This is part of a fantasy fiction piece I'm working on. As the title says, it's part of the prologue. If you like it, give me some feedback and I'll post more.
It was near midnight, but the mid spring downpour that had started the previous morning showed no sign of letting up. The clouds that bore the storm had settled in around the Tractus mountain range during early November, and had proceeded to shed its excess with huge bout of freezing rain, hail, and mild amounts of snow.
The rain had stopped freezing several weeks ago, but the creatures who lived in this part of the mountains were taking no chances. They stayed out of the weather if possible, living off what they had gathered throughout autumn. Such was the life of mountain creatures.
Throughout the lull in the slope of the mountain, nothing moved of its own accord. The fog had muted all but the roar of the storm
Nothing, that is, except a lone, upright figure striding up the mountain path.
The man was half hidden by his garments, an oilcloth cloak covering what looked like a woolen shin-length robe. Not practical clothes for traveling, but he had not gone far, and the path was wide and clear, and he was almost to his destination. The man smiled to himself. He was nearly there.
The path became rocky and uneven, and the man stumbled in the dark several times before he reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a small, round sphere. It was a crystal, and it flared with a bright, steady light.
He had many such pouches and bags, all hanging from a wide leather belt. There were many items in those pouches, much more dangerous than his light crystal; things meant only to be used when no other salvation could be found, things that could incinerate the wielder, or blink him out of existence, never to have the luxury of going to the world of the dead.
Nearly there. He could see the curtain wall, with lights similar to his own dancing along the top, like the candles of spirits. He was not surprised to see the great barrier of ancient stone; he had felt his quarry miles away. He could feel it now, a beacon. It lay somewhere within the walls.
He was at the portcullis, its dull iron bars etched with runes of an alphabet long forgotten. The man knew not the runes, but he knew the spell they carried. When he put away his crystal and gripped the bars, they began to glow, first the runes, then the entire portcullis; a red-hot glow that burned him with an invisible, agonizing fire. The man gripped the bars harder, to help shut out the pain, and whispered a few well-chosen words through gritted teeth. The spell retreated back into the depths of the iron, and the portcullis lifted.
The man smiled beneath the hood of his cloak. Despite the pain it inflicted, the spell had been no great protection from one of the gifted. He walked through the gateway, fully expecting the figures which rose out of the mist, where they had lain dormant.
Two thin humanoid things with bodies of faintly glowing white mist. Constructs. They had lain at this doorway for some eighty years, and were faded. However, they were solid enough to hold weapons; one gripped a battle-axe, the other held a broadsword. It would be simple enough to return them to their dormant state, but his power howled to be released. He raised his hands.
A blue-white fireball lit the courtyard with a harsh light as it screamed across the space between the guardians and the traveler. It hit the twisted creatures and exploded in a flash of light and sparks. The mist-things let out the death-howl of an animal, twisted in on themselves, and disappeared; their weapons fell to the ground and dissolved into ash, shaken to pieces.
Shouts drifted to the mans ears. The voices belonged to guards; they had been too confident in their magic, and had chosen not to attack. With their magic dead, they appeared out in the rain. Nine men dressed in mail hauberks, iron helms, greaves and boots, circled him. Some carried light-crystals similar to the mans own; many had bows. Their longswords were unsheathed from the carrying ring attached to their belts, and they were pointing them at him. One guard, with a circle engraved on his blade to show he was a sergeant, stepped forward.
"What is your business?" He asked in a stammer that betrayed his fear.
"I am a mage and representative. I seek the master of this household, Bane. Where is he?"
"Here," came a voice from behind the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside and a thin, balding man stepped forward. He was clothed in a crimson tunic over a cream-coloured shirt and black trousers. He was shorthe only came up to the mages shoulderand he carried a large silk umbrella, shredded from the weight of the rain.
"You must be Bane." It was clear from the mage's tone that it wasnt a question.
"Yes, I am. And who might you be?" the balding man replied.
"I am a representative of your master. I've come on important business."
With the rank of his guest unveiled, Bane saw fit to look pointedly at the two piles of ash at the mages feet. "Those constructs were extremely old. They would have served us for another twenty years at least." He spread his hands. "Would you leave us without protection?"
"When I leave, I will make you another construct." The mage looked at the ash and sniffed disdainfully. "Something stronger."
"Thank you," said Bane politely, then he turned to the guards. While the two talked, they had clustered a safe distance from the two. "Go back to your stations. Expect no more wagons." Their orders having been given, the guards trotted away. The mage could see the relief in their gait.
Bane ran his hand over his thoroughly soaked tunic and said, "Shall we go in?"
"Yes, I think so." the mage had to shout over a clap of thunder.
Bane set off across the muddy courtyard, the mage following close behind.
They had not walked very far when a stone building appeared out of the veil of mist and rain. The mage judged it to be about sixty feet high; smaller than a castle, but no less well-defended. Two more guards stood on either side of a large oak door, reinforced with an iron frame. When they saw Bane striding toward them, they opened the door quickly to let him through.
Beyond the door was a long corridor; it looked as if it spanned nearly the entire fortress. Bane set off. The mage walked beside him, pausing only to shake himself like a dog at the threshold. As he did, his hood slipped from his head; Bane peered at him, trying to see his eyes, but the hood was back over his face before Bane could get so much as a glimpse.
As Bane walked down the corridor, the mage spoke. "Your guards scare easily, Bane." Contempt dripped from his voice.
"We dont get many visitors up here, much less magic-men," Bane replied. "And all but the sergeant were new recruits."
Bane led the way through three levels of loosely positioned guard-barracks, and part way through a fourth level where ordinary staff was quartered, or so it seemed. Halfway along, Bane opened a door into a very short, narrow corridor; it had doors along both sides, with a design burned into each of them. He stopped at the second-to-last door and opened it. The mage realized that the design on each door was the sameŃthe insignia of the Jailmaster.
(This message has been edited by Cafall (edited 03-24-2002).)
First, this story cuts off too abruptly, with the part about the Jailmaster. This would be a fine place to leave off, if you don't want the reader to know what happens just after. But to make the end more interesting you can either
Do the cut off more gradually. i.e., describe maybe the characters going behind a door and locking it, or maybe up some stairs and out of sight. I don't know how else to describe this.
