Prologue

Writer's block seems to have lifted... Friggin blogger messing with my indents....





Night closed in around the lone rider like the petals of a great black flower. The moon was full overhead, but its blue shadow cast little light and no heat, as though some great force was dimming the celestial body‘s power. The chill of the air took on a biting edge, and Carthis released one hand from his death-grip on the horses reigns to exhale heat across his cupped fingers. Under him, the horse labored on the brink of its demise; even as cool as the evening had become, it was coated in a fine sheen of sweat. Its footing failed from time to time, but it pressed on, urged by rider and panic.

Carthis risked a look back over his shoulder, and made a quiet, furious noise as a low hanging branch slapped his face just as he returned his eyes to the road. He squinted, blinked tears summoned out of reflex from his eyes, and urged the nameless horse still faster.

The boy that had walked into the tavern some miles back had been unmistakable if one knew what they were looking for. Hooded black cloaks were not unusual by themselves, nor were black staves as tall as a man. The young man had been pale, though; in a town full of sun-browned farmers the cream skin of a scholar stood out. Eyes as ancient as the moon overhead had combed over the room, and chills had walked up the spines of the simple folk as he inspected them. The farmers attributed it to the recently opened door, but Carthis knew better.

At nineteen he had dabbled in magics he never should have touched. He had made dark deals for petty power that was long lost, and all he had to show for it was knowledge. Knowledge of what the boy was.

Knowledge that the boy was looking for him.

Reapers were not truly incarnations of death, though most believed them to be. As children they were selected, always at the age of ten. They all survived where they should have died; some fell from trees, some caught terrible diseases, some got caught under the ice of rivers not frozen enough to play on. All the children survived as if by miracle, without a scratch. Within a year, a rider would come to their home in the dead of night, and the child would vanish. From there, no one knew what happened to their children.

Carthis knew. The first decade of their lives, they trained in a tower far, far beyond the reaches of mortals, learning magic and the fundamentals of the universe. When they had learned all the could behind walls and from books, they would leave, and enter the lands of men again. Their purpose was not to bring the end of life upon normal mortals; such things happened naturally and under the gentle guidance of the true incarnation of Death himself. Their purpose, ostensibly, was to hunt those who had enough magic to delay their own demises. There were those who had sacrificed too many innocent lives before their time; they too were marked for the Reapers.

Those who had traded their souls for mortal power, like Carthis, were a special prize. He had eluded the Reapers for ten years. Rather then make the mistake of fighting back, he simply fled them. In the tavern he had watched the boy slowly judge every soul in the room, able to see exactly how long they had before their death, and sought one who’s time had long passed. Carthis had gone out the back door, stolen a horse and fled into the night.

He risked one more look back over his shoulder, but the moonlit road was empty. His eyes glanced forward, and his stomach dropped out as a slim figure in a hooded robe stepped into his path, head bowed. He tried to pull back on the reigns, but the exhausted horse didn’t respond. As if time had slowed, he watched the reaper point the staff at the ground, and watched cold blue fire spring from both ends. One formed a sharp spade, the other formed a long, sharp scythe blade. The horse charged onward to run the thing down; it sidestepped, and lifted the blade effortlessly into the equine’s path. The blue blade passed through from its chest to its haunches, and Carthis felt the weight drop out from under him as he was suddenly airborne.

There was the sickening crunch of bone behind him as the horse collapsed, stone dead, and then the wind left Carthis’ lungs in a painful rush as he met the earth again. He groaned, dazed, and shook his head. He couldn’t feel a thing below the knees, but a quick inspection showed his legs intact. He tried to crawl away, near desperate, and the hooded figure slowly walked up behind him. The rider rolled onto his back and help up a hand, panting. “Wait!”

The Reaper paused, tilting its head and idly swinging the scythe.

“Let me see your face.”

“Excuse me?” The voice was feminine; not the boy who has spooked him from the tavern. Carthis sat up, and rubbed his knees. Already he could feel pins and needles in his toes.

“You caught me, fair and square. But I want to see the face of my death.”

She chuckled, amused. One hand lifted to drop back the hood, and he looked into a sharply angled face of a woman who couldn’t be over thirty. Her eyes were impossibly dark even in the night, but her hair was a pale blond and shoulder-length, and danced freely around her face. He nodded appreciatively, and wiggled his toes in his boots. She smirked, the scythe slowing to a stop. “Satisfied?”

“Yes.” He grunted and shook his head. “Balls, girl, how did you find me? I’ve always been a step ahead of your kind.” He worked to get to his feet, shaky.

She laughed out loud, and leaned forward, unfathomable eyes dancing. “Honestly?”

He nodded.

“I came for the horse.” She moved, lightning fast, and arced the blade high over her shoulder, cleaving him from the crown of his head to his feet. His body collapsed back into the dirt, and Carthis stumbled forward, disoriented. The night seemed suddenly a great deal brighter, and he landed on his knees. He looked about, surprised. Behind him his body lay as if it had been thrown by the horse and impact had killed him. Ahead of him the body of the horse lay in a heap, and a pale, blue shadow of a horse stood over it, stamping its feet and plainly confused as he.

“Horses have souls?” He blinked at it stupidly, and looked to the girl. She walked towards it, reaching up to stroke its nose.

“They have minds. Thoughts. Pain and fear. We can pull the essence of what they are out of their bodies, same as humans, but it isn’t recommended.” She knelt before the body of the horse, and tugged out what looked like a quill pen that had been dipped in the same blue that formed the blade of her weapon. She walked around the body, and inscribed runes on its haunches and shoulders.

Carthis stood again, frowning. “So what’s to keep me from running away?”

“Why don’t you try?” She ignored him, and moved to the horse’s forelock, brushed the hair back and inscribed something there. The scythe rested loosely against her shoulder; for once a Reaper looked less then menacing. Carthis turned, and ran as fast as he could down the road. He wasn’t more then five body lengths away before his chest simply refused to move forward, and his feet went right out from under him. He scowled as he landed, and looked back. A blood red line of light ran from where his heart should have been to her staff.

“Oh.” He glared. “You could have told me.”

She smirked at him, straightening. “It’s more fun to watch them try to run.” She stepped back and planted the spade end of the scythe into the dirt, and set her feet apart. Carthis watched in horror as the corpse of the horse stirred, and got to its feet like a new colt learning to stand. It didn’t move right, all awkward angles and clearly snapped forelegs, but it stood nonetheless. Once the horse’s soul and corpse stood in the same place she slowly finished each of the five runes. There was another crunch when it was complete as the forelegs mended. The horse, now intact, shied to the side. She reaches up to soothe it, and it calmed under her hands.

“Animals hate your kind. Well, aside from cats.”

She looked over at him, and raised a delicate eyebrow. “You know a lot about us.”

“I sold myself to Death for knowledge.”

“And then you ran. Foolish.” She nodded slowly. “Yes, animals fear us. They can sense what we are. But undead animals don’t.”

“The horse is still dead?” He blinked, and shuddered; even without a body he could get chills.

“So are you.”

“Point taken.” He frowned. “So we’re riding that thing back to wherever you came from?”

“No.” She smirked again, mirthlessly. “I’m riding. You’re running.”

“Wait, wait, what?” He blinked. She mounted up, and tugged the scythe, which returned to a simple staff. The jerking motion pulled him forward, and he glared. “You bitch.”

“Sariah. My name is Sariah.” She looked back, and twitched her hood back up. “And you are my prisoner.” She urged the horse to run, and run it did, and dragged Carthis behind.