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Deleted duplicate post; your friendly moderator, Phil

Edited by Phil at 21st Nov 2009 13:12:29.

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The Hunter and the Demon>>

***>>

Prologue>>

As the final volley of arrows plunged into the last few rebels, Karl stumbled over a pile of corpses that he no longer saw. Pulling off his battered helm Karl dropped it wearily on the ground and searched amongst the faces of his surviving company. He sighed in relief when he spotted his brother’s familiar face. Kris trotted over to clap Karl on the back.>>

“A great victory today Karl,” Kris’ grinning face was bloody from a gash on his head, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.>>

“But at what cost?” Karl turned to survey the scene of the battle. It had been the last desperate stand of a rebel faction in a small town in the western duchy of Polen. For months the rebels had harried the soldiers of the isolated western duchy, seeking to establish a foothold while winter prevented support from crossing the mountains. Political outrage had pushed the surrounding dukes to force their soldiers through. >>

Many had died in the mountain passes, but Kris had lobbied relentlessly, convincing the dukes that the threat to their power was great, and with Karl placed in command the soldiers had eventually broken through. Rallying the remaining Polenic soldiers, Karl had methodically attacked the rebels, forcing them to retreat to this, their last stand. Now thousands of rebels and duchy soldiers lay dead or dying. Mostly rebels. All Karl could see were the small bodies of the many women and children that numbered among the dead rebels. >>

“Gods help us, what have we done?” Karl whispered.>>

Standing close by, Kris heard the question. “What we had to brother.”>>

A quick shout brought his second running to his side. >>

“Sir?”>>

“Frank, rally the men and establish the camp upwind. Tend to the wounded and start pyres for the rest. Kris, send your men to secure the village and send out mounted patrols to round up any survivors; I want them questioned. And someone bring me some paper and ink. Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”>>

*>>

Pulling herself painfully onto the back of an abandoned duchy soldier’s horse, Elsa slumped over the saddle clutching the arrow protruding from her chest with one hand and desperately held onto the horse’s mane with the other. Closing her eyes, Elsa forced herself to be calm. Reaching deep within, she concentrated through the pain and suddenly the arrow dissolved into a black powder and blew away on the wind. A moment later the now malleable arrow head poured out from the wound in her chest, hissing softly as the hot metal touched her flesh. Sobbing, Elsa clutched her hand to the wound; the arrow was gone and the bleeding stopped, but she was too exhausted to do more—she hoped it would be enough.>>

From the small copse of trees, she paused to scan the carnage before her, face sad as she took in the sight of the bodies. They had been fighting to free the kingdom from an oppression never even realised by the majority of its inhabitants. And they’d been slaughtered by the very men they were trying to free. It wasn’t their fault; a millennium of manipulation and deceit, history itself changed and forgotten, made the Pleiad’s task of revealing the truth near impossible.>>

Kicking the horse’s sides she galloped away from the scene of battle, gritting her teeth against the pain, she kicked her horse for more speed. She must make it. She could not believe that the Flame-cursed duchy men had made it through the winter passes. It was a disaster; their rebellion, their bid for freedom had failed. The Pleiad had to know.>>

*>>

Seven grey-clad figures stood quietly as two men carried Elsa’s limp form from the large dark-panelled room. Once the door closed behind them, the eldest pushed back his hood, looking down and running careworn fingers over the small flame embroidered into the breast of his robe, he released a heavy sigh. >>

“It has begun; the path has been chosen and the time of prophecy is upon us, the Flame have mercy on us all.”>>

A woman stepped forward to address the man “Was it necessary to lose an entire clan, Olar?”>>

“You knew it was a possibility Nerissa, we all did. Their sacrifice will draw our enemies out, confident that they can move more openly, thinking us defeated. Better that they had succeeded in holding Polen, but it wouldn’t have been any less bloody in the long run.”>>

“It was the bulk of our support Olar, the extended families of the ungifted. Will history forgive us, I wonder?” Nerissa’s face suddenly looked its age, her serenity momentarily gone, before the calm mask slipped back into place.>>

Olar considered the other six figures before answering softly. “It’s not history that worries me; I wonder if we will be able to forgive ourselves.”  >>

*>>

In a well-lit chamber with polished dark marble floors, a black-clad man knelt before another seated on a heavily gilded chair, almost a throne. >>

“Master, it is done. Their pathetic uprising has been quashed, and every one of the rebels lies dead.”>>

The man on the throne snorted derisively. “Perhaps. It’s a beginning at any rate. I doubt that the Elders were present at that little fiasco, but it will be a long time before they have they strength to move again. Pathetic worms. >>

“The fools in Evernise don’t suspect a thing. It’s time to begin our plans there, and don’t forget; I expect regular shipments.” >>

The kneeling man looked up at his master, extending his hand imploringly.>>

“Master, my reward,” it didn’t quite come out as a question. “May I...” expectation and desire were strong in the man’s voice.>>

Laughing, the master tossed the man a silver vial. “I guess you’ve earned it. Enjoy.” >>

His voice turning from warm amusement to cool demand the master spoke again “Don’t fail me in Evernise. You know the price of failure.” Dissolving into an oily black smoke, the man on the throne left his apprentice in the chamber.>>

A small smile curving the corners of his mouth, the dark figure broke the wax seal on the vial and downed the contents in one swift motion. The pain was exquisite; the power was breathtaking. It was death; it was ambrosia. The feeling of ecstasy increased as the thick liquid burned and tingled down his throat. Eyes rolling back, he moaned in pleasure as fine black lines rippled over the surface of his exposed skin. >>

Edited by Phil at 21st Nov 2009 13:13:16.

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Hi Mattq,

I have a few questions if you don't mind.

How does the prologue relate to the main story? Is it backstory? And if it is can't you seed it (ie tell the reader in small doses on a need to know basis) through the story? It's hard to judge a prologue alone without knowing what the story is about.

Have you read Sam Bowring's latest book? Prophecy is one of it's themes.

Mit

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I enjoyed it Mattq.  I would say keep going for sure and get some other feedback or input from writers you may be in contact with.