Melody of the Fates

Prologue P.0

The clip-clomp of horse’s hooves on wooden planks was subdued by a thick blanket of fog that crept silently up the river, tucking the lowlands in for the night. Stout stone supports fell away beneath sturdy planking, disappearing into the haze, and sloshing sounds spoke of swiftly moving water below. A lone man on a shaggy brown horse appeared out of the swirling dampness on the far bank of the Great Tasher River, leaving the impressive bridge behind. Rynel Swift paused for a moment. He reached up to slide his cowl back, revealing wise brown eyes in a surprisingly youthful face.

Thick, stone walls solidified in the distance, with taller guard towers at evenly spaced intervals. Bulbous domes loomed over and behind the walls, vague evidence of the great city of Tashaba huddling beneath the fog. Ghost ships dotted the mighty river that ran along the east side of the city, sliding silently in and out of the busy harbor, the fuzzy lights of torches their only guide in the fading light of the day.

As Rynel approached from the north, he was relieved to see that the heavy wooden gates still stood open at this hour. The fog had rolled up the river from the nearby sea, obscuring even the sun, which made it difficult to tell the time. He had been afraid that his tardiness might necessitate entry by less desirable means. Rynel pulled his horse to a stop before the gate and dismounted, bending over ostensibly to adjust his turned down leather boots. While making a show of tucking his wide pants back into the tops of the footwear, he eyed the entrance warily. A torch burned fitfully on either side of the opening, and four heavily armored guards were in evidence, two at each side, long spears propped nearby.

The men lounged against the wall, rarely giving any of the passersby more than a glance or courteous nod. War had not seen these lands for some time, and the men were obviously unaccustomed to the need for vigilance. Pedestrians trudged in and out of the capital city, going about their business at the end of the day. Farmers led empty wagons back out to the surrounding homesteads, and travelers hurried in to try to get a spot at an inn before the gates were closed for the night.

The mundane scene comforted Rynel. He doubted the spies of the Grand Warlord had infiltrated Tashaba yet, but one could never be too careful. It had been quite some time since he’d been abroad, and he had hoped not too much had changed in the land he now called home. Still, as he reflected on it, it wasn’t as if he had a choice. Recent events had urged him into action. The Ecclesiate needed to know what he knew. They needed to be prepared.

Standing up, Rynel adjusted the short, curved sword at his waist, tightening a belt that had loosened a bit from a long time spent in the saddle. He brushed off his dark leather vest, and straightened the cuffs of the shirt that stuck out from underneath, covering his arms. Finally, he ran a hand through curly black hair and picked up the reins of the horse, leading it toward the gate.

The guards nodded at him as he passed through, just another traveler looking for a room for the night; perhaps passage on a boat in the morning. Nothing to get excited about. Rynel returned the gesture, and then immediately turned his eyes to sweep the scene before him. A wide, stone-paved avenue opened up before him, clogged with wagons, horses, and people. Braziers burned brightly atop pillars, burning off some of the fog and making it easier to see in the city than it had been outside her walls. Small, dark alleys ran off to the right and left periodically, and the canvas awnings of street-side shops jutted out of the smooth walls of tall, sandstone buildings. Hawkers cried their wares, hoping to make a few final sales before the sun set, and dirty children darted through the crowds, earning stern looks. It was the usual bustle of a thriving Tasher city.

As Rynel made his way further down the avenue, the throngs thinned. Though he was anxious to get to his destination, he moved forward at a steady, unconcerned pace. The brightly painted wooden signs of the taverns called to him, but Rynel ignored them. He had more pressing business, though turning down the chance for a quick drink pained him. It had been a long, long time since he’d been in a tavern, but the man who was expecting him would not be found in one of the questionable establishments that Rynel preferred.