'Freedom or the Fire'- Prologue

Prologue

            His armored fist slammed heavily into the guard’s stomach, pushing undigested foodstuffs and body acids around in an uncomfortable fashion.  “Please, forgive me for this,” he rasped as the Human guard fell easily into his bracing arms. 

            “You know, nobody’d miss him,” a small, high-pitched voice chimed in next to the dark traveler’s ear.  “Chances are he’ll be able to find you if he gets within a hundred yards of you.  He’ll feel your presence.  Just take care of that little problem.”  The shadow-wrapped creature harumphed softly.

            “Tempting, little one.  Very tempting,” the traveler said.  Visions of violence danced through his mind.  In the first, he slammed his fist through the guard’s chest and ripped his spinal column straight out through the gaping hole.  In the second vision, well, it involved his broadsword and an orifice not normally associated with the word ‘entry’.  The old fury, once so familiar, so easy to use, now tried to infringe upon his actions.  “But no.  This man has done us no wrong.  Hopefully, that will continue to hold true until we figure out what to do next.”

            The traveler waved his left hand vaguely around in a circle.  Smoke and shadows extended from the fog and darkness around the traveler’s own body, and encased the guard completely within moments.  Though the creature had managed to restrain his dark impulses to kill the man, he could not stop himself from tossing the unconscious body carelessly toward the bushes along the city wall.  The heavy impact signaled to him that no effort had been made by the guard to soften the landing.  He would stay asleep for a while.

            “You there,” shouted another guard, this one from a way off to the traveler’s left.  Damnation, he thought.  Should have known there’d be more than one guard at the gates.  The cloaked stranger spun on his heel to face the second guard, a brown furred Werewolf in full hybrid form, as had become custom for the lycanthropes.  This, the stranger thought, is going to be more difficult than dealing with the Human.  “Hold your position,” the Werewolf shouted as he sped up to get in front of the stranger. 

            “I am in a hurry to get to the inn,” rasped the cloaked creature, as dust plumed from his throat.  “I do not wish to tarry here any longer than is necessary.”  Silver, he thought desperately.  Why don’t I ever carry silver? 

            “And you won’t have to,” said the Werewolf.  His rough, gnarled left hand moved slowly toward the hilt of a longsword.  “So long as you provide your papers and state your business,” the guard said.  It would normally have put a traveler at ease to hear such simple requirements for entrance, especially in the lands of Tamalaria.  The traveler moved his right hand into his cloak slowly, but obviously.  As before, a comforting sign, this time for the guard.  People didn’t make such obvious motions if they intended anything harmful, most times.  The traveler’s body language spoke clearly to the Werewolf guard, and it said ‘I’m getting those papers now’.

            “This had better be the only other guard,” the cloaked creature said to himself as he brought his hand out, releasing a thin bolt of purple energy into the Werewolf’s chest.  The magic struck with such accuracy and sudden force that the lycanthrope’s entire body hit the ground without pause. 

            “Hmm.  Nice fall,” said the high-pitched voice near the traveler’s ear.  “No sissy attempt to soften it by bending the knees.”

            “Yes, well, I did hit him rather hard,” grumbled the traveler as he darted down the main street.  “Not sure he was conscious to make the attempt at saving himself.”  Keeping a flow of magical shadows wrapped around his body, the traveler moved seamlessly from the street, to the innkeeper’s front desk, to a rented room.  Tossing off the shadows that concealed his form, the traveler looked in the full-length mirror next to his dingy, two gold pieces a night bed. 

            “Looking good, boss,” the little voice said next to the traveler’s head, which bore on its surface no trace of hair, feature, or flesh.  Smoke billowed slowly from the half-rotted throat. 

            “Shut up, Alex,” the traveler said, looking in the mirror at his ravaged, armored body.  He laid down on the bed, staring at the ceiling until sleep took him, until dreams washed away the image in the mirror.  He dreamed of how it came to this, how he became that which he had once hated, hunted, destroyed. 

            He dreamed the memory of his life as Byron Aixler, and how a warlock destroyed that life.