Shadowkin
Part I: The Attack on Zorrinthia Valley

“It’s a boy!” Came the call.
“What!?!” hurried stomping indicated that someone was running up a flight of steps. The door burst open and a moderately built man barged in. He was approximately 5 ft, 6 inches and looked absolutely ragged.
His wavy blond hair was matted down with sweat… after all; it was hot in the waiting room. He was wearing fingerless gloves, jeans, a white t- shirt, and a jean jacket with an odd insignia on the back; Three triangles; red, white, and black, linked by a single golden loop. In the center of the loop, there were archaic symbols that probably signified something important, but the ability to read this language has long since died.
The man was carrying a half-empty food tray. “You… it…” the man was stunned into babbling like a dimwitted fool.
A woman dressed in naught but a hospital gown smiled from her position on the hospital bed. For, of course, that was where they were. “Yes… it finally came” she said weakly, putting as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible.
“But… why didn’t you call me?” he sputtered wringing his hands nervously. “I wanted to know! To be by your side!”
She laughed. It sounded like the sky opened up and the angels began singing to the rather disshelved man standing half inside the doorway. “I knew you’d say that, Tarsa, you always worry. I was fine all by myself. I’m a big girl, you know!” She winked.
“I know, Rachael, but… you know what I mean!” Tarsa stuttered, obviously a bit flustered. He began pacing the room anxiously, staring at the baby with a look of tenderness that betrayed a father in his eye. He stopped suddenly. A name! We haven’t got a name!” He yelled excitedly.
“We’ll think of one tomorrow.” Said Rachael softly. “Right now I… I need… sleep…” Rachael dozed off in her bed. Tarsa quietly sat and gazed fondly at his son until he, too, Dozed.


Midnight came. A bolt of lightning cracked in the distance. The figure in the darkness diverted his eyes for a second, then resumed watching the village in the valley below. It sat there for several minutes, letting up on his gaze only when the shadows shimmered, and the lights in the village flickered rapidly. A second figure appeared in a haze of darkness directly to the right of the first.
“Can you sense it?” came a deep rumbling voice.
“Yes.” A slower, leathery voice
A pause came, followed by “Then you know what we must do.”
“I do…” He pulled a small book from under his cloak.

“I lay out the rules for any and all
Of the children of darkness who answer my call.
Two reapers of lightforms there may be,
But all is lost when the numbers make three.”

“If a third special child comes onto this earth,
Another will die to give this one berth…”

It said the next line with apprehension

“If the child is killed, order will be restored.
The curse will be lifted until there are four.”

It finished reading and licked its lips anxiously.
“Then we strike tomorrow night.” The deep voice rumbled.
“To… Tomorrow?” the leathery voice quivered. “But what if the child is more powerful than us?”
A slow, jeering laugh. “Would you have us wait until his powers mature? Besides, it is laughable that you would think that a mere child could beast two reapers!” the laugh continued.
“No!… I was simply startled that we would strike so soon.” The figure seemed reassured.
“Then… it is decided?”
“…Yes.”
Both figures vanished simultaneously into the rippling darkness.


The child was very strange. First, he had begun sprouting teeth already. Second, he could walk, and third, he seemed to have a fondness for tinkering with small objects and then destroying them. The parents were obviously very proud. Except for the destruction bit… ah, well… after all, who ever heard of a baby that could walk on day one? But to an eye that knew about certain things, trouble was brewing. It was simply a matter of time.


Twilight:

The two figures from the night before merged into the scene with naught but a haze of darkness. They wore long cloaks, so their features were hidden, but the one with the deep rumbling voice was clearly the larger of the two. He spoke: “The time has come. We shall see who dies tonight.” A chuckle, slowly joined by the second figure.
“But why wait a night when we could easily have killed the child in the beginning?” began the leathery-voiced figure, but was abruptly cut off by the large one.
“We were simply scouting talent, as it says in the unholy tome!” He said viciously. I was under the impression that you knew the book inside and out? Backwards and forwards? ... or did you lie to me?” He began studying his partner with mock suspicion.
“I see that you have been reading up. Very astute” The smaller figure said quietly pulling out his older, more battered version and tapping it on the palm of his hand. “But who is to say that I haven’t been reading as well?” He conjured a ball of souls in the flat of his palm, and slowly pulled out a sheet of metal.
“Wrought by holyfyre?” Asked the second in awe, gazing at the metal with reverence and hatred.
The second spoke one word: “yes” before plunging his fingers into the glowing orb of souls and crushing it, covering them in raw energy, and delivering a single punch to the sheet of metal in his hand. The sheet repulsed, then blew apart, shattering into a shower of power-imbibed scrap metal.
“… Unholy… Ryugekken?” Asked the large figure slowly, in clear reverence, more so than even the metal had accomplished “But… but… that’s”…
“Impossible? Ha! Nothing is impossible now! We will break down whole fortresses with this might behind us!” The second figure began throwing his head back, as if to laugh, but no sound came out. The first, as if sensing something wrong, shot his gaze from the still smoldering pile of metal scrap to the second and gasped. The second figure lay limp on the end of a glowing sword, black blood seeping from the wound and burning a hole in the ground under, lighting the grass ablaze. There was Tarsa at the other end of the sword, glaring at the second figure. Tarsa’s hair was now spiked up, and he was wearing much the same outfit he had before, but this jacket had the red triangle only. He looked much sharper today than he did yesterday, or indeed, for a long while.
“I thought I could feel you last night, but I couldn’t pinpoint your location as I was sleeping at the time.” Said Tarsa, sweeping the body of the second off his blade and wiping it off on a white cloth, which did not burst into flames. “But I’ve found you now, and you shall die for it. Were you plotting to kill my son?” Tarsa finished wiping his blade and stood there, sword raised, pointing at he whom the sword itself wished to slice into ribbons.
“You… who are you?” spat the large figure, throwing his hood back and placing his hand on a concealed pocket in his robes. The man’s head was scarred, mutilated into an unrecognizable form. He was completely bald, and his eyes, the only part of his face left unscarred, were pitch-black.
“Know this: the man who killed you and your comrade is called Tarsa Rieson, and he is a freelance wearer of the red.” Tarsa raised his sword higher and brought it down with one fluid motion. The big man, even though he was expecting it, was surprised and nearly didn’t raise his blade in time to catch the blow. He was forced to take a step back, but compensated by throwing his entire body towards the right and knocking Tarsa’s sword away from his. Tarsa used the momentum to swing his left foot in a wide arc, bringing it to a crushing stop on the big man’s lower jaw. Tarsa then pounced, gliding into the air with a graceful flip, and landing behind the man.
“Goodbye!” shouted Tarsa, ramming his blade through the big man’s flesh, tearing through bone and muscle until he hit the dark orb where the heart was supposed to be. Tarsa withdrew his blade, wiping in on the white rag. Then he discarded the rag on the smaller man’s body. He pulled the man’s hood back with a tenderness akin to a brother, and then whispered “goodbye.” And he walked away. For the man he had killed had wavy blonde hair, and was slightly built…