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Prologue
By Jacob Bentley
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The darkness of the sleeping city stirred at his passing, its hollow silence broken by his faint footsteps. Ancient buildings watched him, the cold stone staring indifferently. Empty blackness beckoned to him, drawing him deeper into its inky mists. Hardly more than another of the night’s shadows, the Exile ran.
Sprinting down a darkened alley, the hooded figure moved with a gracefulness that defied his great height. His long legs propelled him effortlessly forward, each step carefully measured and sure. Strong arms pumped the air, scarred hands visible through the gloom. His frayed cloak whipped in the breeze of his flight, its cloth as black as the night itself. Still breathing deeply and regularly, he leapt lightly over the trash littering the dark alleyway. Strapped across his back, a curved scabbard jostled slightly with his movements, as though the sword within it grew impatient for combat. The Exile ran like a man accustomed to running – because he was.
A heavy thud broke the stillness left in the wake of the dark figure. Boots shuffled briefly, found their balance, and began to raggedly follow the Exile’s swiftly moving shadow. Heavy breathing echoed through the passage as the pursuer forced himself onward, intent on his prey. Even in the dimness of the night, the man’s blood-red cloak shimmered slightly as he ran, somehow reflecting the little available light. Strange markings and runes glinted evilly from the polished surface of the scabbard on his back.
The Exile burst from the alley and, without breaking stride, turned to dash down the cobbled street. Seconds later, the red pursuer hurtled onto the road and sprinted after him. Their footsteps reverberated harshly down the empty path, forcing silence to momentarily release its spell over the night. Darkness prowled like a restless beast, unbroken by any torch – few dared wander this district at night, and those who did preferred the shadow, anyway.
Looming stone structures slowly gave way to brick, giving the impression of time advancing centuries in the span of a few moments. Broken glass windows gaped from battered storefronts, revealing lifeless interiors. Street lamps were now visible, although none were lit. Worn sidewalks lined the road, their stone crumbling more from age than use. Rats scurried busily through the shadows, eyes shining malevolently. Wind whistled eerily along the brick walls, whispering of nothingness. The Exile sprinted on; his hooded face pointed straight ahead, ears straining for any sound that did not belong to the hammering of his pursuer’s footsteps.
The slightest rustle escaped an alley mere feet away from him, a sound so minute most would not have heard it. Quite suddenly, a black light burst from within the folds of the Exile’s cloak, bathing him in a strange glow that blended darkness and light. Any hint of the man beneath that black cloak was lost into it, so the entire form of the Exile became the bizarre shadow of his light. Energy crackled in the air as the Exile moved faster and faster, his blackness blurring into the night. Time seemed to hold its breath, forgetting its usual rhythm.
A green cloak materialized before the Exile, its material shimmering strangely. The curved edge of a blade swung toward him, its deadly steel reflecting black light. The green-clad figure yelled triumphantly as the sword flashed toward the roiling dark light of the Exile. Just as it appeared the blade would open his chest, the Exile disappeared – his enemy’s sword flashed through air and buried itself in the crumbling brick of the alley wall. Reappearing just beyond the green form, black light flared briefly, and then died out altogether. The sounds of the Exile’s footsteps had just begun to fade when the red figure passed the alley, throwing a look at his associate. Swearing loudly, the green ambusher wrenched his sword from the wall in a shower of dust. He turned and began to follow the red form.
The Exile moved more quickly now, his long strides carrying him easily across the stone street. As he listened to the sounds of pursuit, he realized the time for running was growing short; soon, he would have to make a stand. Without breaking stride, one scarred hand reached over his shoulder and smoothly drew a magnificent sword from its worn black scabbard. No scratch marked the cold steel – its edge was as keen as the day it was forged. The blade glinted brightly, as though it were glowing of its own accord. It was his greatest pride and only possession, and it had never failed him.
A large structure began to take shape before the Exile, growing more distinct as he neared it. A stone bridge rose before him like a wall, one great arch allowing the street to pass under it. Sinister gargoyles jutted out from the carved surface of the ancient bridge, their hollow eyes taking in everything and nothing. Lamps bathed the top of it in a yellowish glow, illuminating a lone figure peering over the edge. His gold cloak lifted slightly in the breeze, its hood completely shadowing his face. As the Exile drew closer, the gold-cloaked man pulled a curved blade from its extravagant scabbard. Seeing movement, the black form halted on the street below. Golden light erupted from atop the bridge as the man vaulted from its thirty-foot height. Landing without a sound, the golden figure launched at the Exile, sword gleaming.
