timelord4
The never on time lord
This is a short prologue for Book 1 of Dark Son Trilogy.
Any crics. welcome and thanks.
Approx 800 words.
As if to inspire his appetite, tender young lamb chops smothered with rich brown gravy, bubbled merrily on a platter on the table. To further tantalise the old man’s taste buds, a pitcher of heavy ale trickled beads of residue down one side, pooling at the base in a brown puddle. However, it was the game of Toh yet to come that truly excited him. The thrill coursed through him in eager anticipation. He smiled gleefully and reached for the ale.
‘You’re odd,’ the second man grimaced. He slid into a bench opposite, placing a small rectangular box on the table beside him.
Sweeping long silver hair over one shoulder, the old man raised his tankard in greeting and pulled deeply of the draught. Foam clung in whispery threads to the edges of his moustached beard and he wiped them away with a smack of his lips.
‘At least you could have picked a better tavern.’ The dark man settled into the bench and flicked a quick glance around him.
‘Nothing wrong with this one.’ A chop was dunked into the gravy; stirred into the potato mash and soon the sound of teeth grinding across bone filled the space between them.
A look of annoyance creased the second man’s brow. ‘And gross.’ He cast his gaze about the tavern, watching as a pall of smoke pushed itself out of the fireplace - like the huff of a sleeping dragon. What little light flickered over his black; almost deep grape, features and he shook his shiny baldhead. ‘At least you could have picked a better setting,’ he muttered.
‘I thought you liked medieval settings.’ The old man tore at a loaf of bread, dipping it into his food. ‘Goes with your complexion.’
‘Goes with your age.’
‘Really, I thought we were the same age?’
‘We are, it’s just that at times you look more like my father.’
The old man guffawed; chuckling around the chunk of gravy soaked bread. ‘Hardly. Only the blind man in the corner would believe that.’
The dark man peered into the corner where the blind man supped at his ale. He grinned. The magician had the right of it. He opened the box, carefully taking out a board and unfolding it flat on the table.
‘What, you’re not eating?’
‘Later.’ The dark man eyed the chops and looked away. Maybe not. They looked greasy. Eventually he took up his pitcher and sipped at his ale. Mercy! The stuff was vile. He looked around for somewhere to spit.
After what seemed a short amount of time, the old man sat back and smiled broadly. He tossed the last chop bone onto his plate, wiped grease from his lips with the back of his hand and eyed his ale. ‘Good drop, isn’t it?’
Shaking his head, the dark man glanced up at the magician, irritation a smouldering ember in his dark pitched eyes.
Unperturbed, the magician took a large swallow of his ale and slid along his bench leaving the empty plate behind him.
‘Ah. So we begin.’ He rubbed his hands together, a trickle of drool barely missing the Toh board in front of him.
The dark man shivered in disgust. Surely I can find another partner?
They began to place pieces from the box onto the board. Two rows in front of each man, one side was white the other black.
The dark man selected a piece from each side and shook his hands before holding them out in front of him.
Tapping one of his friend’s hands, the magician leaned forward to see which piece he had selected. White!
The dark man wiped the back of his hand on his robe as they turned the board to set the colours.
‘Same deal daemon?’ A silvery eyebrow was raised towards the dark man.
Settling back on his bench, the dark man considered. The same deal. It was always the same deal. Set the fate of a people with the move of a piece. Destiny in the hands of a disgusting old magician and a grumpy black daemon. So be it. He nodded his head.
‘We start from this age?’
Again the nod.
‘And what are you this time dark daemon?’
‘And what are you old Merlin?’
The magician picked up a piece. The Fair Prince. Mischief glinted in his rheumy eyes and a smile curled his lips. He nodded his head to the daemon.
The dark man hesitated, before closing his fist around his selected piece. They both studied it a moment. Intricately carved from the bone of an ancient black dragon, the ebony figure gleamed in the half-light. Time stood and stamped its feet, impatient to be about it. The world paused, gathering its breath. And exhaled in expectation as the daemon moved the piece two squares up the board.
