Castle Shyr

Because my chapters are so long, I\'m going to be chopping them up by section and putting them into my new project. That way they are a little bit easier for people to read. :)

Anyway - For those who haven\'t read this before...

It\'s the first chapter of a fantasy novel I\'m working on. There will be \'yaoi\' in the story - but nothing hard-core as far as sexual content goes until the end of this first novel. It\'s an adult novel because of violence and language, and because of the strong sexual content in later chapters.

I\'m putting it up here because I have hopes of publishing it, and would really like some helpful criticism and feed-back. :)

All characters, places, ideas, etc are copyrighted to me.


- A Six Which Is A Seven-

The night came just like it always did - a sudden icy breeze followed by the ascent of the moon and her starry blanket. Castle Shyr and the Shyriol were nestled peacefully within the valley of Nhor and Ghalale, dusk setting upon them like an unwelcome yet civil companion. The bright torches aflame along the castle walls kept the village illuminated even in the darkest nights, flooding the Nanion with a sense of security. Nightfall was not so kind to all of Nanio however, and none felt its wrath more than those straining to thrive in the swamps of Tevlar. The shadowed villages and cities near to the Castle Tevlar were always shrouded in darkness, it was a place where not even the sun could reach, but nightfall was as obvious here as anywhere else. The shadows turned from a dull gray to an inky black, the air took on a deadly chill, the fog seemed to rise from the ground like a ghost, and the sky was filled with the cry of the Ju’agul. Amidst the chaos of the Tev settling for the night, locking their doors and pulling on their warm clothes, Castle Tevlar remained undaunted - the King of shadows in the dark valley. It seemed a dead and deserted place, a barren wasteland where no life persevered but the castle’s interior was inhabited in the same mysterious way as the rest of the swamp, by the race that lived on when they should have died out. A solitary race by nature, the Tev kept to themselves whenever possible, even within the presence of other Tev, and it made Castle Tevlar seem like an empty, desolate place when it was by far the most densely populated of all the Four Castles.

On this particular night Castle Tevlar was unusually busy, the Tev flanked each other in the halls as they strove to gather their armor and weapons in preparation for another attack. The lower hallways were empty, save one - the hall which seeped into the dungeon. The two figures slithering down the hallway were masked by the dripping shadows of chains and the flames from dimly lit torches, casting ghastly images across their faces. Despite the blanket of blackness over their feet, they never once stumbled or hesitated; they walked with steps practiced in the absence of light; they were Tev – brethren with the darkness.

The leading figure, shorter of the two, was named Izca, and he carried a dying torch ahead of him to illuminate the hall which steeped further and further into pitch-blackness. He was nearing his 845th birthday, middle-aged by Tev standards, but already his gray/blue hair was falling thin, poor nutrition saw to that. Many of the Tev who lived exclusively in the Castle were privy to badly prepared meals and meager diets. Of course their fare was far better than that of the prisoners.

The majority of the time the prisoners that Castle Tevlar held were Tev themselves, men and women who had angered the King, however on rare occasions a Nanion popped it’s way into the dungeons, and in these cases all the torches in the hall were snuffed out. When torture failed to yield answers from the light-skinned beings, the smoldering lightlessness always broke them down. Izca wasn’t a frequent visitor to the dungeons, but he knew what kind of tortures his fellows carried out and he marveled at how anyone could stand silent against such horrors.

The footsteps echoing Izca’s belonged to Mordecai, a high ranking soldier in King Valagor’s army - a halfling who was in such favor he was nearly the King’s right hand man. Despite his unchallengeable position, the source of the halfling’s esteem was a wide river of rumors. King Valagor was not a modest (nor incredibly sane) man, and made open declarations of his hatred for Nanion whenever he had the chance, however he preferred Mordecai above his purebred Tev soldiers. It was something his men just could not understand. There were a small number of soldiers who believed that Mordecai inherited some hidden power from his mother’s Nanion blood, but in fear of King Valagor overhearing their praising of the race, they kept their mouths shut. The most ridiculous of all the rumors was most likely the closest to the truth, for some believed that the King continued to boost Mordecai’s rank in order to set the halfling up for assassination. The reason none of the rumors could be declared true fell onto another suspicious aspect of Mordecai’s treatment: he was more like an assassin than a soldier, no one ever accompanied him on his ‘missions.’

There was a sudden snap from a nearby room, then the silence lingered in again, made more uncomfortable with the small remembrance of noise dying away. Izca found himself risking small, feverish glances at the halfling from over his shoulders, quickly snapping his eyes away when he saw the muscles twitch in Mordecai’s face, praying that he’d turn quick enough to avoid the other’s gaze. Mordecai had not been known to kill at random, just for the pleasure of it like some of the other soldiers, but something in his face said he wanted to, and it made all around him uneasy. Izca recalled the previous night when Mordecai had silenced a whole group of rowdy, drunken soldiers with a simple glance at them from over his plate; later the men said that Mordecai’s eyes were like daggers but sharper than any sword they’d ever brandished.

