Prologue: The Light's Return

The caravan of acolytes ride south with an intention to purge the land of the wicked. They find that the land may have been left to its own devices for too long.

A vast expanse of blue sky gave way to rolling hills and emerald countryside.  A chorus of hoof on stone and rhythmic clanging of metal soon joined a nearby stream's gentle rumble.    Fifteen mounted figures, accompanied by two horses pulling carts filled with provisions, moved southwest along a lonely road.  Each rider was cloaked in pale yellow robes accented with silver lacing.  Marking the robes’ left bicep was a rising sun; the mark of the Archangel, Aevalin.

Only two acolytes carried arms.  The scabbards strapped to their saddles nearly touched the ground.  The swords’ respective lengths seemed odd in comparison to their width, barely the girth of a thumb.  The lead rider held his instrument in hand, it’s metal shining and glittering in the sunlight.  He took great pride in his efforts to keep the weapon spotless.  The other armed rider brought up the rear of the caravan.  He offered his steed a token of appreciation: a juicy apple.  It accepted the gift greedily, shaking out his regal mane as a sign of thanks.

"Only a few more hours," Tybalt whispered, patting the beast's muscular neck.  Owning a horse was a privilege reserved for a select few among the aristocracy.  Usual candidates for the honor were generals and the elder acolytes of the Aevalin.  This steed was bred and trained for combat.

Tybalt would find a name for the beast yet. But what would suit such a behemoth?  It stood a full seven hands taller than the ponies of most the other riders.  Boulder?  It fit the steed’s stature and coloring.  No, the way he moves is so light, as if he doesn’t even notice my weight.  Solid, but not sluggish.

An older acolyte moved to the front of the company.  He intercepted the lead rider and flashed a forced smile at the group.

"Slow, companions.  We stand on hallowed ground," elder Olan said.  The man seemed to be in an uncomfortable state. Never to be conquered, he would eventually regain an upright posture. The older acolyte forced his body to straighten, he would not allow something as irrelevant as age defeat him! But his hunching back would often return quickly as the minutes stretched on.

"It was here that the Archangel ascended!”  Olan paused, searching for the reaction of his companions.  His enthusiasm alone was enough to bring a smirk to some of the long devoted acolytes and excite the young initiates. They rode closer to hear the elder more clearly. Satisfied that his audience was ready, the man continued.

“Her ascension will be remembered for centuries to come.  Her trials were grueling and her sacrifices great.  This place seems a fitting beginning to our own ascension."  His preamble complete, Olan began to recount the tale of Aevalin, and her final ascension into godhood.  Each hill they passed had been the result of a single footstep that the Archangel took, or so the story went. Tybalt recognized the legend from his youth.  Warm memories of nights spent with the other boys in his housing arose.

Seeing his blade was amply cleaned, elder Karo sheathed the weapon and looked to Olan, a hint of contempt in his eyes.  Olan met the look with a wink.  His younger brother’s judging eyes had not discouraged the old man in years.

"Let us waste no time on trivial matters," Karo said. "They've all heard the story."

Olan’s smile lessened, though it never seemed to truly leave his wrinkled face, and the old man conceded.

Tybalt had known both elders for nearly a decade.  Though much more hardened than his brother, Karo's faith had never faltered.

Karo hastened his mount on, and the caravan followed, again riding in silence.

Eventually, thick foliage began to ravage the countryside.  The plains gladly gave in to the welcoming arms of nature, and a mighty forest stood before the caravan.

Tybalt knew this forest from legend.  It was said that Aevalin herself had settled a dispute between the forest’s heart and the spirits of the plain. She had even drawn the border that separated them with her shield: Hraang, The Mountain’s Peak.

The young acolyte was taken by the size of each tree as they penetrated the border.  Like a new world, he mused.  As they pressed further into the thicket, the path narrowed to accommodate only two steeds at a time.  The young acolyte’s infatuation was short lived. After travelling for a few minutes, a gruff voice cried out from the foliage.

"There's a tax for traveling through our woods."

For a few moments, Tybalt was overtaken by fear. Had the forest’s heart been offended by their presence?  No, that was ridiculous. The forest’s heart has slumbered for ages.  The knowledge did little to ease his nerves.  As he had heard Karo say many times, it was a strange time to be alive.

