Former Creativity

So, I'm still suffering a dearth of suitable posting material. In the interest of getting something up, I've decided to take a page from Wheeler's book and post a little creative writing (see these posts for reference).

What follows is the prologue to a story (almost a novella) I started writing about three years ago. It was to be a "high fantasy" story, focusing primarily on the military and political struggles resulting from the machinations of a few evil nobles; roughly equal parts action and political intrigue, with plenty of "character development" along the way (similar in ways to Wheel of Time, but on a smaller scale). I drew many ideas from books, movies, and games that I've enjoyed, of course, but I actually did have some original material, too. I wrote about five chapters, but wound up scrapping everything but the prologue. I intended to go back and continue working on it.

Unfortunately, college happened, and my time for free writing slowly ebbed away. I came up with some ideas for characters, events, and settings, but I never seriously returned to the story. I might like to get back to it someday, but maybe not. Part of that might depend on the feedback I get from you guys. This draft is still pretty rough (and I don't fancy myself a great writer of fiction), but I don't think it's too bad. Of course, I'm also just a little bit biased. You'll have to set me straight on this count. :)

*****
"Tides of Thunder" (very tentative title)
Prologue:

The wind whistled softly through the trees and the leaves rustled quietly underfoot as the Hunter moved stealthily through the forest. The dim light of early morning did little to pierce the gloomy fog that slid across the land. But the Hunter could see his path clearly. His keen gray eyes saw through the all-obscuring mist; his sharp, pointed ears picked up sounds a wolf wouldn’t have heard; and his aquiline nose could discern all but the faintest scents. He knew his prey in extreme detail; he had followed it for months, learning everything about it, and nothing would cause him to lose it now. The wind shifted slightly, throwing the prey’s scent away from the Hunter, but he did not slow or miss a step. He could see the prey now.

A short distance ahead, the mists swirled and parted around the base of a small hill. The Hunter stopped, crouched, and looked through the mists to the top of the hill, where a small group of people was clustered. Two average-sized men in chain mail flanked a smaller figure wrapped in a thick cloak against the cold morning air. “That’s her,” thought the Hunter, “that’s the prey.” As if hearing his thoughts, the smaller figure turned its head slowly, revealing a pair of light-blue eyes in a round face, pale even in the shadows of the hood. Alshana, a duchess of Calomar, was fine-featured, neither stunningly beautiful nor particularly homely. One of her guards turned with her, hand on the sword at his side, peering vainly into the fog. They couldn’t see ten feet away from their noses, and the Hunter knew it.

After adjusting the black veil that hid all of his face but his eyes, the Hunter silently slid an arrow from the quiver at his side and fitted it to his bowstring, but he didn’t draw. He kept his eyes always on his prey. They would not know where he was until it was too late. After longs weeks of stalking and waiting, it was finally time to carry out his mission. It was time to take his prey.

Alshana and her guards turned their gazes back towards the north, where their destination waited in the distance: Calimshan, the capital city of Calomar and jewel of the northern kingdoms. The Hunter silently went over his instructions one last time: “Kill the duchess, but leave at least one guard healthy enough to escape and tell the tale. Be sure he sees her die!” The Hunter’s employer hadn’t given a reason for wanting the duchess dead, and the Hunter hadn’t asked for one. In this line of work, one took one’s jobs without asking questions; to do otherwise was to set oneself up to be someone else’s target.

Still kneeling, the Hunter drew back the heavy string of his bow, sighted for the guard with the sword at his side, and released the string. Almost before the arrow had cleared the bow, the Hunter was moving, running soundlessly around the hill to the northern side. He glanced at the hill just long enough to see his arrow lodge firmly in the guard’s left calf, exactly where he had wanted it.

The guard uttered a sharp cry and fell to the ground. Alshana’s other guard turned immediately and faced south, the direction the arrow had come from. The guard placed himself between the duchess and the obscuring fog, but by then the Hunter had circled the hill and was climbing the northern slope. Short sword in hand, the Hunter rushed at the duchess. The spearman heard him at the last moment and flung himself at the duchess, driving them both to the ground. But the Hunter didn’t stumble; he simply passed the prone pair, slid to a halt, and pivoted around to face them.

A wicked grin spread over the Hunter’s face as the spearman rose and leveled his spear at the Hunter’s chest. The duchess had crawled over to the first guard and was wrapping a strip of cloth around his leg. The spear-wielding guard kept his attention on the Hunter.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Who sent you?”

The Hunter laughed: a cold, mirthless sound. The spearman shuddered, and the Hunter said simply, “Ask the spirits when you meet them in the underworld!”

The Hunter lunged at the spearman like a striking viper. The spearman scarcely had time to gasp before he found a foot of steel sticking into his belly. As the spearman slumped to the ground with blood gushing from his stomach, the Hunter moved past him to where the duchess and swordsman sat on the ground.

The swordsman fumbled with his sword, but the poison from the arrow was doing its work; a kick from the Hunter’s boot sent the paralyzed guard sprawling. He looked up to see the Hunter grab the duchess’s hair and drag her to her feet. The fog-dimmed light flashed off the blade of the Hunter’s short sword as he placed its tip against the duchess’s chest.

“Your uncle sends his love,” the Hunter snarled. With a swift, smooth stroke, he drove his sword home.

The swordsman cried out as the duchess’s body fell limply to the ground, and the Hunter turned his attention on the trembling man. With deliberate slowness, the Hunter ground the guard's hands under his heel, bringing a trickle of tears to the wounded man’s face.

The Hunter wiped his sword on the grass and rose. “Go to Calimshan, human,” he said with a sneer. “Tell them that their duchess is dead, and that the tide of darkness flows closer.”

With that, the Hunter vanished into the mists, leaving the swordsman alone on the cold hilltop.

*****
So, there it is. What do you think? Would you be interested in reading the rest of the story? I'd seriously like some feedback, both for my own edification and because, if this is the kind of thing that might interest people, that might provide some motivation to continue the story.