Prologue

Inspired by Emmett--again--I've decided to post the first section of my nanowrimo. I will, however, only post the prologue, which is the first 2000 words. It's quite long for a blog post, but I hope that won't scare you away. *nudges a certain someone*
(Yes, Emmett, I will make sure I read and comment on your post...just when I actually have time.)

Anyway, here it is.

Prologue

The hilly forest was alive with outside forces in the night. This realm was normally undisturbed by all except the native animals after the sun disappeared—the small town tucked against one edge of the forest was populated by good, decent, mundane people who were in bed at reasonable hours. This night, though, there were people rushing through the forest, shouting to one another and snapping undergrowth as they barreled on their wild, erratic paths. The voices were tinged with fear and panic—held in check, but present nonetheless. Every one of them carried a light that shot a wide beam wherever their unsteady hand pointed, pursuing something that eluded them. When a beam of light fell across another searcher, they could see the uniform that marked them as one of their own number—sleek and black, with high collars, silver linings, and gold bands as decoration.

Two figures in cloak and hood—one bulky and towering at well over seven feet, the other small and slight next to him—crouched at a hole between two large rocks several hilltops away from the search party. They were, for the moment, safe from their hunters.

The giant made a rumbling noise deep in his throat and began whispering in a surprisingly quiet and smooth bass. “The searchers, they are coming this way.”

The other figure dipped his head in agreement. “And none too quietly, either,” he added in a hissing tenor. “We should move.”

“The plan, we shall have to use it,” murmured the giant.

Arms folded across the smaller man’s chest. “That’s supposed to be the plan of last resort.”

The giant began sorting through various pockets as he replied. “Our destination, it is known by them, yes? And my hiding place, it will not be safe now, just as the town. We are at our last resort.”

Silence hung between the two as the smaller figure shifted restlessly and glared at the sparse forest grass at his feet. “Alright,” he finally said. “Here, you’ll need this.” He produced a single gem—a large ruby that glinted slightly in the dim moonlight—from his cloak and held it out.

The giant, having found what he was searching for, drew out a black box that fit in his hand. The two items were quickly exchanged, the box disappearing into the small figure’s cloak pocket and the ruby remaining in the giant’s hand.

“Sultroth,” began the shorter figure. “If you need to, come find me. They won’t be able to contact anyone for at least a week, and we have time as long as they’re too disorganized to hit us.”

The giant turned away to watch the still-approaching lights. “Go,” he said. “The mansion, I will meet you there if I can.”

The short figure stood still for a moment, watching his companion through the darkened hood he wore to hide his face. Suddenly, he twirled about to face the distant town. “Make sure you get back alive,” he admonished. Then he was jogging down the hill, moving swiftly and without sound as he fled from the hill and the approaching searchers. He managed to pass two hills before he heard it begin behind him. The searchers’ calls to one another suddenly changed into shrieks of terror and pain. As he crested another hill, the runner could see flashes of crimson light on the trees around him. He had no desire to turn around and see what was happening. He increased his speed to a run, hoping to reach the town and hide before anyone woke from the commotion.

The forest began thinning into grassy meadowland as he charged toward an imposing fence of tall, thin bars that loomed ahead in the gloom. One powerful leap shot him unnaturally high into the air—he grabbed two bars near the top just as his feet stopped on the fence—he shoved off with his legs, his grip on the bars causing him to flip upside down—he released the bars and let his momentum carry him over the fence—he landed softly in a crouch on the other side with a soft grunt, surged to his feet, and sprinted toward the mansion.

Although the cloaked person didn’t raise his head to look at the mansion, the moonlight revealed its steep and sharp-edged roofs, shoved together and broken by dark windows with small fenced balconies. Higher towers rose sporadically across the building, ending in thin pyramid-like points that stabbed at the moon. Shadows played across the scene, hiding the corners and niches. The figure slowed as he reached a covered walkway and approached a side door, casting a furtive glance around the darkened yard. He hunched over the doorknob, fumbling in his pocket before drawing out a large brass key. He shoved it into the lock, pushed his way inside, and swiftly shut the door behind him. He allowed himself only a single deep breathe before sprinting through the darkened hallway and up the nearest flight of stairs, weaving past covered furniture. He began spinning upward as the stairs twisted into a spiral, pulling him up several floors at breakneck speed. He finally burst into a hallway and found an arched window, high above the ground, probably in a tower. The forest stretched across his view from the tower window. Tiny tendrils of smoke, scattered through the trees, drifted toward the sky. The crimson flashes were gone.

The man’s gaze was jerked away from the forest by something—movement. For a tortuously long minute, he could see nothing else. Then a single shadow detached itself from one roof side and began creeping toward a window below the man. Something was on the roof. The shadow dropped onto the window balcony, and out of sight. The silence was pierced by glass shattering. The shadow was inside.

