The Tree of Black and White (The Shadowdancer Chronicles, Book Two)

Prologue

Sheets of rain pounded the land in a relentless onslaught, as if the storm possessed an almost raw determination to cleanse the world and everything in it. Thunder crashed its way into nature's orchestra, adding an aura of torment to the night's already frightening intensity. The city streets had long since emptied, its citizens finding whatever solace they could beneath thatched roofing and leaky rafters. The parlor of the inn was, at least, drier than the rest of the town. Superior craftsmanship, Fern, the innkeep, would undoubtedly boast.

"Of course," he would bolster, "this fine establishment was built by these two hands."

Arlen scoffed at the thought, the old bastard had never bent a nail in his life, much less fashioned a board into anything more complicated than firewood. He looked down at his calloused hands, allowing for the blurred images from his eyes to catch up with his sluggish mind.

And then the bastard gets me drunk every time we play Plank! he thought, struggling against his self-induced inebriation. Though, it had been a rather uneventful night, at least until the sky opened up and pissed all over his mood—not to mention his plans of walking home at some point. He had to admit, his mood had been souring before the storm began. Plank was a game he never quite got a handle on, despite the money he insisted on losing to Dule and his half-wit brother. He had decided to take a break after the last beating; his pride needed lubricating as much as his senses. The mead helped. Fern filled him another goblet and sat it on the lacquered bar in front of Arlen. He wasn't much of a conversationalist.

"Fen, if you keep talking so much...I'll have to find another inn to rest my weary ears," Arlen blubbered, a quick laugh in tribute to his wittiness escaped his lips. He pulled the honey flavored liquid to his mouth and took a healthy pull.

"Arlen, you old cod, get your mangy ass back over here before me brother throws another tantrum. You know how he hates it when you stop giving your money away." The toothless man guffawed, pleased at the quip.

Arlen knew that had there been many other townsfolk in the inn, the haranguing would have been much worse. Luckily, Dule's brother, Ogg, was far too dense to find such a comment humorous. He was frighteningly good at Plank, however, even as he stared down at the table indifferently, with the only apparent objective of his disinterest to avoid any and all eye contact. He never even looked Dule in the eyes, not that the bastard seemed to care.

"I'm coming you lout," Arlen replied between swallows of mead. "Old Fen here told me that if I spilled mead on the board again he'd have me hanged." Arlen could not help but chuckle at the thought, though he wasn't sure why.

Dule smacked his gums together anxiously. "Fen, you mongrel, I have no doubt told you before; if you played even a few rounds with us our good friend Arlen would most certainly pay for replacement boards. He is a gullible sort, always falling for feints—even when we aren't trying."

After finishing off his mead, Arlen joined the men at the wooden table. Ogg twitched, his odd form of excitement practically bursting out of him as he tossed the pieces onto the board. Exactly what part of the board they landed, Arlen was not sure, for the pieces seemed to blend in with the various colors. He rubbed his eyes and blinked furiously, determined to preplan his bets for once.

"Look at that, Arlen," Dule laughed, "he got four in blue!"

Arlen shook his head, suddenly wishing he hadn't drank so much. "Damnit, Fen, your blasted mead has blinded me again!" He blinked his eyes furiously as he pulled out the few coins he had left in his pocket.

"Is that it, a few copper pieces for the rest of the night? Alador be gracious, Arlen, you won't even make it until the next thunderclap! Look at that, Ogg, he could buy us a few more drinks, maybe even a room for the night, but I doubt it." Dule dropped into a fit of laughter once more, his gums smacking obnoxiously. Ogg did not seem to notice, he was busy counting the cracks in the table.

With a glance around the room, Arlen fought off the urge to slap the toothless man across the face. Dule was a worthless winner, but Arlen knew that already. He frowned at the emptiness of the inn. There couldn't have been more than fifteen people in the eatery, probably the lowest number he had counted in at least two, maybe three fortnights. The realm changed when the Lost Prince returned, and then it changed again when he started burning the towns and killing the people that loved him. Arlen frowned, unsure of why the prince had come to his mind.

The storm roared through then, an open space where the door had been, but quieted behind the thick oak as the wood slammed shut. Arlen squinted at the newcomer, uncertain of who would be travelling during such a downpour. He was a large man, with mud-stained riding boots, worn leather gloves and a dark hooded cloak that concealed his features, but not the size of his shoulders. He hadn't moved since the door had shut. Mud sloughed off of his legs as the room took on an ominous silence. Travelers were not an anomalous occurrence, especially since the king had lost his mind, but this one was something different. He did not say a word, just peered across the room, invisible eyes searching every soul beneath his dark hood. Fen approached the man, the usual courtesies loosed from his innkeeper lips. The man didn't answer; his silence went either unnoticed or ignored by Fen as he pulled the cloak off of his large frame. The scream that escaped the serving wench's throat pierced Arlen's consciousness, awoke his tired heart. His eyes widened, his mouth went dry. The man's cracked skin was an awful shade of black that seemed to crawl across his body. Half of his face was charred, his head bald and mottled. He caught Fen in a crippling grip, his gruesome hand crushing the old man's windpipe with a sickening crunch. Fen crumpled to the floor, his face frozen; his heart still. The room erupted into chaos as chairs and tables were flung. Ogg sat motionless as his brother's head was wrenched from his body, as the blood spread on the floor in front of him.

Arlen tried to run, willing his body to escape the mayhem that had thrust itself into his venial existence, but it would not respond to his request. He lost control of his bowels as the man, or thing—for at this point he was not quite sure that it was a man—stepped in front of him. It smelled of burnt and rotted flesh. When it roared he could smell death's aroma. He cringed as he was dragged from his seat to face the creature, as its sour breath slithered past his face.

"Where...is...she?" the creature growled, his voice something out of a nightmare.

A flash of bewilderment crossed Arlen's face as he tried to understand what the creature was asking him. He shook his head, his voice caught somewhere behind the paralyzing fear that enveloped his body. Then, upon realizing his doom, a tear rolled down his cheek, the last tear he would ever shed.

Thank you for checking out the first chapters of The Tree of Black and White! Feel free to comment and vote if you enjoyed what you read!