Prologue

 His horse galloped faster and faster, attempting to escape the crashing hoofbeats behind Him. His shoulder length brown hair whipped in unison with the horse’s mane, teeth gritted in a semi-feral scowl. The sweat made small bouncing bulbs upon his temple, showering the musty air when the steed’s hooves would strike the path. His dark red eyes looked back at the approaching figures, now drawing closer upon dark shapes.

   “Singre, Andor, Singre!” the rider yelled as his sword bounced against his side. His horse galloped faster and faster, its tongue rolling out, eyes rolling about in fear and exhaustion. There was a twang in the horse screamed, the arrow piercing its left flank. It’s back leg buckled as they came to a clearing, and the rider screamed aloud as the horse collapsed, and he tumbled to the ground. Quickly, he sprang up and grabbed his sword as twelve figures encircled him upon fell steeds. Their horses, if horses they could be called, showed no sign of exhaustion, or even of life. They stood in dull silence, slaves to their master’s will. Their skin hung upon their bones, folded and slashed in places, opening into the gaping unknown of their absent hearts.

            The riders sat, unmoving, sentinels of darkness. Dark hoods covered their faces save their mouths, where a constant flow of blood came from the corners of their mouths from gums that were constantly punctured by sharp teeth. Dark cloaks of red and black covered crooked bodies, covering perhaps armor, or perhaps empty naked shells of men.

            The sound of light hoof-steps signaled the approach of a thirteenth, and the riders parted silently, still intent upon the downed rider. A grey horse cantered in, tall and proud as the Indenorians of old. The downed rider let out a sharp intake of breath as his eyes fell upon the figure upon the horse: a woman with long black hair and pointed ears. Her eyes were black except for a ring of white in the center, which stared directly at the rider. Her body was slender as a willow-reed and swayed upon her horse. Her body was covered by tight fitting armor, which would make the normal man ignite in lust, as many did before falling prey to this immortal fear, the Zyndir, or Night Rider in the common tongue. She was able to change her shape to the normal eye, but the downed rider had the power to see past this, as did his entire race. Her slanted eyes fell upon the downed rider, and her thin lips curled up into a feral smile. She fell lightly upon the grass in the clearing of the woods, sliding a slender black sword of its sheath.

            “It seems I have caught the beast at last,” she said with an innocent voice, the man remained silent save for a low growl deep in his throat. She stalked towards him, and the man raised his sword. “This can be ever so simple, my dear, so simple. Simply give to me the amulet, and I will let you go. In fact, I will give you that which many men desire,” she whispered, running a hand down her side. The man stood still as stone, sword raised in defiance although all seemed lost.

            “Oh put that away, dear, it need not be like that,” a smile playing at her lips as she gestured to the sword. When the man did not comply, her eyes splashed red in anger, but they quickly went back to white as she regained her composure, though her hand remained tight upon the sword. “Yes, dear, we know of your precious little village. And of your family, my fair man. Your wife, your children. It would be a shame for them to have to die because you would simply not give up a simple amulet. His eyes darted to a small bracelet on his left arm made by his wife before he left to deliver the amulet to safety, and his hand tightened upon his sword.

            “You will not touch them,” he growled, but his voice shook in doubt.

            “There, there, dear, I do not wish to harm them. If you give to me the amulet, your fears will be naught but ash blown away in the wind,” she crooned, smiling.

            At this the man started laughing, “Ah you cursed Zyndir, are you truly that blind? You think that I have the amulet? That I would risk its power to be in the your fell hands? No, dear, it has been sent away to a place that you will never discover. It seems that your perfect plan has hit a wall. In all of your tricks of lust and charm you have grown deep in your conceit. My race has power yet, it lies deep in the hearts of the humble, where no one would think to look. For all of your supposed power, you have only attained foolishness.”

            The whole body of the Zyndir twitched with rage, her eyes vacant as she thought of how this could be possible. Then she sighed. Magic, she thought, the deep blood of his race. No matter, but now to find the location. Her white irises drilled deep into his red eyes. Suddenly she probed deep into his mind, another dark power of the long forgotten Zyndir, but she was shocked to find his impenetrable.

            “You loose, you fell beast,” the downed rider yelled, and sprung at her. With a dark laugh the woman deflected his attack and brought her sword down upon it, shearing it in half.

            “Now now, dear, do you truly think for victory in arms against me? That was too hasty. Now you must die.” The twelve riders edged forward, eager for the kill.

   The man sprang back, and suddenly his eyes filled with red and he began to transform. Auburn hair covered his entire body and his limbs became bowed. His nose shot out to form a snout, and pearly white fangs sprang out, set in a snarl. The bracelet upon his wrist formed to his body in a black ring around his front-left paw. Truly, his race was that of the Ryben, the wolf-people. He stood as a massive wolf, his red eyes matching the Zyndir’s white with a feral growl. The muscles in his hind legs tensed and he sprang forward with astounding speed at the woman. But the Zyndir simply sidestepped and slashed at the beast with her slender sword, biting deep into his right side. The wolf let out a howl of pain and crashed to the ground, blood spraying on the ground. The wound burned like fire as he writhed upon the grass.

  “Pity,” the Zyndir said with scorn towards the beast, wiping her blade upon the grass, “Your pathetic children will miss their father indeed.” A single tear rolled from the wolf’s eye, and he softly whined as he thought of their small faces, their mother’s blonde hair falling into their blue eyes. Their small cheeks flushed with color made way before their small smiles that lit up his mind, his last thought before his own red eyes rolled into the back of his head in death’s cool embrace.

  The Zyndir lightly leapt back upon her elegant steed, and began to canter off, but not before saying a final word to her escorts. “Food,” she said lightly, and the twelve riders descended upon the dead figure. The Zyndir walked on and looked above. Night was falling, and her master was waiting for a report, the only one she feared. She flipped her long black hair back, whispered a word to her horse, and sped off deep into the woods.