The Shards of Arynthel

This is the free Prologue to my novel "The Shards of Arynthel". Each following chapter will be accessible via subscription here on Vocal ($2.99 monthly) or on my website ($30/year).

The gentle breeze on this dark night carried the aroma of a coming storm, a smell of dirt in the air. But the breeze carried a static too, which told that this storm would not be gentle on this night. The clouds rolled in silently at first, parting briefly here and there, letting the moon sneak glimpses of what lay below.

The clouds allowed the moon’s light to fall upon a well-worn path leading to a modest farmhouse. The dark cloak of a figure blocked the moonlight as it strode silently along.

Alas, the figure came upon a gate, as thunder rumbled in the distance, the first audible sound of a coming storm. The figure paid no heed, showed no reaction to the sound, as if it knew.

The figure moved around the gate as if it went through it, as if it were not of this earthly plane, but something else entirely. The bolts made not a creak or groan as it opened or a click or clank as it closed. Nor did the cloak of the figure make a motion is the figure moved, as if made of stone. And yet still it seemed to float.

The muddy ground paid no heed and bore no mark of footsteps as the figure proceeded into the lot.

To the right of the fenced in lot stood a barn. Big enough for a horse or two for riding and work, a cow for milking, stores of hay and feed. The animals inside slept soundly despite the rowdiness of the coming storm. Animals could sense these things. That’s why they were safely shuttered in their stalls.

The figure moved along as the first drops of rain fell. Huge dollops of water from the clouds which once again blocked the moonlight. The drops splattered the rocks and watered the crops and muck. But they seemed to not touch the cloaked figure. Perhaps they went through it, perhaps they just chose not to fall where it moved.

The figure moved toward the coops, housing roosting hens and roosters. The easily startled birds slept silently in their nests, ignorant of the droplets of water smashing down loudly on their coop.

The coop door seemed to swing open on its own and the figure glided inside. The chickens stay undisturbed, as it moved in the small space. Then, the clouds parted momentarily as the dark fabric moved in a way it had not before. A gnarled knobby fist emerged from the folds of the cloak, raised as if about to threaten someone. Then it lowered, closed, palm up, reaching out toward something. The clouds once again parted momentarily, as if by command, as the fist opened, fingers like thin knotted branches of a dead tree, unfurling one by one, revealing a small blue and brown orb.

The hand closed around it gently again, then reached out and placed the egg in a vacant nesting box. The hand then disappeared back into the dark folds of the cloak, and the figure turned to leave just as silently as it had entered.

The rain began to intensify, still not daring to sully the cloak with moisture. The mud, now wetter than before, still refused to acknowledge the form above it. The only sign the figure was even there was the shadow in its tracks. The figure left the farmhouse behind and disappeared into the dark and the first bolt of lightning struck. The thunder moments later shook the buildings in the lot and trailed off into something that, should a living soul be awake to hear, might have been mistaken for laughter.