Young Writers Society

Prologue

Flames burned, black smoke curling lazily in the sky, ashes floating down like snow, tainting the air with an acrid odor that made Argent, watching smugly from a hill some distance away, wrinkle her small nose in an endearing way.

She leaned casually on her massive, three meter sword, and surveyed the scene, unnaturally red hair waving in the thermal wave.

“Well?” She asked, turning to face her two companions. “What do you think?”

“A job well done,” cackled one, a tall, spindly man, resting a foot on an equally huge sword. “The bastards didn’t know what hit them.”

The third, a huge brute of a man by the name of Caius, overly muscled arms crossed over his impressive barrel chest, grunted his approval.

“Behold, the top five of the Order,” sneered Argent, waving a hand at the inferno below. “Only ashes now.”

The other two laughed.

“Sure was a smooth hit,” said the spindly man. “Well paid, too.”

“Still… we’d best make sure,” said Argent, thoughtfully. “I mean, they are the five strongest members of the Order.” She cracked her knuckles. “This will be fun.” With an automatic, tick-like movement, she unbuttoned the top two buttons of her leather corset and grabbed her sword. She flexed her legs once, mustering her power, and jumped, impossibly high, down the whole length of the hill and into the raging inferno below, golden-red flames trailing from her fists.

“What do you say?” Mused the spindly man. “Should we go help?”

“Leave the bitch alone,” Brutus replied, calmly. “If she goes and gets herself killed, we get a promotion.”

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“It’s a trap!” Argent, speeding towards the house on a slide of flames, heard the raised voices above the crackle of the flames, hypersensitive ears picking up every little detail. So… they had figured it out. No matter. Once she was through with them, there’d be no one left to figure anything out.

Flames raged inside the wide living room, charring the wooden floors and devouring the walls and roof.

Two people stood inside the room, looking desperately for a way out.

“Get out of here, May!” Shouted the man, flames reflected in his panicked colorless eyes, stark against his long white hair.

The woman, clutching a small child by the hand, almost identical to his father, shook her head resolutely

“I’m not leaving without you,” she said.

“No!” The man insisted. “Save our son!” He clenched his fists in despaired anger, then drew his massive sword from his scabbard strapped across his back.

He slashed at the wall nearest to him, and it blew outwards, shattering in a thousand shards, already crisping. Through the gaping hole that had been created, a road could be glimpsed, leading through a blackened, soot-stained garden.

“I’ll distract them,” said the man. “They can’t have the scrolls. You – you have to go.” His voice broke, and a single tear slid from his eye. How could he leave his son, his only legacy?! But deep down, he knew this way, he was prolonging their safety. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and strode away, into the raging inferno.

May’s expression became determined. She was the wife of the number One, the strongest member of the Order. She couldn’t be weak, not now. She grabbed a knife hanging from a wall once covered with weapons, and dashed out, the child following silently. The little boy, even though he could not articulate his thoughts, knew something was very, very wrong.

Meanwhile, the man was desperately searching in a room almost completely engulfed by flames. His fingers were severely burnt, but he paid them no heed. The smoke made it impossible to breathe, but he didn’t need to. The smoke made it nigh impossible to see, but he had superhuman vision. He could do this.

Then, a wall exploded, and in strode a girl in around her mid-twenties strode in, the flames parting obediently before her. She was wearing leather shorts, several black leather bands criss-crossing her thighs, and a leather corset. She sported a sword, the standard three meter broadsword of the Order, but the man knew who he was facing. The sword would be the least of his problems.

“Argent, lady of the flames,” he said, stopping. “Number Sixteen.”

“Zorak,” the girl acknowledged. “Master. Number One. Or should I say, former number One.”

And with that, she lunged, sword outstretched.

Impossibly fast, Zorak drew his sword and deflected the blade, punching Argent in the stomach. She backtracked and growled. Then she struck again, and again, raining down a flurry of blows that would have diced an ordinary human.

Zorak countered easily, maneuvering around the room until Argent was facing the door. He jumped over a strike aimed for his legs and blocked the follow-up to his chest, then he used the impact to jump backwards, crashing into the already weakened wall, burning most of his clothes in the process. Where was it? There! In one pile, he spotted the intricately carved mahogany box, a single symbol pulsing on the lock, protecting the little box from much of the damage.

Another explosion, and Argent was back in the room, sword swinging, hacking at everything, obstructing Zorak’s movements.

“Where did you hide it?” She hissed. “Where?” Then her eyes alighted on the box, and her customary arrogant smirk became hungrier.

She attacked with renewed ferocity, and Zorak countered, ducking under a particularly fierce blow to his head and stabbing forward. Argent sidestepped, then drew close and threw Zorak’s sword from his grasp with a determined slash to his hand, severing three of his fingers. Blood gushed out, staining the girl’s clothes and face.

“The end,” she breathed, licking the blood from her mouth.

She strode forwards towards the box, raised her hands, and struck downwards…

… Into Zorak’s shoulder, sinking through his flesh all the way to his heart. The man had used himself to protect the box, she realized. How stupid. He only quickened his death.

“Well… so dies the mighty Zorak,” she leered. “How pathetic.”

Zorak coughed up some blood and smiled mirthlessly. Slowly, he raised his hands and gripped the blade that held him fixed.

“You forget,” he gasped. “You forget that I am an Immortal. I cannot die by the hands of another save myself.” As he spoke, he began to glow, trailing silver streamers from his body. His eyes became silver disks, and his blood turned silver.

“No –” Argent exclaimed. “No!” She began to back away, but was too late.

Zorak struggled forward and grabbed her, now completely enveloped by the silver aura that made his kind unique.

He threw Argent away, impossibly far, crashing through each wall of the house until her limp, scalded from banged against the ground outside.

Zorak, knowing his life was at an end, screamed, his aura expanding through the room, quenching the flames.

He picked up the box, and, reverently, opened it, revealing a thick scroll, nestled safely on top of a layer of velvet, and sat down at the ruins of a table.

He began to write, dipping a shard of wood into his own blood.

“Run, Nyssa!” Exclaimed Gawain, fighting off two other Order members. He ducked under their simultaneous strikes, then stepped back, sword held straight, and stopped another two blows with the flat of his blade. Then he swung his sword in an arc, using only his wrist, and decapitated the two soldiers. Blood gushed, spraying the floor, Gawain’s leather armor and his blond hair red. The firelight made his strong facial features seem those of a madman.

“Get to Zorak and May!” Gawain exclaimed. He threw open a door and pushed Nyssa out the door gently. “The back door hasn’t been used in ages. They shouldn’t be guarding that. Go!”

He heard a crash from the living room, and strode towards the disturbance, sword raised. Once he had reached the room, he saw five Order members standing there, overturning the chairs that lined the table in the middle and pretty much trashing the whole room. A wall lay in pieces. Gawain assumed that had been their entry way.

“Give up,” one of the members called.

“Like that’ll happen,” Gawain muttered, and charged the Order members, aura blazing gold around him. But even as he fought them off, he knew he couldn’t preserve his rank. Fleeing was the only option.

The Order had succeeded. Their coup was complete.

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From a ridge some distance away, tears streaming down her soot-stained face – though she hated to weep in front of her child, who clutched her tightly – Nyssa saw the house stormed by dozens of Order members. Minutes later, the house exploded in a burst of gold, leaving but ashes, only their water tower remaining, a lone man stumbling out, steaming gently.