Mordecai kept his eyes ahead of him, trying to ignore Izca’s glances, but they were beginning to unnerve him. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it just as quick, deciding it was better to remain silent. However he kept tossing the words back and forth in his mind, trying them out as he opened his mouth two more times, still unsure of the good they would do.

“Third cell on the left,” he barked suddenly, his voice startling him as it hit the walls and slammed itself around the hall. He watched as Izca started slightly, and almost looked at him from over the torch. “I assumed you were lost,” he continued, his voice growing irritated on it’s own, “seeing as how you kept looking back at me.” He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly as he heard Izca mutter something in reply, then quicken his pace and drop his head. Few things irritated Mordecai more than that, the way people treated him as if he were better than them, it was a spiteful kind of respect. He was not better than them: he was young, younger than he looked, inexperienced despite his occupation, and dirty; a halfling outcast in the halls which questioned him and his presence within.

Izca stumbled a bit, then turned to the aforementioned cell and reached for the large set of keys dangling from his neck. Knowing Mordecai was behind him after being addressed in such a way did nothing to help the Tev’s failing nerves: He kept dropping the chain as he searched it for the master key, knowing he’d never find the one made for this particular cell. The idea of the mysterious halfling just standing silently behind him made Izca’s heart race, made the hair on his arms stand on end.

“Is there a problem, Izca?” Mordecai growled shortly, becoming increasingly displeased with his guide’s level of ineptitude. He saw the shorter Tev start, and instead of smirking or poking fun at the Tev’s nerves as some of his more sinister fellows would have, he merely continued to stare ahead, stone-faced.

“N-no,” Izca coughed after a moment, clearing his throat and continuing to fiddle with the keys. The fleeting thought of a dagger poised and ready behind him made his stomach twirl, and he dropped the key he’d been holding.

“Move.” Mordecai snarled, patience all but gone as he lifted a hand and forcibly moved Izca to the side. He heard the Tev make a small noise as he obediently pushed himself against the wall, but paid it no mind. From the vast folds of his dark robe, Mordecai produced one of his small, scythe-curved daggers, and placed it atop the lock’s holding chain. He studied the arrangement for a moment, tilted his dagger, then with the suddenness and power of a bolt of lightning, hefted up his weapon and heaved it downwards, slicing the chain in half. He stepped back, catching the lock before it hit the ground and replacing his dagger as the chain clanked to the floor. He held the lock out for Izca, and nearly tossed it at the Tev as he fumbled to lift his hands.

“May I?” The halfling continued in a voice rough from little use, “Or will I be forced to wait for you to stumble in there and introduce me?” Receiving nothing from Izca but a slack jaw, Mordecai stepped into the doorway with an uninterested look upon his sharp, bird-like features. He scanned the room with his cold, silver/black eyes until he saw the figure huddled in the corner.

Having been woken harshly from her nightmare by the sound of a chain clanking to the ground, Rylee had scuttled into the nearest corner and pulled herself into the tightest ball she could manage, not sure if she was hiding from real monsters, or just the ones in her dream. Her attempts to hide from either proved useless, and she knew it well as a slim beam of light shot into the room. Her breath caught in her throat and she turned her head away, the small dash of light hurting her eyes, which had become so accustomed to the darkness. After a moment she began to squint at the doorway, trying to make out the ominous shadow before her. She began to shake in fear as the figure took a step forward, and calmed only slightly when she saw no crown atop his head, and ears that pointed to the sky like a Nanion’s.

“Get up,” Mordecai said in a listless tone, stepping further into the room, “King Valagor wishes to speak with you. You can come on your own,” Mordecai said with a sharp exhale, watching the girl push herself further into the corner, “or I will make you.” There was no emphasis, no emotion in his voice: It was as clear as the threat it carried.

Rylee shook her head again, a strong gesture as she used the wall to push herself to her feet. She’d known by his shadow that it was Mordecai who had come so coldly to fetch her, and the fourteen year old was deeply hurt. Though the life of a prisoner was the only one she’d ever known, Rylee continued to fight and resist in hope that perhaps there was such a thing as happiness.

“M-mordecai..” She whimpered as he started towards her, but the halfling neither hesitated nor stumbled, he merely continued to descend upon her like a vulture.

“Castle Shyr will fall at his feet!
‘Castle Tevlar will crumble at his touch!
‘He of simple ways, but noble birth,
‘He in a land not his own, he the orphan child.
‘He unaware of that which fate holds for him.
‘A mistake long forgotten, will rise from the shadow,
‘A six which is a seven will be our unknown threat.” Her last sob dying off into the air, Rylee fell to her side with a crack as hollow as her voice. She curled up as tight as she could on the cold floor and folded her arms over her head as if she could have vanished.

There was a light chuckle from the darkest corner of the room, where two figures resided; one seated in a high throne, the other standing, as if on guard, at the King’s side.

“Mordecai,” came the slick and terse voice from under the crown.

“Yes, my king?” Mordecai said, spite hidden in his words but leaking from his eyes.

“I have another assignment for you.”