It's not Wednesday but have a short little preview of my Morsus Atrum WIP:
The hunting party set out within the hour, blessed by the hermit, and armed with their tools, they walked in silence towards the fated crossroads. And at their head was Mihail, sat upon the great white horse being led by the hermit, dressed in a pure white tunic which the villagers had brought with them, a crown of white garlic blossoms placed upon his dark hair.
He had never ridden a horse before, and even if he had not been doing so in order to rout out a creature of evil, he would have found it an exhilarating experience.
Mihail had not realized from stories and rare far-off glimpses just how large a horse was, nor how powerful! Even at a slow trot, he could feel the great muscles moving beneath him and knew that it was capable of so much more. This was a beast that could truly race the wind and could easily throw him high or crush him beneath its great hard hooves.
His mother had told him of the horse-lords from whom her people were said to be descended. The great mounted army of Atilla, that ruled nigh uncontested over the plains, the scourge of Eternal Rome. Riders so skilled they were said to become one with their steeds, rushing in like a thundering wave, throwing up a spray of deadly arrows over their foes, and receding back as swift and unstoppable as the tide.
Mihail wondered if he could learn to ride like that, one day. For now though, he was content to let the great beast be led on, as he sat as still as he could on its broad back, trying to look serious and not fall off.
“Mihail” His mother’s voice called to him softly from his right, and he looked down at her solemn face, looking with concern up at his.
“How are you faring?” She whispered, walking closer to the horse's flank, and reaching up to take his hand “Do you still wish to do this?”
Her tone was even, but within it he felt the iron resolve she had to carry him off the instant he said he no longer wished to be here, come what may.
“I'm well Mămică! I'm happy to help!”
Was he frightened? Yes, somewhat. It would be foolish not to be frightened of the thing they were going to face, knowing what he did. But more than fear, what he felt was a sense of pride.
He had been chosen for this task. Haralamb had said there was no better that could be found to fulfill it. And so he felt proud, he felt like he was finally becoming what he had always wished to be, he felt like the princes of old, riding off on a noble steed on a great quest to slay a great evil.
True, he would not be doing the slaying, and he was not properly riding the horse, and he had no blazing armor, only his white shift and garland of flowers.
But he felt more grand than he ever had before.
