This was the first story I ever worked on. Thoughts?
Prologue: Appointed Once to Die. . .
Rûndin Aersvörkensí was running for his life. With his friend for life, the Qordan Aélnä Thrazhqor, he was running from the Näqan Deathunters while protecting the Book of Names. The young Warrior Prophet had been hunted all the way from the lost cities of Vrína and Frë by the demonic warriors of the Mad Usurper Zak’kar due to both his occupation and the nature of the item he guarded.
As Rûndin and Thrazhqor flew over the mountains that formed a partial defense for the Bastion of Light, Rûndin’s base of operations, Rûndin glanced into the pouch carrying the Chronicle on Thrazhqor’s saddlebag. The volume nearly glowed red as the blood of the dead it spoke of, dead elves that had been the victims of Zak’kar’s treachery. He tucked the tome back under its leather covering as the drawbridge to his fortress closed. The few dedicated guardians of the citadel moved with a speed born of long years of practice to their battle stations, and prepared for war.
The siege was going ill for the defenders of the Bastion of Light. Rûndin saw this and was saddened greatly. He knew now what he had only suspected before. The mindless malice of the enemy was such that to save the manuscript and its prophecy, he would need to die, along with all of the defenders save one. With a sense of doom, he summoned his most trusted captain and gave to him a suicidal—yet vital— mission. With the manuscript taken care of, he went out to the walls for the last time to marshal the defense.
Temazrí was dying. He could tell by the way that spineless apathy was falling over his body. Oh, to sleep, to see his homelands once more. Never again would there be peace, not until the Two Realms were once again made whole. Until then, there was the mission. And he was not allowed to die until the Chronicle could be delivered.
A curse in Zadkrudos. The Fireborn had found him easier than he had thought they would. Temazrí kept running. Oh, Maker, please let him come soon.
There he was. Temazrí literally bowled him over. The Elfling was confused, likely did not even know his heritage. Temazrí hauled himself up, yelled in the odd tongue they spoke on earth, “Take the book and run! Flee the wrath ahead! Your time will come soon enough.”
The Elfling did indeed run, Rundín’s tome tucked under his arm. Temazrí drew a pair of knives, the only weapons he had been allowed to take on his mission, and charged his pursuers. All has been done, the end is near. A sword slashed his throat. Darkness.
Mikael Anderson was still running by the time he arrived at the library. He had no clue why that strange man had given him the book, but it must have been important. The man was dead, Mikael did not doubt that. The only question, then, was what the book held.
Mikael walked into the library as calmly as he could and promptly ensconced himself in a corner with the book. Its first page was indecipherable, although it looked like some sort of runic language. The second page looked like a translation of the first: a lengthy block of text about a group of elves that had escaped some great apocalypse and fled to earth.
He died for a novel? Since when do people go to such extreme lengths for a story? The next page: the beginnings of a genealogy in the runic tongue with English underneath each entry. The names sounded realistic…Wait. Mikael re-read the last line. Last known Descendents: Bozeman: Anderson, Jones, Martin, Ferris... “What?” There was no way that any of those names were descended from such beings, was there? The rest of the book seemed to follow a similar pattern, talking about different clans of elves and listing genealogies for those families.
Mikael flipped to the last page. The script was different than the rest of the book, but written in English. Beware. You no longer can claim innocence and know nothing of your heritage. Now that the Book of Names is yours, you have a choice to run. You can flee from those who will now wish to kill you. However, your friends will have no escape. Your second choice is to face the darkness in the North. Fight back, and rally as many as you can to your cause. Choose wisely, Mikael. I have much faith in you. Rundín Aersvörkensi.
Shadows fall, darkness rises.
Lightning from the Land Beyond
Shall end the world at Maker’s call.
A warrior, made prophet,
Who shall set you free;
And death taste twice,
before life without end.
Attached to the last page was a gemstone inscribed with runes of fire.