Sign In

Close
Forgot your password? No account yet?

The Prophecy - Prologue by SliceOfDog (critique requested)

Prologue – Quyy-raa

Darkness.

An impenetrable silence gripped the small village of Quyy-raa. A stench ran through the air that was unfamiliar to those few who smelt it. Cold leeched off the little heat that the night carried with it and ploughed through the houses.

The sky was cloudless, yet not a star could be seen. Despite this, all three moons were full. To the superstitious type, this was a very bad sign. Many were the tales of witches, werewolves and undead creatures.

A cart shambled by, pulled by a lone donkey so old and tattered it might have keeled over at any given moment. The driver of this cart was equally worn, taut skin stretched over his ancient frame, his face pale but for its flushed cheeks, where his jaws burned with pain. Long, unkempt hair fell beneath his ears, sticking to his face with sweat. His wife has warned him not to travel with such an illness, but like a fool he had waved her away. It’s only a trip to the market he had said. Now he feared it would be the death of him. His eyes watered and his mouth tasted perpetually of vomit.

It was due to this that he did not smell the strong odour of decay that lingered in the air. Had he been well, the stench of it might have convinced him to return to his humble farm, but with his illness tightening its grip over his bewildered senses, this crucial sign went unnoticed, and he rode unknowingly on towards the ill-fated village, stopping only to further drain his bottle of mead whenever coughing fits threatened to suffocate him.

He was momentarily distracted from his suffering when several trees beside him shook in turn, almost as if someone, something, was pushing past them in an effort to reach Quyy-raa before him. However, when the incident failed to repeat itself, he put it simply to the wind and rode on, cursing his malady.

It was a still night.

There was no wind.

Though the village was small, it was currently being acquisitioned as a way-point for soldiers coming from Dagma, the Golden City, heart of Lord Tsuam’s vast kingdom, to crush the rebel armies of the south. This battle was an ocean away from the insignificant Quyy-raa, and yet there was a much greater threat, much closer. Trade and communications, limited as they were in such poor areas, had ceased altogether with several surrounding villages, and in some cases messengers were sent to investigate, only for their horses to return without them, if at all. It was disconcerting for all involved, but with the rebels putting up a greater resistance than anticipated, few soldiers could be dispatched.

One such soldier was Denathir. He was asleep, with no idea of the trouble that lay only moments ahead. After all, he had seen no combat for months. There was no reason for him to suspect that that very night, in that very village, there would take place a slaughter that would scar the mind of even the most steeled veteran from the rebel wars in Elcap.

As he woke, slumped against the wall of a quiet house, a small cart, pulled by a donkey and bearing fresh fruit, made its slow and unsteady way past. The cart driver, who sat clutching his chest and bearing his teeth, wearily made to touch his hat as he saw Denathir. In return, the soldier traced the Symbol of Eternal over his heart.

Once the cart had disappeared, Denathir looked either side of where he was standing. If any of his fellow guardsmen had seen him asleep, they might have reported him to the Inquisitorium, and with the Inquisitor Lord Sylvanus running the aptly named Council of Death, there was little chance of such a crime going unpunished. No wonder these bloody rebels are picking us apart town by bloody town, Denathir thought to himself, glowering. That damn Sylvanus is killing more of us than they are.

A pair of eyes watched Denathir from some foliage across the dirt path. They were human eyes, but they were not hampered by the darkness, as Denathir’s were. This was because the owner of the eyes was not human. Not any more. It cocked its head to one side, waiting. It did not think of killing the soldier before the order was given, as such a thing would have required free will, but it thirsted: It thirsted for blood, for the screams of the dying, for the feeling of fresh organs coating its decaying body as it butchered victim after victim.

It did not have to wait long.

There was a scream. It pierced the valley for only a second, before being engulfed by silence. But it was heard by the cart driver. He grunted, and whipped the donkey harder than necessary.

“At least someone’s having a worse night than me” he growled.

The creatures attacked almost simultaneously across the small village, driven by a single mind; that of their master. The few soldiers had no chance as the undead army closed around Quyy-raa like a noose. The attack had been meticulously planned and executed, all routes of escape cut off by a wall of walking dead, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and striking down all who tried to flee. Once it was certain that all resistance had fallen, the rotting creatures began to search the buildings, slaughtering every living thing inside, regardless of whether it posed a threat or, indeed, was human. Though the victims of the massacre did not have chance to scream, the necromancer – at whose whim the creatures were acting - saw that they still had time to suffer; Many of the villagers awoke as rotting hands ripped through their chests and punctured lungs. The lucky ones were left on the floor as their bodies were wracked with great spasms of pain. Those less lucky were mutilated quickly so that they might not be able to scream; several had their tongues or lower jaws ripped out. Then they were slowly and quite literally torn apart.

The last to die were a family of twelve, who had not tried to run but had hidden within their house near the centre of the village. As they were the last alive, the necromancer had no need, or wish, to silence them before the kill. He wanted to hear their screams as he watched them being eaten alive by his undead creations.

The necromancer laughed as the youngest son was dragged into the centre of the bedroom and screamed for his mother, unaware that she lay slain in the next room. As the boy died, completing the massacre, the necromancer waved his hand in front of his crystal ball and the scene faded. What the creatures must do next did not need overseeing. With the air of one who had just completed a satisfactory job, he sighed and sat back in his tall throne-like chair.

There was no way he could have known that at that very moment, several miles away, a child awoke from a dream.

A dream that a small village called Quyy-raa had been massacred by undead monsters.

The Prophecy - Prologue (critique requested)

SliceOfDog

Stumbled across this the other day - the first few pages of a book I had planned to write from roughly the ages of 12 - 16.

I present to you the fruits of my early teenhood, a fantasy series which... uh... I can't really say much about without spoiling any later bits that I may or may not post. But it has necromancers and a warrior hero who isn't a Gary Stu. And it has a talking dog. Because hey, this is me we're talking about. So if you're interested in any of that stuff, please give this a read. I've just posted the Prologue here. Reaction (or lack thereof) may dictate whether or not I post any more, since it will just distract me from other projects I want to complete. But whatever, shut up Joel.

Anyway, this story went through 3 major rewrites, the longest incarnation being 28 pages, but in all honesty most of it was pretty shit.

Cause, you know, I was 12.

But the last attempt, when I was about 16, was alright. So I've started to tidy it up a bit and I'm sharing the prologue and Chapter 1 (though ch 1 needs more work) here for everyone. How nice I am. Any con/crit would be appreciated, but bear in mind it's a few years old and generic as hell. That's fantasy for you I guess...

Mature for descriptions of death. The deaths are pretty horrible, but I don't go into much detail, so make up your own mind if you'll like that.

Submission Information

Views:
213
Comments:
0
Favorites:
0
Rating:
General
Category:
Literary / Story