[Novel] Prologue

This is my idea for the start of a fantasy novel I want to write, its just a draft but thought it would be an okay idea to post it here - any other excerpts will have the [Novel] tag....i know, i know - its a tough code to break but I guess you will just have to work it out...


p.s. I know my grammar sucks, you know my grammar sucks, hell an illiterate blind newly born vole knows my grammar sucks so try not to let that spoil the piece....


[First Page - Blank except for the following]


No man or woman born, be they coward or brave, can shun their destiny – 'Inspiring' sign displayed on the Church of the Retakers recruitment centre in the Stew area of Telbaka.

But they can bloody well give it a good go though... - Graffiti Scrawled underneath.


[Next page and start of Prologue]

The wind howled and his mother screamed. A sound born of abject terror mixed with loss. The death of innocence given voice, and that voice was in pain.

A scream to wake the dead. Almost.

It brought the boy from the Nightmare, a mother's pain will do that. His eyes snapped open, adrenaline coursing through his young body. The priest was there again. Though this time he wasn't standing over the boy with his well worn leather belt in hand, that same arrogant look in his eyes, calling the boy a demon, devil worshiper or worse.

Cleansing the soul is a painful experience it seems.

No, this time the priest was bent over in agony awash with flame that was as black as the bottom of a well on a moonless night. Of the leather belt there was no sign. The flames weren't just on the priest though, they surrounded both the boy and the priest, seemingly holding the pair in a fiery circle.

The priest cried out for mercy as his body spasmed against the pain, praying loudly all the while to a god he had long since forsaken.  Even if the boy could have ended the torment he simply had no mercy left to give, it had been beaten out of him along time ago. The priest shrieked one last time and fell to the ground – dead before he hit. His body was contorted hideously in death just as his soul had been in life.

The boy scrambled to his feet trying to find a way through the fire that seemed to press at him from all sides. There was no escape though and he could feel the accusing eyes of the Priest on his back. All he wanted to do was get away and hide, be somewhere else, somewhere safe.

Looking around frantically, over the waist high wall of flame, he saw his Father was by the entrance to the house, trying to maintain a safe distance, holding tightly to the boy's Mother beside him.

“Da, Help!” the boy cried out, his arms outstretched as he stumbled forward a step but his plea fell on deaf ears. His father's expression didn't alter, he just looked on with that same stolid look on his face. The same look the boy had seen for the last fifteen years. As the boy moved, so did the fire, it pulsed in time with his breathing, always keeping him at the centre – every step he took forward, his parents had to take one back or risk getting too close to the black flames. This dance continued until they were pressed up against the wall to the farmhouse.

"Halt fiend!" his father shouted, holding the family sword out front of him, the first time it had been drawn in anger for years. The tip of the sword crossed over the edge of the black flame, fire crackled and when his father pulled the sword back out again, the tip had gone. The older man stood staring at it.

The boy saw it too, he didn't know what to say in response to being called a fiend by his own father. His mind was numb. In the background he could hear his mother repeating over and over “He's a good boy. A good boy. He's a good boy....” between great shuddering sobs as she gently rocked against her husband.

His father seemed about to say something again, then stopped, instead he gently pushed his wife away from him and took the sword in both hands ready to defend himself, defend his wife and defend his three remaining children with his life if thats what it took. His forth and eldest child was already dead - the demon in front of him just didn't know it yet.

It began to rain then, thick drops that splattered where they hit the courtyard, a slight breeze came with the rain, moving the fallen leaves hither and thither across the dusty stones. The black flames didn't seem interested in the leaves or the rain though, they passed through it completely untouched, it seemed content to hold its position with the boy at it's centre.

"Look what you have done!" his father declared pointing at the priests body while keeping constant eye contact, as if he was afraid the boy might pounce at any second. "You have brought great shame on this family today."

Looking back for the first time at where the Priest's body lay the boy found he could not drag his head away again. Had he done that? Was he really a Demon? All he could remember was the reading of the first psalm and the pain of the first blow. After that his memories were the same foggy haze of pain and denial that always accompanied the good priests educational visits.

The rain drove harder as it began to pick up momentum. The wind started to gust. A storm was coming.

A foot crunched on the path to the boy's right, he instinctively spun and the fire lashed out in the same direction. The family maid was hit square in the chest. It happened so fast. She didn't even make a noise.

She didn't have a chance.

Black fire covered her completely for an instant then just as quickly was gone as she collapsed. The sound of three frightened children scattering into the night could be heard for a moment before a haunting silence took control.

The silence spread its wings over the courtyard, drowning out the other sounds as it passed. All that was left in its wake was two men, one young, one old, locked staring at each other not hearing anything else except their own breathing and the rhythmic pulse of the black flame that separated them. The silence grew. It seemed to go on forever as no one blinked, no one moved. The boy stood in shock not able to accept what he had just seen much less acknowledge it might have been him that had done it.

It is said that words have power. The boy's old tutor has told him that, of course at the time he hadn't believed a word of what old Philester had said but he simply nodded politely and hoped the sun would still be out by the time they had finished. After all how could words have power? They were just noise, weren't they? but right now he wished that old Philester was here, he would know which words had power, which words could get him away from here, which words could make him safe again.

Words have power indeed, but so does silence it has power too and right now that was all he had so he used it, watching his father for any movement, any clue as to what he should do.

“What now then Demon?” his father said quietly, the silence had become too much for the older man, his words drifted out over the farmstead “Are you going to kill all of us?” he shifted his grip on his sword as he said it, getting ready to use it.
 
It was almost as if his father had stabbed him, himself. As if on cue the wind picked up again, breaking the silence's grip and running it off for now, his mothers sobs returned to the background and the wind howled in harmony.

“I..I..I didn't do anything. I can’t control it.  It's not my fault!” the boy faltered his vision blurred as tears began to form, he took a step back, then another and another all he wanted to do was run but instead as he turned he stumbled over the dead priests sprawling arms. Slumping to his knees “I didn't want any of this” he cried burying his face into the priest’s pristine white robes as he begged for forgiveness.

The Flames went out as if they never were. Two bodies on the dusty stones of the courtyard, one still twitching. It was the only evidence that something untoward had occurred this night.

Drawing back from the corpse the boy saw blood smeared on the cloak where he had buried his face. He recoiled back in terror of what would happen when the Priest found out. But he wouldn't find out, would he? He was dead, his last sermon delivered, his final devil worshipper hunted.

Dead. And it was all the Demons fault.

The gate rattled as the storm drew closer, the demon looked out into the darkness beyond. He knew he had but one choice, other than death by his Fathers hand. How could he fight the man who had raised him?

Struggling to his feet he looked into the eye's of his still sobbing Mother and saw nothing but fear. Turning his head to his father he squared his shoulders. Fighting down the urge to sob though tears fell silently down his cheeks he nodded at the older man once, the movement was reciprocated, an unspoken message exchanged. He probably had one hour before his father reported him to the church and the hunt began.

Then he was off. Through the gates and into the mouth of storm. Running for all he was worth. To survive one more day and one more day after that and another after that.

The wind howled in celebration as he ran, driving the rain with joyous abandon.

The storm's full power unleashed as the darkness welcomed it's own.