Prologue

A tax wagon is lumbering through the snowy countryside, guarded by battle mages and seasoned warriors. It is watched from behind the camouflage of trees and brush by a group of freedom fighters.

Prologue

The Western Holds

22 Svellhalda 1008

A single snowflake landed on the branch in front of him.

“D****t!”                         

The weather had been restless all morning, shifting between angry and sullen.  The sky held too many secrets today. The unbroken gray could mean a steady influx of the white powder in a silent cascade. Or, as was often the case in the West, an unbidden wind could sweep down from the mountains and turn the weather angry.  It was only a handful of seconds later that the snow began to fall in earnest.  Not so hard as to obscure vision, but certainly enough to deaden the sounds around them and turn the forest as silent as a bone yard. 

He reached into his pocket for a bit of dried apple and placed it into his mouth.  By his reckoning it should not be long now.  Not long at all, even at a slow pace.

“Do you see anything yet?” Callan had inched up beside him to whisper. 

He shook his head and continued to chew, enjoying the sweetness of the apple. Callan had been impatient for the last hour or so, gnawing at his own brown beard, asking questions, his bloodshot gray eyes darting all about. Normally, he would not mind it so much, but today his own mood was dark. The Old Man had changed the plan at the very end.  He hated last minute changes. 

A flicker of color in the distance caught his eye and he tapped the man’s shoulder lightly and nodded his head in its direction. The King’s standard could now be seen in the distance, the red silk banner that was the symbol of the Dragon Throne and all its misery. Its deep crimson stood out in sharp contrast to the swirling clouds of snow.  A few moments later the black chests of the draft horses pulling the land ship were visible as well.

As the wagon passed over Wells Creek he made a soft warbler’s call.  The same faint call replied from the trees on the other side of the road, softened by distance and the falling snow. It was time.

Collected and locked away in that wagon were the remaining artifacts of his clan’s labor for the year.  A winter’s tax had been taken, and the last of their coin and excess stores were removed as an offering to the princess’ betrothed.

It had always been this way between lords and those lorded over.  While the West starved and took to the hills to hunt what deer they could find or risked life and limb digging bears from their caves this winter, the kings of North and South would feast.  Even as a child it had sickened him to watch the tax collectors bully and cheat his kinsmen for the last of their meat or coin.  As an adult it was unbearable.  In fact, he would not bear it, not one moment longer.

From his vantage point in the tree, the bloated wagon took on the appearance of a wounded animal dragging itself to safety. The wagon was guarded by a small contingent that included a half dozen archers, ten mailed warriors, and six battle mages in its ranks. They would have to be the first to go, and there could be no error. As soon as they realized that they were under attack, the mages would unleash their powers and the casualties would be high.

It would require perfect aim and perfect timing. Lifting the bow, the archer put the first of the mages in his sights, a tallish sort in a bright blue cape that was decorated with garish yellow frippery. With an inhale, he took aim. With an exhale, he released the arrow.

Reviews

[aj milton]

Nice descriptions and the story held my attention throughout. I would read more

(one little issue: you accidentally duplicated one paragraph)

[Relic]

I liked this. It makes me want to read more. Nice start. :)

[TiffanyThomas]

Thank you. I'm new to the site and still trying to navigate it. I'd be happy to read yours if you would like!

[Relic]

Welcome to the site Tiffany. If you find something of mine you like you may read it. There are no obligations with me. :)