Prologue

This is the beginning to the story I'm currently working on. I probably won't keep this by the time I get into the editing stage of the story, but that's months and months from now. Anyway, here it is... tell me what you think? :)

Distant shouting floated through the warm night air, breaking the stillness and the silence. The trees rustled as a few nightingales burst from the brush and soared away in the darkness.

A horse’s hooves clattered along the cobblestone path, ringing harsh and loud in the quiet. A lone rider, bent low, his hooded form pressed against the neck of his steed, charged through the sleeping village. The huts squeezed side by side against the narrow street were awoken and wan faces appeared at the window.

The rider carried a bright lantern thrust forward by one arm, and the rays of yellow light swung back and forth across the path. The curious villagers shied from their windows and retreated back into the darkness of their huts, but the village was waking. Somewhere in the distance shouts arose, and the man and horse hurtled down the road, swinging around a sharp bend, the black hooves slicing the air and pounding the stones beneath.

The man rounded another twist in the road and suddenly the huts gave way to open grass and a worn dirt path running up a gentle slope to meet a stone shrine, with a wooden hall standing next to it.

Ahead of him, a thin, shadowy form stumbled along the path, crying out hoarsely, his hands stretched out before him in the blackness. “Jena!” he cried, and there was no answer but the pounding of the horse’s hooves on the dirt and grass as the rider put on a burst of speed. “Jena!” he called again, and suddenly he looked over his shoulder and blanched in terror.

The man closed the distance between them, easily overtaking the man’s blind, stumbling steps, and circling around he cut off his escape toward the shrine.

“No,” the man groaned, swaying away from the horse and its cloaked rider. “No…”

“Where is she?” the hooded man said, his whisper low and urgent. “Jena of Fir. Is she not here?”

“No – away with you… you won’t take another of us!” The rider shoved the lantern forward into the man’s face, and he recoiled from the light as it flashed over his lined, weary features. “Go back where you belong!” the old man cried. “Keep away from this village! You’ve already taken what you want. She’s gone.”

The rider suddenly felt cold in the humid night air. “What do you mean, she’s gone?” he said. “Did another come before me?”

The old man whimpered and tried to hide his face with his arms, shying away from the stamping horse.

“Answer me!” the rider cried.

“Yes,” the old man said, his voice barely audible. “They killed Takeo. Jena is gone.”

The rider muttered a curse and wheeled the horse away, galloping toward the shrine. The old man dropped to his knees in the dirt and covered his face with his hands.