‘The game begins with the Dark Son.’
Any crics. welcome and thanks.
Approx 800 words.
As if to inspire his appetite, tender young lamb chops smothered with rich brown gravy, bubbled merrily on a platter on the table. To further tantalise the old man’s taste buds, a pitcher of heavy ale trickled beads of residue down one side, pooling at the base in a brown puddle. However, it was the game of Toh yet to come that truly excited him. The thrill coursed through him in eager anticipation. He smiled gleefully and reached for the ale.
‘You’re odd,’ the second man grimaced. He slid into a bench opposite, placing a small rectangular box on the table beside him.
Sweeping long silver hair over one shoulder, the old man raised his tankard in greeting and pulled deeply of the draught. Foam clung in whispery threads to the edges of his moustached beard and he wiped them away with a smack of his lips.
‘At least you could have picked a better tavern.’ The dark man settled into the bench and flicked a quick glance around him.
‘Nothing wrong with this one.’ A chop was dunked into the gravy; stirred into the potato mash and soon the sound of teeth grinding across bone filled the space between them.
A look of annoyance creased the second man’s brow. ‘And gross.’ He cast his gaze about the tavern, watching as a pall of smoke pushed itself out of the fireplace - like the huff of a sleeping dragon. What little light flickered over his black; almost deep grape, features and he shook his shiny baldhead. ‘At least you could have picked a better setting,’ he muttered.
‘I thought you liked medieval settings.’ The old man tore at a loaf of bread, dipping it into his food. ‘Goes with your complexion.’
‘Goes with your age.’
‘Really, I thought we were the same age?’
‘We are, it’s just that at times you look more like my father.’
The old man guffawed; chuckling around the chunk of gravy soaked bread. ‘Hardly. Only the blind man in the corner would believe that.’
The dark man peered into the corner where the blind man supped at his ale. He grinned. The magician had the right of it. He opened the box, carefully taking out a board and unfolding it flat on the table.
‘What, you’re not eating?’
‘Later.’ The dark man eyed the chops and looked away. Maybe not. They looked greasy. Eventually he took up his pitcher and sipped at his ale. Mercy! The stuff was vile. He looked around for somewhere to spit.
After what seemed a short amount of time, the old man sat back and smiled broadly. He tossed the last chop bone onto his plate, wiped grease from his lips with the back of his hand and eyed his ale. ‘Good drop, isn’t it?’
Shaking his head, the dark man glanced up at the magician, irritation a smouldering ember in his dark pitched eyes.
Unperturbed, the magician took a large swallow of his ale and slid along his bench leaving the empty plate behind him.
‘Ah. So we begin.’ He rubbed his hands together, a trickle of drool barely missing the Toh board in front of him.
The dark man shivered in disgust. Surely I can find another partner?
They began to place pieces from the box onto the board. Two rows in front of each man, one side was white the other black.
The dark man selected a piece from each side and shook his hands before holding them out in front of him.
Tapping one of his friend’s hands, the magician leaned forward to see which piece he had selected. White!
The dark man wiped the back of his hand on his robe as they turned the board to set the colours.
‘Same deal daemon?’ A silvery eyebrow was raised towards the dark man.
Settling back on his bench, the dark man considered. The same deal. It was always the same deal. Set the fate of a people with the move of a piece. Destiny in the hands of a disgusting old magician and a grumpy black daemon. So be it. He nodded his head.
‘We start from this age?’
Again the nod.
‘And what are you this time dark daemon?’
‘And what are you old Merlin?’
The magician picked up a piece. The Fair Prince. Mischief glinted in his rheumy eyes and a smile curled his lips. He nodded his head to the daemon.
The dark man hesitated, before closing his fist around his selected piece. They both studied it a moment. Intricately carved from the bone of an ancient black dragon, the ebony figure gleamed in the half-light. Time stood and stamped its feet, impatient to be about it. The world paused, gathering its breath. And exhaled in expectation as the daemon moved the piece two squares up the board.
‘The game begins with the Dark Son.’
