Cedric Frost
January 29th, 2002, 12:02 AM
I attempted to submit this on the site, but I think I must have done it wrong because I don't see it in the list. I would be grateful to read your comments and feedback. This is my first attempt at putting some ideas on paper. I rather enjoyed telling this part of the story, I just don't know what the rest of the story is about yet.
Anyway, thanks in advance for your comments.
PS: To the admins and mods: I apologize if I have gone about this wrong, I am still rather new to sffworld and trying to find my way around. Thanks for your patience.
Prologue: The Moment
Cold.
Straining his eyes to pierce the darkness unfolding around him, he peered intently at the horizon, and then down at the road below. It wouldn’t be long now.
Waiting was the most difficult part of the hunt. Perched on the limb of a tree, struggling to stay warm against the biting night air, he had always hated the waiting. But in the waiting was the money. And where there was money, he found his salvation.
It was the jerky movement of the horse that caught his eye first. In the distance, a tiny black spec was growing against the skyline. Not long now.
Time slowed, the cold forgotten, as the man concentrated intently on his prey. He could make out the rider now. Swaying rhythmically to the horses canter, his body balanced precariously on its back. The rider’s cloak billowed out over the horse’s flanks, and his hood was drawn down masking his face.
A pang of anxiety swept through him as he realized that this might not be his prey. Hours of waiting, and now, how could he be sure. He glared at the rider through the darkness, as if by sheer will alone he would see through the cloak. Then he saw it. A pendant of gold reflecting brightly off the moonlight, hung at the rider’s neck. The man sighed with relief, confident at last that the moment was at hand.
Silently and smoothly, he un-slung his crossbow and notched the first bolt. With luck the only bolt. Clenching and unclenching his hand on the stock of the bow, he peered down the shaft and through the sight of the weapon at the approaching rider. Nestled high above the road below, the man positively stirred with anticipation. This was the moment he loved. Just before a kill, when adrenaline coursed through his veins causing his heart to pound so loud that he thought he might go deaf from the sound. The moment. The rush. This was why he loved his job.
The rider was closer now, his pendant shining like a beacon in the night or a target hanging from his neck. The man smiled at the thought. Yes, a target. The man leaned into the butt of the bow, and fought to steady his breathing. His head was throbbing and he could barely keep from shaking. Almost there.
When the rider and horse were within a few yards of the man, he squeezed the trigger of the bow. The bolt seemed to burst from the weapon like a thunderclap in the sky. Although he couldn’t see the shaft charging for the prey, he was witness to the results. The bolt hit its target hard and the rider was spun out of his saddle, hitting the ground below. Startled and now weightless, the terrified horse leapt into the air and raced further into the night.
Silence returned to the grove. Staring at the now still body of the rider, the man searched for any signs of life. Sensing none, he slipped the crossbow over his shoulder and slid from his perch to the hard ground below. He was paid for the kill, and that meant verifying that his victim was dead. Scanning the deserted road and seeing nothing, the man moved out of the thicket towards the rider. Although certain of what he would find, caution and experience warned him to take his time. Not knowing for sure where his bolt had struck, he could not afford to take for granted that the rider was dead. Drawing his dagger, the man stole across the clearing towards the motionless form.
He reached the body with a few quick steps. The rider had been taken from his horse so violently that he had been twisted around, and now lay face down on the dirt road. Finding no trace that the bolt had penetrated its mark, the man felt compelled to turn the rider over. The body was heavy, and the man had to work to get his foot under his victim’s shoulder. Without warning the rider twisted to the right and kicked out at the legs of his attacker, knocking the man to the ground.
Wounded but not yet dead, the rider struggled against the pain coursing through his body, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Reaching for his sword while fighting back the tears welling up in his eyes, he stared intently at his assailant.
As his sword scraped from its sheath, his eyes locked with those of his enemy, and for an instant, recognition and understanding passed between them. The would be assassin moved to his feet, and in one smooth motion drew his sword.
And so it was. The real battle was joined, each combatant trapped hopelessly by the moment, one to live and one to die.