Men emerged from the forest, cutting off the path ahead of the caravan.  They carried spears taller than themselves and jabbed at the air ahead of the the caravan’s horses, whooping and cursing at the acolytes. The outlaws were thrilled. Of course they were, Tybalt thought. We could make a large haul for them: sixteen ponies, a warhorse, and two carts stocked with food.  

Tybalt heard similar movement behind them and assumed that another group was cutting off their only exit.  The young acolyte surveyed his group’s situation.  Four ahead and four behind. He glanced to the thick greens to either side.  No telling how many are hidden, he thought.  Tybalt didn't like the odds.

Karo had come to the same conclusion, though he saw it very differently. An amused grin played at the edge of his mouth.

“Don't even think of runnin'. We got archers," the bandit leader continued.  Moving out of the undergrowth, he gestured to Karo with a crude crossbow at the ready.

"We'll need all the gold you've got… and the horses.”

Tybalt considered the combatants behind him.  He had little knowledge of the spear and its combat techniques, nor did he know the skill of these men.  A slight tremor developed in his off-hand. The anticipation of battle, even sparring, had made him sick many times before. Karo’s words came to the forefront of his mind: Each man that stands against you has already won.  You must never fight to win, you must fight to survive.

Though he was no master duelist, the young acolyte had learned to judge the aptitude of others.  Each bandit stood tense, their eyes shifting from one another to the caravan.  Their wicked smiles expressed an overconfidence that Tybalt found comforting; confidence could always be exploited.  Soon he had assessed a course of action and, after a nod from Karo, was ready to carry it out.

The remaining acolytes clutches their reigns.  Most of them had never been trained in combat; they had no need for the skill. They trusted their Blades, Tybalt and Karo, to protect them. Each said a small prayer, asking the Archangel to aid their protectors.

Karo raised a hand, prompting each acolyte to pull their thick hoods over their eyes. He followed suit, tugging down his own hood. The man’s emerald eyes regained their youthful spark as he grasped the hilt at his blade.  The acolytes need not ask for salvation; it was riding with them already.

"Fear not the wicked..." he began.

Olan's eyes and mouth began to leak a vivid yellow light, his clean-shaven head radiating a dull aura. He finished the verse for his brother.

"For in her light they are blind!" Olan’s voice almost cracked as a surge of euphoria consumed him.  In the light, his pleasure could not be contained.  Every pore of the jovial elder’s body erupted with light.  It scattered in all directions, clung to the unprotected eyes of the bandits, and illuminated the surrounding area.  The acolytes, protected by their thick hoods, remained unaffected by the blast.

Though physically harmless, the light completely consumed the vision of the unprotected.  No matter where they looked a pure white radiance obstructed all sight.  The blind men clung to their weapons in a vain attempt to retain a sense of control.  The leader mouthed a word so vile among the Southlanders that he could not muster the courage to speak it: Magic.  He fired his crossbow and prayed that the bolt may strike true; the man's final act of defiance.

The bolt missed Olan by inches, startling the riders behind him.  The elder himself never flinched.  This feat of magic had rendered the man as blind as his victims.  Light continued to leak from his pores, perpetuating the effects of the spell.

Karo and Tybalt had drawn their rapiers and dismounted at a simultaneous moment.  Each warrior moved to clear the path.

Though the light blinded Olan to the visual world, it opened his mind to another.  Thoughts of others were no longer elusive.  His own mind moved freely among the thoughts of others, gathering them into his head.  The overload of information had terrified him in his youth. Only after years of training had his mind adapted, and even thrived on the state. Once mastered, the thoughts of all around him (even those who remained unaffected by the light) were easier to read than any scroll in the Hightemple.  Three of the bandits’ minds fast faded from his reach, their last thoughts of fear fading as Karo ended their lives.

Karo's thoughts assaulted Olan's mind.  'By my blade shall the wicked fall,' the thought read, a surge of pleasure fueling it.  Olan could not deny his brother's skill, and the man’s lack of remorse crafted him into a true weapon of Aevalin. This gift had made Karo ideal to serve as a Blade of Fury, the select few that represented her in battle.  Contrarily, the young acolyte, Tybalt, seemed ill-tempered for the position. The boy seemed to emanate nerves of some kind, though Olan was unsure of their origin.

