I made a prologue for my story, Xavier's Quest, which you should be able to find. But this prologue wasn't part of it at the time. I'd appreciate critique and opinions.
All the boy could do was watch in horror as the dagger flew through the air over of the banquet table and embedded itself in his father’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound, staining his father’s elegant green tunic.
“No!” he shouted, leaping to his feet.
The man who had cast the dagger drew his sword and turned on the boy, who dashed out of the banquet hall with all the speed he could muster, slamming the doors shut behind him, killing the guard, and barring the doors with the man’s halberd. He was only fifteen, but he was a capable enough swordsman. Even so, he would be killed in a moment if he attempted to fight the man who had killed his father. So he ran, his leather shoes slapping against the stone floor.
He looked over his shoulder to see that the doors remained secure. He smiled. If he could just get out of the castle, he could escape. He was a very fast runner. The great wooden doors were less than a hundred feet in front of him.
Suddenly, another man stepped from inside a small storage room, stabbing a sword at the boy’s chest. He barely managed to dodge it and draw his own short sword. They faced each other. The boy was painfully aware of the door—so close. But he knew that he probably wouldn’t have enough time to get them open. They were designed to be impregnable, and though they were able to be opened from the inside, they still probably weighed twice has much as he did.
His attention turned from the door to his opponent. He has other things to worry about. He didn’t have to worry about opening the door if the man killed him before he could get there. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to kill his opponent, but perhaps—he ducked and rolled to the side—he could wound him, and prevent him from attacking as he opened the doors. However, he sensed his opponent was smart enough not to fall for it. If he ducked again unless it was to dodge an attack, his opponent would guess what he was about to do. And he seemed to know the boy’s plan, for none of the maneuvers he used could be easily dodged by ducking.
Finally, the boy leaped to the side, but tripped. With a yell, he fell to the floor, stabbing with his sword at his opponent’s right leg. He shouted in pain, and tried to hack off the boy’s head, but he was already several yards down the hall, running toward the doors. With all his strength, he pushed the great oaken doors aside, and slipped out. He pulled an intricately carved whistle from his pocket, and blew. A harsh buzzing filled the air as an enormous scarlet dragonfly flew down from its hidden perch on the castle wall. He jumped onto its back, strapped himself into its leather saddle, and flew off to the northeast.
•••
Several weeks after the assassination in the banquet hall, another form was sneaking through the halls of the castle. One that quietly scampered through the shadows of the castle corridor. He had only one goal in mind—find the man who had once been a friend, but now had joined forces with the assassin—and kill him. Though he was small, he was a powerful spellcaster, and could easily assume any form he chose. Although this shape of a tiny green lizard allowed him to get from place to place quickly and unnoticed, it also happened to be his favorite.
As he walked along, he contemplated the events since the assassination. The boy, now the rightful heir to the throne of this land, waged war against the governor of this city, who had murdered his father, but he was sorely outnumbered, and on the Actibas Plateau, his army was defeated, and Dracerler, that governor, declared himself the king of all Avilandra. And while the lizard could have brought down the entire castle in his rage, he planned to do that after he had killed his enemy, the only spellcaster he knew of who might be able to defeat him in battle. Once he had done that, nothing would stop him. And he knew well that the element of surprise could mean the difference between victory and defeat.
He checked none of the open doors that he passed. He knew where his enemy would be. He had seen the room, and he knew it well. He would have to get into position quietly and stealthily. When he reached the room, he transformed into a tiny, dusty gray moth, and fluttered upwards toward a lantern hanging above the door. When he reached it, he transformed back into the shape of a lizard.
He stood, hidden among the intricate metal framework of the lantern. Below him stood eleven men, all wearing dark robes and hoods. One of them stood apart from the others, seeming to be giving a speech. The lizard’s eyes narrowed. That was his target. The lizard inched forwards, trying to find a better position to leap from. He found it. Bracing himself against a carved leaf, he surveyed the room one last time, taking in everything. With a roar of rage, he leaped down toward the man’s face with supernatural speed, knocking him flat to the ground. The lizard jumped back, and began to metamorphose into the shape of a large wolf with gleaming claws and a six-inch ridge of rock-hard fur on his back.