The warriors launched into the calculated movements of two animals on the hunt, each circling the other, their swords gleaming in the moonlight, searching for the weakness of their opponent, waiting for the moment to turn. Seemingly without warning the pace changed, the swords flashed, and the men leapt across the imaginary circle separating them. The sounds of their swords colliding reverberated through the night air, and tiny sparks exploded with each successive blow. On and on they moved, back and forth through the glade, parry and thrust, two figures dancing by the light of the moon.
Cold sweat glistened on the rider’s face and his hand had become cramped on the hilt of his sword. Each swing of his arm caused the assassin’s bolt to shift, expanding the already gaping wound on his shoulder. Through exhaustion and the excruciating pain the rider tried to keep pace with his enemy but the force of each blow simply drew away what little energy remained. In desperation the rider searched his opponent for some unseen advantage. Finding none, he resigned himself to his fate. He would die.
A sudden calm swept over the rider, as if the very idea of dying would be an acceptable price to pay for his failure. With the resolve of one committed to death, the rider let his pain consume him. No longer fighting the impending loss of consciousness, he abruptly collapsed to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp.
With imploring eyes he searched the face of his executioner one last time, hoping to find some sign of reprieve. Sensing none, he closed his eyes and waited for death to take him.
The assassin’s lips curled into a smile that failed to mask his contempt for the rider. The moment was his once again. With a sweeping arc, the man swung his blade at the rider’s neck and with one graceful motion cleaved his victim’s head from his shoulders.
It was almost over.
Oblivious to the sight of the headless body, the man bent down and began searching his victim. He found the envelope hidden in a concealed pocket at the small of the rider’s back, and holding it up to the moonlight, he confirmed that it was what he had come for. The man tucked the envelope into his pack and searched the rest of the lifeless rider.
Discovering nothing more of interest, the man stood and let out an audible sigh.
It was over.
As he turned to walk back towards his original perch, his eyes were drawn to the sight of the gold medallion that still hung around the severed neck of the dead rider. The man grabbed the pendant, pausing just long enough to consider the folk tales told to scare little children about the magical powers imbued in the locket. Having never actually confirmed the truth of such cautionary tales, the man felt confident that the stories could be ignored. With one last look behind him, the assassin strode quietly off into the darkness, his new pendant hanging from his neck.
[This message has been edited by Cedric Frost (edited January 29, 2002).]
Anyway, thanks in advance for your comments.
PS: To the admins and mods: I apologize if I have gone about this wrong, I am still rather new to sffworld and trying to find my way around. Thanks for your patience.
Prologue: The Moment
Cold.
Straining his eyes to pierce the darkness unfolding around him, he peered intently at the horizon, and then down at the road below. It wouldn’t be long now.
Waiting was the most difficult part of the hunt. Perched on the limb of a tree, struggling to stay warm against the biting night air, he had always hated the waiting. But in the waiting was the money. And where there was money, he found his salvation.
It was the jerky movement of the horse that caught his eye first. In the distance, a tiny black spec was growing against the skyline. Not long now.
Time slowed, the cold forgotten, as the man concentrated intently on his prey. He could make out the rider now. Swaying rhythmically to the horses canter, his body balanced precariously on its back. The rider’s cloak billowed out over the horse’s flanks, and his hood was drawn down masking his face.
A pang of anxiety swept through him as he realized that this might not be his prey. Hours of waiting, and now, how could he be sure. He glared at the rider through the darkness, as if by sheer will alone he would see through the cloak. Then he saw it. A pendant of gold reflecting brightly off the moonlight, hung at the rider’s neck. The man sighed with relief, confident at last that the moment was at hand.
Silently and smoothly, he un-slung his crossbow and notched the first bolt. With luck the only bolt. Clenching and unclenching his hand on the stock of the bow, he peered down the shaft and through the sight of the weapon at the approaching rider. Nestled high above the road below, the man positively stirred with anticipation. This was the moment he loved. Just before a kill, when adrenaline coursed through his veins causing his heart to pound so loud that he thought he might go deaf from the sound. The moment. The rush. This was why he loved his job.
The rider was closer now, his pendant shining like a beacon in the night or a target hanging from his neck. The man smiled at the thought. Yes, a target. The man leaned into the butt of the bow, and fought to steady his breathing. His head was throbbing and he could barely keep from shaking. Almost there.