The dark aura once again burst from the Exile, both shadow and light. Many yards behind him, a fiery red glow ignited as a green one came to life beside it.
Holding his sword before him, the Exile stood firm as his golden attacker closed. Two quick thrusts flashed toward him; each time blades screamed in protest as steel collided in a shower of sparks. The golden figure aimed a cut at the shadowed hood of the Exile, found only cold metal, and quickly brought his sword in a downward sweep. Leaping into the air, the Exile cleared his attacker’s cut and sent a booted foot into the man’s temple. As his opponent flew backward, dark light blasted outward and flung the golden form still farther away. The Exile turned to face the fiery red figure alongside the green one, both holding swords that reflected the eerie mix of lights.
They rushed him in unison, green swinging his blade low, red aiming high. The Exile parried the low one, and spun, ducking, under the high cut. Straightening beside the red man that was still in mid-swing, the dark figure brought his sword to bear. Its steel shone brightly as it swung completely through the man’s knee, blood spurting as the severed leg fell to the ground. Before the man could even scream, the Exile’s swift blade opened his throat. Red light extinguished, the man was dead before he hit the ground.
The dark light surrounding the Exile flared to a new intensity as he turned to face the hesitating green figure. Slowly, the black cloak shifted as the Exile slid his sword back into its scabbard. The shining green man hesitated briefly. He made to sheath his own blade, then charged with his sword outstretched, seeking a killing thrust. At the last possible moment, the Exile spun to the side of the oncoming steel, moving so fast his black light blurred into the night. Suddenly behind his attacker, the Exile grabbed the man by the neck and twisted. A sickening crunch filled the night as the man’s neck snapped, his green light dying as he crumpled to the street.
One light was still shining dimly, however. The golden figure was pulling himself painfully to his feet as the Exile turned. Moving several steps, the man bent to retrieve his fallen sword. He straightened and faced the swirl of dark light that was filling the street. The golden hood moved slightly as the man within it turned, taking in the bodies of his dead companions. His chin fell to his chest. The light emanating from him began to brighten, building with intensity and power. Body stiffening, his golden radiance detonated from him at the same time a bellow of rage escaped his lips. A sudden wind tugged at the cloaks of the dead men: the air itself sizzled with the force of his fury, its light illuminating the brick buildings as surely as the sun. The Exile’s cloak did not billow in this breeze, nor did his figure lighten.
The golden light had just begun to fade when the man lunged for the Exile. Swords flashed so quickly the night thrummed with their movements, the blades singing through air and screaming against steel. The two men fought across the deserted street, weapons seeking flesh but finding only metal. Auras crackling and shining, the two clouds surrounding the warriors seemed to be battling as much as the men themselves. Dark light pushed against gold, which brightened in response as though attempting to dispel a shadow. The two men dueled on, the Exile’s stance controlled and masterful, while the golden figure fought with anger and raw power.
The Exile feinted a quick cut at his opponent’s head, and then swiftly swung his sword in a low arc. Parrying amid cascading sparks, the golden man aimed a counterstrike at the Exile’s unprotected ribs. The Exile twisted to the side, swinging his foot at his adversary’s outstretched hand and sent the sword spinning from it. The dark figure spun, sweeping his leg along the ground and taking out his opponent’s feet. Golden cloak billowing, the man left the ground with arms flailing. Blood suddenly sprang from his face as the Exile’s blade flashed across it, before he had even begun to fall. The golden form hit the ground heavily, stone breaking beneath him. His light extinguished and he did not move.
Dark light flared a moment longer before it died, plunging the street into shadow. Black cloak hardly visible, the Exile bent over the red-cloaked form, wiping the flat of his blade across it. A glint of steel caught the starlight as the sword slid smoothly into its scabbard. Walking slowly down the deserted street, the dark figure did not look back. If he had, he might have seen what the morning sun would later reveal – three bodies lying broken in the street, blood drying on the stone …
And one chest rising and falling, refusing to succumb to death.
