Here is a little sample for you - the first chapter of Young Master Kindly. I hope you enjoy it.
Thirteen years ago.
Ustada. That was what it was called in the old tongue. But while new languages threw up new words, and since nobody spoke High Verek anymore, not since the Purge, pursuit would have to suffice. Rotok Miem counted his blessings, few as they were, as he clung tightly to the lean muscular back of the tonbunny as the giant rabbit thundered through the undergrowth. A loud crack issued from a rifle held by one of the pursuers, a thunderous sound that split the air. Burying his head in the tonbunny’s coarse fur, Rotok flinched as an arrow-tipped projectile zipped past his ear, parting hairs on the creature’s enormous head. The two pursuants urged their horses on faster, digging their spurred heels in. The smaller of the two took the long-barrelled weapon the other handed him and flipped down the lever that opened the breech, then slid home another arrow-pointed bullet and passed the gun back. Rotok guided his tonbunny through a violent zigzag that allowed another shot to miss him completely, much to the annoyance of the shooter, and turned his steed’s head towards the safety of the distant tree-line.
“Make this damned thing fire again!” The bigger man snarled, thrusting the weapon at his assistant. He did not understand firearms, and never would, so it was simpler to hand it to someone with the wherewithal to reload it. Grasping the rifle again, he loosed off another shot, which seemed to bounce off the air by the rider’s back, and the man cursed loudly, an act which made the other man wince. “What’s the matter, Forsythe? Lost the thrill of the chase?” Captain Ut’Arak snarled at his assistant.
“It’s just - language like that - I don’t feel it’s... entirely necessary sir.” Corporal Edward Forsythe flushed red at the outburst. Ut'Arak snarled again, and cursed even louder.
“Sir, Vereks are known for their ability to turn aside arrows that are fired at them. I don’t think…”
“You are not paid to think, imbecile!” The Captain snapped with such ferocity that Forsythe was taken aback, and nearly dropped the bullet he was holding. Taking the rifle, he reloaded it deftly and threw it back.
Rotok waved his hand again, sending the incoming bullet off in a random direction. The pursuers were gaining, and with each passing second he was losing ground. He dug his heels in, and though the creature was starting to show the strain, he urged his tonbunny to draw just a little more on its reserves of strength. “Not long now, we’re nearly there.” He murmured, and the rabbit seemed to understand, and put on a burst of speed. Sitting up straighter, Rotok unslung his warbow, the half-double ended sword half-longbow that was a trademark of the Verek people, and drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. The fletches on the bow were raven feathers, and shimmered with a faint magical haze. He held the arrow up and whispered to it, giving it instructions. As he spoke, the fletches illuminated, as if they understood what the arrow was being asked to do. Then he notched the arrow to the bow, and sat up straight, twisting so he could fire.
The arrow streaked through the air with a sound like tearing paper, a sound well-known and feared by all enemies of the Verek people. And it flew directly towards Ut’Arak. A split-second before it hit his face, it exploded in a brilliant white ball of light and sound, knocking him clear off his horse and stunning Forsythe. And with that, Rotok was gone, his tonbunny dived through a gap in the underbrush. Safe in the midst of the forest, Rotok slowed to a gentle thumping trot, stroking the large creature between the ears.
“It’s alright, Thunder. We’re safe now.” The rabbit wheezed and puffed, and for the first time Rotok noticed something was wrong. Dismounting, he saw a large ragged red hole in the creature’s side, just behind it’s front legs. The fur around the edges of the wound was matted with blood, Rotok let out a silent curse. “Come on Thunder, it’s not far now.” He placed a comforting arm over the animal’s neck, and walked with it for the next half a mile. The forest thinned out a bit, opening into a broad clearing, a small waterfall tumbling into a deep clear pool. Rotok’s face cheered a little as he turned to his rabbit companion. “Look, let’s rest here a while.” But it was no good. The tonbunny lay it’s giant furry head down, breath coming in a hard laboured rasp. Rotok choked back a tear, wading into the pool and untying his cooking pot from his belt, he filled it with the fresh limpid water. By the time he came back, Thunder, the tonbunny he had kept since it was a kitten, who he had ridden through the glory days of the Realm and into the darkest times of the Purge, looked up at him, large brown eyes glazing over. Rotok held the pot of water to the giant creature’s mouth, urging it to drink. It's tongue lapped out feebly as it tried to take in the water, and Rotok dipped his hand in the pot and stroked his steed’s forehead gently. “It’s all right Thunder. You’ll be all right.” Suddenly, Rotok felt very tired. The whirlwind of events recently had been breath-taking in its terror and ferocity, and with each new development came new horrors, fresh atrocities. Looking down, Rotok felt a tightening in his throat as a heavy shudder ran through Thunder’s body, and the wheezing stopped. Rotok slumped to the floor, his knees suddenly unable to keep him upright. The pot clattered from his fingers and sloshed its contents onto the mud. His mind spun, the force of emotions he had kept under tight check the past few weeks suddenly coming to the front with a giddying force. The murder of Master Kindly, cunningly staged as a public duel, the breathtakingly fast rise of that devil Arturis Ghazen to power, the Purge, the swift and absolute massacre of all Vereks and other ‘enemies of the Realm’ or as they really were, enemies of Ghazen, it all hit Rotok with such intensity he found it hard to breathe. At least his sons were safe. That he could be sure of, one little piece of knowledge he clung onto for dear life. He had ridden hard for three days straight to get them to safety, to a secret cell of supporters who would see to it that they were taken care of and raised in safety and peace. Then he thought of his wife - and her death at the hands of Realmsmen. Those swine had raided the village at dusk, and proclaimed all the inhabitants to be executed at first light. Then those villains had forced the village folk, at sword, spear and gunpoint through the night to build the very scaffold upon which they would hang in groups of five. Rotok had watched the scene from his hiding place with his sons, making himself leave before the killings started so that he could get his boys to safety. He had to leave his wife behind, to the mercies of the Realm’s Ninth Army Brigade. Now, his only trusted companion in this world had gone, killed by that scum Ut’Arak and his adjutant Forsythe.
Rotok tried to hold back his impotent rage: He wanted to lash out at the world, to hurt it back for all the pain it had put him through, but he knew that he could not make a difference, he could not take on the entire Realm Army all by himself. He would have to wait for his revenge.
And for the first time in nearly thirty years, he wept.
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