Dazedly, the man struggled to his feet and stared at the wolf, his eyes—the color of rust—locking with the wolf’s bottomless black ones.
“So,” said the man, “you’re here to finish me off, my teacher?”
The wolf lunged; his jaws snapping shut less than an inch from his face. “If I had known what you would become, the only spell I’d have taught you would be how to kill yourself!” he growled.
The man instantly shot his hand toward the wolf, sending a crackling ball of silver energy at him. The wolf leaped aside, and then retaliated with a blast of green light from his mouth.
“A simple spell,” said the man, easily deflecting it into the wall, “yet effective. However, there is one spell you did not teach me. One that is complex, but much more effective than any you know.” Turning toward his ten companions, he barked, “Hold him down!”
Instantly, the wolf turned to flee, quickly shifting back into the form of a lizard. He was not fast enough though, for he soon felt twenty invisible hands grabbing his body, his legs, his tail, his head—and pin him down to the floor. Fear gripped at his racing heart.
The man stared at him haughtily. “So now,” he said, a smug grin on his face, “Anything you would like to say as a spellcaster, since you won’t be one for very long?”
The lizard fixed a single eye on him, rage boiling within his tiny body.
“Silence?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “No matter.”
With that, he raised both his arms, and began to chant. The tips of his fingers began to glow with a dark purple radiance. The chanting ceased. Then, he reached his hands down as if to grab the lizard on the floor. Tendrils of purple energy shot down at the lizard, completely encasing it. He could feel cold hands reaching inside his very soul, and tugging at something near and dear to him. With a final tug, the frigid fingers wrenched it free. Pain—both physical and spiritual—exploded within the lizard’s tiny frame. The magical bonds released him. Fighting the urge to curl up and give up, he leaped intthe air, and opened his mouth in preparation to incinerate them all with a roaring tongue of flame. But except for a few drops of saliva—nothing came out! He stomped on the ground hard, intending to cast them all into the center of the earth. Nothing happened. He arched his back, ready to transform into a dragon and destroy them all. Nothing.
“Ah, I see that you know nothing of this enchantment,” said the man.
“Wh—what did you do to me?” demanded the lizard. He doubled over in pain, and retched on the stone floor.
“I simply destroyed the only thing that makes you a match for me,” he said smugly. “Your magic.”
Weakly, the lizard raised his head and locked eyes with the man towering above him. “And now,” he said, raising his right hand high, “I shall kill you!”
“You’ll have to try better than that!” shouted the lizard, leaping to the side to avoid the man’s attack. He scampered under the door and rushed toward the nearest window at the end of the corridor. The door flew off his hinges as the man gave chase. Just before the lizard would have been struck dead by a bolt of silver lightning, he dropped out of the window and sailed downward toward the city of Dracien far below.
He landed in a large wooden barrel of water which was being cooled in the night air. He swam to the edge and dropped to the ground. He didn’t have his powers, but he could still travel. He knew what he had to do.
It took him two more weeks to reach the city of Ciar Nelova, nestled deep within the Wolftooth Mountains. When he clambered through the window into the chambers of the brown-haired boy, he was hungry, filthy, and covered in scrapes and other injuries. He had never traveled so far without wings before. He was fed, cleaned, and healed. The next day, he, the boy, and several military commanders sat inside the castle’s war room, listening to the lizard’s tale.
“This is indeed distressing news!” exclaimed the leader of Ciar Nelova’s spellcasters, a man in his forties by the name of Ysur, who had studied under the lizard in his youth.
“I know,” he said. “We cannot hope to defeat King Dracerler on our own.
“We need a warrior,” said the boy. “A true warrior.
The lizard sighed. “We need a hero.”
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