The burst of light had startled the rear bandits, and even sent one running, but they were not close enough to Olan's blinding magic to be affected.

Tybalt felt the elder observing his thoughts. No time for weakness; he pushed the message to the forefront of his mind.  Hoping that the elder read this thought rather than his nerves, the warrior acolyte went to work.  His tremor lessened, and his breathing set into a deep rhythmic pattern.  Closing the distance was his best option; the range of their spears seemed to be the men's clearest advantage.  Another of Karo’s lessons had come to mind: Your goal is never to gain, it is to take away your opponent's advantage.

He deflected the points of two spears with his buckler and glided to the furthest outlaw, dodging another two thrusts.  The bandit’s eyes grew wide with disbelief as a graceful thrust slid effortlessly through a seam in his leather armor. A hard bootheel in the chest was the last thing the man felt as Tybalt withdrew his blade and turned to meet the remaining adversaries head-on.

The show of prowess did not help the remaining outlaws' confidence, but a shared glance reminded them of their odds.  They separated, attempting to assault him from either side.

Seeing that he was to be outflanked, Tybalt jumped back, out of the spears’ immediate range. Thick beads of sweat developed on the young man’s forehead as he considered his options.

Unfortunately for the bandits, Karo had picked his way through the caravan.  He looked to Tybalt and laughed, “Only got one?”

The outlaws turned, and their minds too faded from Olan's radiant sight.

“Mine weren’t blind,” Tybalt said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  “Slaughter is not combat.” His hand ceased trembling, and he found himself smirking at the words.  For some reason, talking to Karo always made him feel at ease.

Karo grabbed Tybalt’s shoulder, his smile growing. “This from the boy that claimed ‘dancing is not fighting.’" Karo raised an eyebrow, “I see your movements grow more graceful each day.”

Tybalt found his cheeks grow red. He hated when the elder called him ‘graceful’. The man said it as if insinuating something exceedingly feminine about the quality.

“I’ve heard stories of your exploits during the Summer Festival. They say you’ve bested every maiden in Evenshore with your elegant twirls,” Tybalt retorted.

Karo released his grip and laughed.  “The stories are true, child.  Never forsake your skill.  It has kept you alive this long."

Tybalt knew it was right, but he hated the methods that Karo had taught him. He was a Blade of Fury, a weapon of Aevalin, a warrior of justice. He was many things, none of which were a dancer. Yet, every movement the elder had taught him required immense dexterity and grace.

Olan’s light faded; it was done. He again met the group with an intoxicating smile. “By the Archangel’s light, we are blessed,” he recited the small prayer.

Karo turned to pass his brother. “And by her Blades, we are protected.”

"Gather anything valuable," Karo continued, returning to his horse.  As the elder wiped blood from his rapier, the spark faded from his eyes.  His old master was still a mystery to Tybalt. In combat, the man glided with a constant purpose, wasting no movement. Now the elder sat hunched, his smirk gone, his eyes hard.

Tybalt looked to the corpses around him, a sickened expression forming. What men were these? They were less than men. Filth, he thought. No remorse for the dead showed in his light eyes. There was nothing they could have done to prevent the decline of the South, he had never even visited the area. Yet, the young acolyte felt as though it was somehow their responsibility. Have the Southlands again grown so dark?

The caravan moved on, and the young acolyte thought of a comforting passage in the Second Scroll of Aevalin: No matter how fast it fades, the light will come again. That is what they were: light incarnate, come to purge the Southlands of its darkness. Tybalt smiled. A noble cause for noble men.

Author's Note

How is my dialogue?
Is this an enjoyable read?

Reviews

[Rea Sky]

Whoa! Are these all your ideas? Acolytes and scrolls are very interesting! These kind of ideas needs side-stories to make the whole story firm and not wishful thinking. I think you did it right! This is well planned and smooth. I hope the side-stories would complement the whole plot all the way till the end.!
i'm curious how this ends. I wonder where they are going? Why are there chaos and darkness at the south? makes me want to read the next chapter! :-D

as of the dialogue. I would it was good and can still improve for the better.
Your strengths here are those sayings and advice that sounds so real and very ancient. Like it! Hope to read what happens next!