Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

Here is the first installment of my fantasy story, Flight of the Black Swan.  I know it's short, but at least it's a beginning.  Please, please tell me what you think -- I thrive on constructive criticism!

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Three tides had turned since Andrynnor lost her king, and unrest was thriving within every province.

Not a soul had foreseen the tragic event; not even the Ancients, who prided themselves with their knowledge of the past, present, and sometimes the future. Who, indeed, would have been able to predict that something so shocking would occur right when peace had been just within the country’s grasp?

Peace. It was all the king had ever wanted, and he had pursued it onto dangerous grounds – never knowing that it would eventually lead to his untimely death.

There were those who had resisted when the king had first announced his plan to create an alliance with Selta. Who could blame them, after all? It had been nearly a century and a half since the Andrynnorian-Seltanese war had come to a bloody end, but there were still many who had never forgotten what the barbarians from across the Eastern sea had done to their forefathers. Wounds of the flesh may heal in a fortnight, but wounds of the heart are far more difficult to mend.

The king, with all his good intentions, had let this slip his mind.

The day that would alter the course of the proud island country’s history had begun like any other spring day. After the king had broken his fast, he expressed a desire to go walking along the parapets of the royal castle. Ondhyrinn, proud capital of Andrynnor, never looked so breathtaking as it did bathed in the rays of the rising sun, with the sea stretching out from its docks like an endless expanse of liquid gold. The city had been built during the reign of King Markus, and had survived hundreds of years’ worth of storms, assaults, and the occasional plague. Still it stood dazzling and firm, a jewel in the crown of the Northern Kingdom.

It was no secret, the love that the king bore for the city of his birth. While standing on the ramparts of the royal castle, he could look past the many rooftops to the hustle and bustle of the dockside marketplace as vendors advertised the day’s catch, to the dock itself where ships were born, and beyond that, the spacious bay of Hollfast where those same ships would later learn to fly. If he chose to gaze further, he could drink in the most spectacular sight of all: the great Eastern sea.

So it was that on that beautiful morning, the king was so caught up in his daily greeting to his beloved city that he failed to notice that no guards were on duty that day. Something was terribly amiss – that much could be sensed by those who had worked in the castle the longest – and yet, nobody thought to look where the king was most likely to be. The next anybody saw of him was a prostrate form lying in a scarlet pool near one of the battlements, a long, black-feathered arrow protruding from between his shoulder blades. An unfortunate servant girl whose job it was to clean the ramparts was the first to discover the gruesome corpse, and within an hour the entire city of Ondhyrinn had received the woeful tidings.

The king of Andrynnor had been assassinated in his own castle, and by an unknown hand.

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Part 2 is in the making, so stay tuned!  For those interested in Andrynnor, I have created a story blog where I will post bits of information as well as the full chapters once they are completed.

Edgar Allan Poe