The Fall of Darkness

Hey guys, I need feedback on this one. I got an idea for a fantasy/allegory short story, and started work on it. I'd like for all of you to leave a comment letting me know what you think of its originality, feasability, readability and whether or not I should continue. Now you hold in your hands the power of life and death for this helpless foetus of an idea. :p Please be honest, k? I value each and every one of your comments.

General description of idea:
A novel take on the age-old battle between good and evil in the foo1tsteps of the eminent C.S. Lewis, the Fall of Darkness is an account of the siege of an ancient Fortress of the Shining One on the Emperor’s Land that terminates in failure due to the high treason of one of the key warriors of the Emperor’s Legion. The tables are turned and the looking glass turned inside-out as the story is told from the perspective of the besieged Fortress, here representing a deep-seated demonic stronghold in the mind of a Christian. The forces of darkness are portrayed as the Warriors of the Shining One, emphasizing the devil’s identity as the seductive Angel of Light, while the Christian is portrayed as a proud warrior of the Emperor’s Legion sent to besiege and destroy the ancient Fortress.

The blood-red sun sank into the grey seas framing the horizon beyond the misty mountains. Night began to cast its shadowy cloak over the Gladden Fields. The pale, cold light of the Moon gleamed on the blood-stained stones of the Fortress’ walls.

The sentinels of the Tower of Light paced back and forth in silent vigil, the steady clink of their metal capped boots echoing through the silence of the stone walls. Now and again the anguished cry of a wounded warrior rang through the Halls of the Healers as the healers worked through the night in a desperate fever. Grievous was the hurt that had been dealt by the Enemy.

There was a dread that hung over the Fortress, so thick one could feel its oppressive weight stifling, strangling, suffocating all hope. In the Chamber of Council, that dread seemed to be manifested in a heavy darkness that strove against the flickering torches that hung on the walls of the small room where the Captains of the Company held council.

A low, hoarse voice echoed in the dimly lit hall. “Blood, fire, foes! Five thousands fell at the gate, countless more wounded beyond healing. All hope is lost! If my lord had but heeded my counsel and lighted the beacons before we first saw the glint of the Legion’s spears…”

A second voice, a clear, proud and stronger voice cut through the first. “I will have no more of your petty whining (this word was pronounced with the air of one with gaping sores in his mouth painfully savoring a hunk of dry bread), Alcan! Pah! You speak of lost hope. Have we not driven back the Legion thrice now? Have we not bathed the impregnable walls of our Fortress with the blood of the Enemy’s feeble pawns? They say that against the bitter spears of the Legion there can be no victory. I defy the Legion! I say victory is within our grasp.”

The first voice belonged to Alcan, the counsel of Prince Eldair. His hoary head was bowed, and his face was buried in his gloved hands. Prince Eldair, the owner of the second voice, stood at the head of the Council Table. His head was hastily bound in a rough, blood-stained cloth. He was still bristling with the heat of battle: he had proudly declared to all that would hear his heroic tale of four-score doughty Legionnaires thrown off the walls. He was young and tall and fair. His long, flowing locks were at present hastily braided to make room for the rough bandage that now covered his high forehead. He was a son of the King of Realms, and he had inherited the tough sinews and lust for battle of his father. He was the type of prince that cared more for battles and horses and swords than love and lore and music. It was therefore not in the least surprising that his mind only retained the joy of the battle while easily dismissing as trivial the heavy losses his Company had suffered at the spears of the Legion. In his mind, the valiant Company could only be victorious, repelling the siege of the Legion and winning glory and songs for his own.

Seated around the rest of the Council Table were three other dark figures, each austerely garbed in black cloaks concealing the burnished steel underneath that protected their flesh. Ashwine, Fellwine and Holwine, three of the fearsome Seven Mighty Men of the King, proud and tall with dark eyes that flashed in the heat of battle and struck fear into all that stood against them. Their raven locks flowed underneath the dark hoods of their cloaks. They had been sent by the King Himself to the Fortress to assist in its defense. Many sturdy Legionnaires of the Enemy had found their end under the swift and deadly strokes of their bitter blades. Each of them carried two long retractable blades on each arm, instruments of death not unlike the cruel claws of the lion. Their faces always remained hidden beneath their hoods: only their fiery eyes flashed visible. Only the King and the Seven knew what they looked like beneath those mysterious hoods. They rarely spoke, preferring to speak with their feet, hands and blades rather than with overlong eloquent words. They alone, apart from the Prince, seemed immune to the horror and despair of the Enemy’s siege. They held their peace as Alcan rose and unrolled an old, yellowed map.

Between his teeth, in even, artificially controlled tones, Alcan spoke again. “I do not doubt your valor, nor disregard the overall success of our sorties. I am merely offering my word of caution to my lord: we have dealt with but a tithe of the Legion. The Enemy is toying with us.

(To be continued...)