The cloaked man silently padded into the hallway and toward another staircase, one that led only one floor down. The window that the shadow entered through wasn’t far below the floor the man was on now—a surprise before the interloper oriented himself was possible. He descended slowly, testing the stairs with his foot before shifting his weight. The old stairs creaked only once under his careful step, but even that one creak caused him to freeze in place for a several seconds. When he finally reached the bottom of the steps, he surveyed the new hallway. There were no windows here, and the hall was almost pitch-black. The only source of faint light was through an open door ten paces away. The muted light that slipped through the door reflected in several glinting points scattered on the hallway carpet—broken glass. The man strained to hear the quietest noise—anything that might give him the slightest advantage. There was nothing but silence.

He inched toward the light, hoping to find some indication his opponent had left, any disturbed item that pointed which way he had gone—if he had indeed left the hall. Something suddenly loomed out of the darkness. Before there was time for thought, the cloaked figure’s fist was in the air—wood splintered and cloth ripped as the lightning punch tore into it, his hand sinking completely into the mass of wood. With a frustrated snarl, the man yanked his hand free from the covered furniture he had just destroyed and whipped around, instinctively lashing out with a spin kick. It connected with his shadow pursuer as it tried to rush the source of noise, knocking it off balance. The shadow stumbled into the light in the doorway before darting into the room. His black uniform could briefly be seen in the dim light, revealing him to be one of the searchers from the forest. The cloaked man stayed in the hall, pressing himself against the wall next to the doorway.

Long minutes stretched by; the uniformed man’s heavy breathing filled the silence like a metronome, keeping time to their standoff. After several minutes, the cloaked figure reached into his cloak, grasped something small, and crept closer to the doorway. He paused, listening intently to the gasping from the room. In one fluid motion, the cloaked figure dove past the door, throwing the object he held, a dart. He cleared the door—a lance of crimson energy burst from the opening, smashing into the wall opposite the doorway and ripping a crater into it—there was a tiny thunk as the dart struck wood. Another dart came from the cloak.

Just as the cloaked man was preparing for another leap, the heavy breathe in the room started moving—closer, rushing at the hallway—the uniformed man burst into the hall. The cloaked man reacted instantly, letting himself fall to the floor, causing a faint whump as he landed. The uniformed man crouched as he faced the black hall, holding a strange gun with a glowing tip that probed the darkness. Crimson streaks began leaping from it, lighting the hall as they streaked through empty space to strike pits into the wall. The second dart flew from the cloaked man’s hand, embedding itself in the chest of its target.

The uniformed man dropped his gun with a gasp of pain; his hands tore at his chest, yanking the dart from his flesh. With a shout, he ran back into the room. The cloaked man leapt to his feet and followed. He entered just in time to see the wounded man escape to the roof through the broken window. The stalker, still clutching at his wound, began staggering. One foot missed its footing on the steep roof—the man plummeted toward the grass several stories below with a shriek that suddenly cut off as he hit the ground.

The cloaked man dashed back into the hallway and tore down flight after flight of stairs, quickly reaching the ground level. He yanked a door open, looked outside, and stopped. There was no black mass curled up on the lawn where the uniformed man had landed, only an imprint where the shadows were slightly darker than elsewhere. Somehow, the man had disappeared.

Just as he was ready to shut the door, something took a step in the darkness. Another dart sprung into his hand from the recesses of his cloak; he held it ready as he searched the night for the source of noise. Another heavy step—closer, somewhere on the wooden walkway that ringed the house.

A deep voice broke the tension. “Tilmarth?”

The cloaked man—Tilmarth—sighed in relief. “Sultroth, are you alright?”

Sultroth, the cloaked giant, emerged from the shadows and approached. “I am not too damaged.” He caught the wary look in Tilmarth’s eye. “Have there been complications?”

Tilmarth gave one more glance outside, retreated into the still-open door, and motioned for Sultroth to follow. “One of our friends got into the house—through the fourth-story window. He also managed to leave through the same route, and it looks like the fall didn’t stop him from wandering off. Don’t worry, though, he won’t bother us.” Tilmarth held out the dart. “I pricked him with one of these. He won’t be able to hurt us now.”

Sultroth entered the building and closed the door, crouching so that he wouldn’t hit the ceiling. “The others, they are also no longer a threat.” He took an electric lamp from one of his voluminous cloak pockets and finally dispelled the darkness. With his other hand—dark grey and rough-skinned—he drew back his hood. His face was also dark grey and rough. He had bold, thick features. His slanted eyes were so darkly red that they were almost black. His hair, thick and long, was a dark purple mat circling his face. He clenched his blocky jaw and threw one last look out the window. “We must begin immediately,” he rumbled. He turned and proceeded deeper into the house. The shorter man also drew back his hood, revealing a milky face, framed by long, raven curls. His features were much more slim and delicate than his companion’s, and his soft eyes were a deep purple. He followed in Sultroth’s wake, his cloak whipping about his feet and trailing in the edge of darkness ringing about the light.

~Paul