When the rider and horse were within a few yards of the man, he squeezed the trigger of the bow. The bolt seemed to burst from the weapon like a thunderclap in the sky. Although he couldn’t see the shaft charging for the prey, he was witness to the results. The bolt hit its target hard and the rider was spun out of his saddle, hitting the ground below. Startled and now weightless, the terrified horse leapt into the air and raced further into the night.
Silence returned to the grove. Staring at the now still body of the rider, the man searched for any signs of life. Sensing none, he slipped the crossbow over his shoulder and slid from his perch to the hard ground below. He was paid for the kill, and that meant verifying that his victim was dead. Scanning the deserted road and seeing nothing, the man moved out of the thicket towards the rider. Although certain of what he would find, caution and experience warned him to take his time. Not knowing for sure where his bolt had struck, he could not afford to take for granted that the rider was dead. Drawing his dagger, the man stole across the clearing towards the motionless form.
He reached the body with a few quick steps. The rider had been taken from his horse so violently that he had been twisted around, and now lay face down on the dirt road. Finding no trace that the bolt had penetrated its mark, the man felt compelled to turn the rider over. The body was heavy, and the man had to work to get his foot under his victim’s shoulder. Without warning the rider twisted to the right and kicked out at the legs of his attacker, knocking the man to the ground.
Wounded but not yet dead, the rider struggled against the pain coursing through his body, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Reaching for his sword while fighting back the tears welling up in his eyes, he stared intently at his assailant.
As his sword scraped from its sheath, his eyes locked with those of his enemy, and for an instant, recognition and understanding passed between them. The would be assassin moved to his feet, and in one smooth motion drew his sword.
And so it was. The real battle was joined, each combatant trapped hopelessly by the moment, one to live and one to die.
The warriors launched into the calculated movements of two animals on the hunt, each circling the other, their swords gleaming in the moonlight, searching for the weakness of their opponent, waiting for the moment to turn. Seemingly without warning the pace changed, the swords flashed, and the men leapt across the imaginary circle separating them. The sounds of their swords colliding reverberated through the night air, and tiny sparks exploded with each successive blow. On and on they moved, back and forth through the glade, parry and thrust, two figures dancing by the light of the moon.
Cold sweat glistened on the rider’s face and his hand had become cramped on the hilt of his sword. Each swing of his arm caused the assassin’s bolt to shift, expanding the already gaping wound on his shoulder. Through exhaustion and the excruciating pain the rider tried to keep pace with his enemy but the force of each blow simply drew away what little energy remained. In desperation the rider searched his opponent for some unseen advantage. Finding none, he resigned himself to his fate. He would die.
A sudden calm swept over the rider, as if the very idea of dying would be an acceptable price to pay for his failure. With the resolve of one committed to death, the rider let his pain consume him. No longer fighting the impending loss of consciousness, he abruptly collapsed to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp.
With imploring eyes he searched the face of his executioner one last time, hoping to find some sign of reprieve. Sensing none, he closed his eyes and waited for death to take him.
The assassin’s lips curled into a smile that failed to mask his contempt for the rider. The moment was his once again. With a sweeping arc, the man swung his blade at the rider’s neck and with one graceful motion cleaved his victim’s head from his shoulders.
It was almost over.
Oblivious to the sight of the headless body, the man bent down and began searching his victim. He found the envelope hidden in a concealed pocket at the small of the rider’s back, and holding it up to the moonlight, he confirmed that it was what he had come for. The man tucked the envelope into his pack and searched the rest of the lifeless rider.
Discovering nothing more of interest, the man stood and let out an audible sigh.
It was over.
As he turned to walk back towards his original perch, his eyes were drawn to the sight of the gold medallion that still hung around the severed neck of the dead rider. The man grabbed the pendant, pausing just long enough to consider the folk tales told to scare little children about the magical powers imbued in the locket. Having never actually confirmed the truth of such cautionary tales, the man felt confident that the stories could be ignored. With one last look behind him, the assassin strode quietly off into the darkness, his new pendant hanging from his neck.
[This message has been edited by Cedric Frost (edited January 29, 2002).]