Sancho Panza
02-05-2012, 06:08 AM
Hello, I have been working on a novel for some time now and just wanted to get some comments on the prologue, which of course is the most important bit. The novel is called The Myskonia Chronicles, it is a fantasy series and will be told over three or four books. Without further ado, here is the Prologue:
It starts in a large dusty clearing at the foot of a mighty mountain, its proud peak lost in the evening darkness. A fire burns, surrounded by a group of ten maybe twelve men, a single sheet of white fabric around their waists being the only thing covering their grimy bodies.
They sit in a circle, legs crossed, hands in their laps, heads bowed. They are waiting for someone.
A horn blows nearby and as one they rise. They begin to chant in a strange guttural tongue that gradually gets louder and faster. Now they start striking the ground with their bare feet, kicking up clouds of dry, brown dust; it starts to drift into the circle, dancing around the fire that burns at the center.
The horn blows again, much closer now. Immediately the chant changes and the assembled men start to chant a new word, over and over and over again.
‘Baphomestis! Baphomestis!’
The circle now opens, allowing the entrance of the horn blower, a tall old man wearing a long, red cloak; the deep powerful red of freshly spilled blood. He wears a hood over his wizened head, but dark shadows can be seen dancing across his wrinkled face. Behind him follows two more men clad in white carrying a wriggling bundle wrapped in a sheet. The chanting stops as the bundle is lowered next to the fire and the two carriers leave to complete the circle, closing it behind the fourth entrant, a small, ugly man carrying a drum.
The old man unfurls the sheet to reveal the human form within. It becomes clear that this boy is little more than a child, his pale spindly legs and his round terrified face betraying his youth. The man thrusts his hands under the boy’s armpits and hauls him to his feet. The drummer commences a slow, rhythmic beat as the boy is taken to the nearest of the surrounding men.
‘Zamma,’ the old man shouts.
The man the boy is facing bends down, scoops a handful of dust from the ground and hurls it at the boy, echoing the old man’s word. He tries to shrink from the impact, but the old man has a firm grip on him and the dust hits squarely in the face. He is too busy spitting the dirt from his mouth, his eyes blurred with tears of humiliation and he does not notice the fire increasing its fervor as if in great excitement.
The boy is now led to the rest of those in the circle where the throwing of dust is repeated, the same word shouted at him each time. Each time the fire appears to react in the same way, growing ever stronger until, by the time he reaches the last few, it is a raging inferno, despite being fueled by nothing other than a few small, dwindling logs. The heat from it begins to roast his back, adding yet more to the burden of pain.
Now the old man pushes him back down onto the sheet he arrived in and is kneeling beside him, staring into the flames. The boy turns his head to follow the man’s gaze and is sure that, for the most fleeting of moments, he sees the shape of a face amongst the billowing flames and is certain that he sees lips moving, whispering alien words. He turns back with a shiver despite the heat and sees that the man is now towering over him, sweat dripping from his nose. It was a face that had once been so familiar to the boy, so comforting and so warm. Now it inspired nothing in him but terror and hate.
Gasps can now be heard from the men who surround him and the boy turns again to the fire. It has changed its colour darkening from its previous shades of yellow and orange, to a uniform crimson red, almost identical to the hue of the old man’s cloak. Gasps turn to screams as real and unmistakable shapes appear in the flames. It becomes apparent that this is not what they were expecting and they start to flee from the scene. The flame-formed creatures leap from the logs and charge after them.
Only the old man appears to be unfazed by the chaos erupting around him and indeed seems empowered by it. He continues speaking in the same chanting voice and the essence of a smile creeps across his lips. His eyes widen and seem to change colour with the fiery objects reflected in his pupils. Unable to escape or to comprehend what is happening, the young boy passes out into blissful darkness.
It starts in a large dusty clearing at the foot of a mighty mountain, its proud peak lost in the evening darkness. A fire burns, surrounded by a group of ten maybe twelve men, a single sheet of white fabric around their waists being the only thing covering their grimy bodies.
They sit in a circle, legs crossed, hands in their laps, heads bowed. They are waiting for someone.
A horn blows nearby and as one they rise. They begin to chant in a strange guttural tongue that gradually gets louder and faster. Now they start striking the ground with their bare feet, kicking up clouds of dry, brown dust; it starts to drift into the circle, dancing around the fire that burns at the center.
The horn blows again, much closer now. Immediately the chant changes and the assembled men start to chant a new word, over and over and over again.
‘Baphomestis! Baphomestis!’
The circle now opens, allowing the entrance of the horn blower, a tall old man wearing a long, red cloak; the deep powerful red of freshly spilled blood. He wears a hood over his wizened head, but dark shadows can be seen dancing across his wrinkled face. Behind him follows two more men clad in white carrying a wriggling bundle wrapped in a sheet. The chanting stops as the bundle is lowered next to the fire and the two carriers leave to complete the circle, closing it behind the fourth entrant, a small, ugly man carrying a drum.
The old man unfurls the sheet to reveal the human form within. It becomes clear that this boy is little more than a child, his pale spindly legs and his round terrified face betraying his youth. The man thrusts his hands under the boy’s armpits and hauls him to his feet. The drummer commences a slow, rhythmic beat as the boy is taken to the nearest of the surrounding men.
‘Zamma,’ the old man shouts.
The man the boy is facing bends down, scoops a handful of dust from the ground and hurls it at the boy, echoing the old man’s word. He tries to shrink from the impact, but the old man has a firm grip on him and the dust hits squarely in the face. He is too busy spitting the dirt from his mouth, his eyes blurred with tears of humiliation and he does not notice the fire increasing its fervor as if in great excitement.
The boy is now led to the rest of those in the circle where the throwing of dust is repeated, the same word shouted at him each time. Each time the fire appears to react in the same way, growing ever stronger until, by the time he reaches the last few, it is a raging inferno, despite being fueled by nothing other than a few small, dwindling logs. The heat from it begins to roast his back, adding yet more to the burden of pain.
Now the old man pushes him back down onto the sheet he arrived in and is kneeling beside him, staring into the flames. The boy turns his head to follow the man’s gaze and is sure that, for the most fleeting of moments, he sees the shape of a face amongst the billowing flames and is certain that he sees lips moving, whispering alien words. He turns back with a shiver despite the heat and sees that the man is now towering over him, sweat dripping from his nose. It was a face that had once been so familiar to the boy, so comforting and so warm. Now it inspired nothing in him but terror and hate.
Gasps can now be heard from the men who surround him and the boy turns again to the fire. It has changed its colour darkening from its previous shades of yellow and orange, to a uniform crimson red, almost identical to the hue of the old man’s cloak. Gasps turn to screams as real and unmistakable shapes appear in the flames. It becomes apparent that this is not what they were expecting and they start to flee from the scene. The flame-formed creatures leap from the logs and charge after them.
Only the old man appears to be unfazed by the chaos erupting around him and indeed seems empowered by it. He continues speaking in the same chanting voice and the essence of a smile creeps across his lips. His eyes widen and seem to change colour with the fiery objects reflected in his pupils. Unable to escape or to comprehend what is happening, the young boy passes out into blissful darkness.