Young Writers Society

Maybe I'm better at fantasy rather than realistic fiction... I dunno. By the way, the poem thing he says is garbage, I'm working on somethin better right now Please critique it if you can!

Prologue

A cold wind tossed itself through the ancient grove of pine trees, throwing their branches high into the air. They blew to and fro, as if they were trying to break free of their trees. They somehow seemed to try and avoid the perfect stone circle in their center.

A dark figure stepped into the midst of all this, not seeming to notice the swaying trees or even the near-hurricane around him. The powerful winds did not seem to bother him, in fact they seemed to empower him and give him life.

Behind him a stooped figure was stumbling and struggling with a bundle as large as its porter. He tottered this way and that, almost dropping the parcel several times.

“Hurry now, Islaman, we don’t know if this storm will last! Put your back into it now, you lazy scoundrel,” said the first figure in a cold voice that made Islaman shudder. The first figure laughed, saying, “Do I frighten you, Islaman? Do not worry, for you are not the subject of tonight’s little performance. That is unless you want to be of course.”

“No sir, Most certainly not,” Islaman said with his eyes down.

“Good,” said the dark figure, smiling evilly, then, “put the parcel on that stone in the center, quickly now!”

Islaman hurried to do his master’s bidding. He set the bag carefully on the large stone circle. Pulling out a long knife, he sliced through the canvas bag, revealing its contents.

A woman lay there on the stone, eyes wide and panicked. She tried to speak, to yell and cry for help, but she couldn’t get around the gag in her mouth. She looked around and spotted the dark figure at the edge of the clearing. He walked over and spoke to her. “Do not worry my blossom. This will all soon be over for you,” he said, another evil smile playing across his lips.

He turned to Islaman and said, “Cut the bonds on her hands and remove her gag. She might still try to escape. And we can’t have that, can we?”

“No sir,” muttered Islaman, “certainly not sir.”

“Good,” said the figure, and he walked to a smaller stone near the clearing’s edge. As soon as Islaman stepped back, he lifted his hands to the sky and cried aloud, “Isara cantola shara du!”

The world seemed to freeze. The trees grew still, and the wind died. The man smiled wider and cried out,

“Spirits of the otherworld,

Hear my cry!

Give me the powers,

To make any human more than die!”

The woman yelled aloud in pain and fear. The earth split below her into a chasm to hell. She fell on and on, screeching all the way. Farther and farther she fell, until her cry of piteous fear stopped. The chasm closed, and the man drew himself higher than he had been before.

“Behold, puny servant,” he cried to Islaman cowering at the grove’s edge, “a new power arises. That of mine, Laghra, Collector of Souls!”