his weapons had been lost within the first Days and the villages could not produce enough weaponry to adequately arm their soldiers.
He lay in hiding for what seemed like an eternity. A blanket of stars stretched out in front of him, making everything seem so serene, until it was fractured by screaming; even louder and bloodier than before. It wasn’t just one scream either. Nor was it just male. Children’s screams and mother’s screams and father’s screams. A whole family had been caught. Oh God, he thought as he cupped his hands over his ears, please stop. Please. Stop, he shouted inside his head, just stop. Yet the screaming continued and grew ever louder. Inside his head he was yelling louder but it did nothing. Stop. No more. Please. No more. I can’t take it. I just can’t take it anymore. Please stop. Just stop. I’m too tired and weak and hungry and sore and I really just can’t do this anymore. Please. I can’t take this anymore. Just stop Please.
And then everything went dark.
He awoke hunched in a ball. The pale half-moon still shone in the sky. The screaming had finally ceased. For the longest time he stayed silent and unmoving, daring not to even breath, straining his ears for any sound, for any movement, for any hope that somebody had survived. There was nothing.

Hours seemed to pass before he was able to work up the courage to move once more. He took one slow agonising step forward. And another. His feet ached and pained but he continued on regardless. The night had become so cold that the mud was encrusted with ice; in the moonlight it gleamed like diamonds. As he neared he realised that not all of it was ice. Broken glass had been strewn across the now-hard surface. He cursed his missing shoes. Behind him he could hear their grunts and yells carried by the wind. He was faced with no alternative than to cross through.

Pain arched through his spine as the glass embedded itself into his soles. His blood mingled with the shards and with the ice. Each step felt like a mile as he could feel himself growing weaker. His skin would stick to the frozen surface making it even harder. Eventually, somehow, he reached the end and collapsed into a trench.

*

In the first weeks of the invasion, miles of trenches were dug around the villages and through the farms. Some local farmers raised objections to this; his father included. However they were forced into silence by the soldiers. His most regretful moment was knocking his own old and frail and weak father out with the handle of his sword. He had no choice, that’s what he told himself, he was just following orders.

It was believed that these trenches would stop the invasion in its tracks; that they would be the solution and the only way to stop the Cretins Once and For All. It didn’t happen this way, however.

*


With whatever strength he had left, he tore off some fabric from his uniform shirt and bandaged his feet the best he could; the blood that hadn’t congealed soaked up into the fabric. Once again he stayed silent and unmoving. There were no grunts or yells, no screams or cries. Just silence.

Dead silence.

He leaned against the wall of the trench and shut his eyes; almost instantly falling into a dream.

His father stood before him. As elderly as he was, he was able to hold the broadsword with ease. His mother was upstairs huddled up in bed. The invasion was already in full swing. Dozens of villages had been burnt to the ground with nobody left alive. Da’rog was now a smouldering ruin.

It had been the first time he had ever heard their grunts and the drumming of battleaxe against shield. In the distance he could see their gleaming armour. He pleaded with his father to let him help but his father refused; the scar still fresh on his forehead. He cursed his father and ran off to join his squad. A few minutes down the road he could hear his mother’s screams and sobs. His father defiant until the very last moment; he was never going to give them the satisfaction of screaming.

cobsie

the writing is not bad, but you are not really bringing anything original to the page. it reminds me quite a lot of the first episode of game of thrones, tbh. maybe you could find a point further into your story and just jump right in, and avoid the prologue kind of feel that this has. later on, there might be a way to fit in this fairly generic backstory, through flashback etc.