Young Writers Society

After all your comments I've re-written it. There still isn't that much action, but I feel it's a huge improvement to before. You may prove me wrong! I found it much more interesting to write, and I hope you'll find it more interesting to read.

[NOTE: this has nothing to do with my "The Outlands" series of stories, and it is not a prologue to those.]

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The night was quiet, yet there was a tense feeling in its silence. The land was preparing for change again. Another change that would direct the course of thousands of lives.

The land rolled into many hills, mist gathering in the narrow channels between them. A few lonely trees dotted the landscape, rustling in the slight breeze. The gentleness of this was unbroken across the land, except for the enormous gash of a canyon that appeared to have been ruthlessly gouged out of the ground.

Clouds scudded effortlessly across the sky, constantly blocking, constantly revealing the tiny sliver of moon. This intermittent blinking caused a supernatural effect on the huge, immensely tall fortress that resided in the gorge. Flickering into focus, flickering into shadow, the building appeared to belong to a different reality from the rest of the world. A long road led from the massive gates of the structure, rising steadily out of the canyon. It sliced its way through the hills, joined at random points by smaller tracks on either side, and made its way steadily over the horizon.

Suddenly, the gates opened with a clang, startling the armoured sentinel that stood outside. Out from between them strode a man, hooded and cloaked in dark green travelling clothes, leading a grey horse. His face was immersed in shadow.

He went over to the sentinel, raising a hand in greeting. A moment later the guard fell to the ground, his throat slit. The hooded man bent over him for a second, and then turned back to his horse. Mounting lightly, he rode a little way up the path. He stopped suddenly, remembering something. Turning his horse about, he grasped the bow tied to the saddle. Reaching behind him he pulled a single arrow from the quiver strapped to his back, and expertly fitted it to his bow. The guard patrolling the fortress from the balcony above the gates barely had a chance to hear the whistle of the arrow as it flew directly into his neck.

Satisfied, the rider took one last look back, before turning and riding up the hill. He had an air of impatience, however, as he had hardly come up out of the gorge before he spurred his horse into a gallop. A thick layer of cloud rolled over the moon, and as the man rode at full speed into the distance, the land plunged into darkness.