The Keeper of Gods
by Ryan Delege
(This is the prologue of a fantasy novel. I am new to creative writing and am excited to see where it takes me. This story is aimed at adults or young adults, there is some violence. Let me know if the prologue entices you to want me to continue writing the book. The protagonist is not yet introduced here. I hope you enjoy coming with me on my writing journey!)
Prologue
There is wind and there is snow, and a palace, ancient and forlorn…
There’s still a bit of magic left, infused into the Palace walls. If you were there, if you placed your mortal hands upon those stalwart stones, you might even feel the magic’s minute vibrations, a pulse that continues to trickle through the construct like lifeblood driving through an artery. The magic used to serve many purposes. But without the Goddess there to wield it, it relents and performs only the most rudimentary of tasks. Foremost, it upholds its duty of bonding the construct together so as to not let go and crumble apart — the high outer walls, the buildings within, and not to forget the seven towers, each one stepping higher to the heavens than the last — as the Palace was pieced together with polished stone and white jade and obsidian and other fine materials but alas, no mortar to tarnish the seams. Another function of the magic which still persists is the lighting of the innumerable wall-mounted oil lanterns that are found throughout. Those that were once in the courtyard were blasted and destroyed long ago by fierce storms, but the others, those that were tucked away in the halls and in the endless count of rooms, remain pristine. Filled with an oil which is, magically, never exhausted, and each coming alit just as the sun begins its final pitch across the horizon at day’s end.
It is upon this twilight hour, when the first flickers of candlelight climb the inner stony walls, that the creature of the castle stirs from the depths of his slumber; a dejected thing who’s endured the centuries. He is the last soul present of what was once a thriving society, in service to a Goddess no less, he who did not have the good sense to leave..or die. He lies like a dead husk underneath a massive marble table in one of many great dining halls. A plush cloth of fine stitch heavy laden with dust from centuries of neglect drapes the table, and its fringes hang low and shield the creature from the sunlight by day. And how he loathes the sun. It burns his pupils and makes him sweat unbearably. But the worst thing of all, it reminds him of better, sweeter times, lost forever.
Not all, but most nights are of the same pattern; He drags himself from out under the great table, begrudgingly, and performs a stretch which causes each one of his joints to pop and crunch in turn, a grotesque cacophony that echoes out and through the adjoining hallways. Then a cortege through the palace and its appending edifices follows. His reddened and bloodshot eyes fall upon everything, scanning that all is intact and undisturbed. Rarely is something amiss, but from time to time he finds a window that’s decayed and splintered or busted out entirely, which he patchworks with sticks he gathers from the snowy outer courtyard. Most vehemently, he checks for trespassers. They come eventually, the curious or the opportunists looking to plunder, less so as the years pass on mind you. Trespassers will not be tolerated. The grounds are sacred and are to be left undisturbed. He knows this would be the Goddess’s wish, should she ever return, and the desires of the Goddess are all.
Not every corner of the palace is trudged to each night, perhaps he once felt it necessary but no longer. And by the hour of midnight, just before he exits the Palace to do his hunting and capture his dinner, he makes his way to the room at the top of the tallest tower, where the Goddess did once sleep. Here he finds her great mirror with a golden and bejeweled frame that still glitters with some divinity, the very one his Goddess used to appreciate herself in before joining the unceasing festivities that used to invigorate the halls with joyous voices. He stares into it and wishes her back. What he witnesses staring back at him he does not recognize, and it enrages and confuses him and it causes him to growl a low, deep growl, these horrible changes her absence has rendered him…
He was once such a noble creature, first-hand servant to his Goddess no less… Man-like, yes, but not a man. Not one of those imprudent, abhorrent beings — no. He’d worn white robes and lived in the palace when its splendor and beauty still shone so unimaginably, its magic full and vibrant. The Palace set so perfectly upon its half-mountain covered in a blanket of pristine virgin snow. The Palace was so divine in its perfection that it was often noted that its majesty and beauty was only rivaled by the Goddess that had created it. He could have once told you what he was, described to you the nature of his kind which stood erect like men stood but with their goat-like faces, hoofed feet, and their brushed white fur that shone pearl-like under a fair sun. He could have told you of his devout nature, his honor in service. But that was many hundreds of years ago… thousands of years ago possibly…when he’d been a servant to her, his Goddess. But she had fled. No, that wasn’t quite right. The Goddess had…she had…alas, he could never remember. And without her, he was…well…not himself. Over the millennia he had slowly undergone a change, a metamorphosis, had become something feral. Perhaps even something evil. His face had elongated and his teeth were no longer squared and perfect, instead they’d become sharp like jagged chips of shale, misshapen and crooked. His fur had lost its sheen and beauty, it hung coarse and matted and had turned from its pristine white to a muddied beige with blotchy strands of dull gray. He’d grown a foot taller. He had already been tall compared to man, now he stood at least three heads taller than the average mortal man stood. And lastly, the crown at his brow, which had been two, respectable horns, no longer than pocket blades, had grown out to become long, twisting branches, hideously unsymmetrical. He had become a monster no less, if perhaps un-admittedly to himself, a demon destined to linger in the higher icy elevations which was, and had always been, his homeland. And he was to haunt the forlorn palace of his forgotten goddess forever it seemed, with its seven broad towers reaching dreamily to the celestial heavens above.
One fair night, no different than most, the creature left the Palace for his usual night hunt and he took to a jutting ledge. His senses came alive as his heart pumped harder, and his muscles turned agile and obedient with the anticipation of the hunt. The ledge overlooked the vast wilds of trees and stonescapes which bordered his lands of ice and snow from the warmer lands of grass and dirt and freely flowing waters. He wasn’t tired of eating bear or elk meat, or chasing snow cats. But that night, as on some other nights, what he desired was something more exotic, that of which his Northern world did not offer. His mouth drooled with anticipation. So he’d go a little ways south decidedly, to the lower elevations where the snows did not take and the world was enlivened with strange and vibrant colors. It wasn’t so bad to go there, so long as he did not stay a spell and become saturated by that hotter, sousing air. And stay long he never did.
He descended from his perch, deftly, charged with a type of wicked grace and he entered the shadowy woods. That night’s moon was an orb of faint emerald dotted by glowing, volcanic amber specs. He knew its name once — no longer. It cast its natural light wanly as the goat-thing wound its way south between the tangles of forest. The forest barrier between his world and the lower one was vast and thick, with only thin, obscure deer and wolf trails to follow. Even with his preternatural speed it took hours for the creature to reach what he thought of as the summerlands.
Once he broke from the forest labyrinth he took pause to familiarize himself with new scents which were converging upon the warmer breezes. How amplified this all was compared to his icy home. The variants of smell of plants flowering were especially pungent. He could not decide if he wanted to smell, eat, or tear apart whichever flora gave off such an accosting aroma. It was only a short distance to where he knew he’d find what he journeyed so far to devour. And after only several furlongs did he come across a small farm nestled amongst tall, lush grasses — next to a large loping hill dotted with little somber trees with leaves that fluttered like butterflies in the moonlight. The creature found a large Oak in the middle of a farmer’s field. Its great husky branches were a perfect perch to hunker upon as he surveyed the land. He could hear and smell and even taste the absurdly fluffy mammals he sought upon the light breeze. Oh Gods, how it drove him mad with hunger, how tender he imagined the meat would be. Although a mortal man’s eye may have overlooked them, encumbered by the darkness of middle night, the sheep which lay in pairs and triplets under a distant treeline were found by the adept predator’s eyes straight away. They stuck out like fluffy, iridescent clouds to him. And to his profoundly acute hearing, he perceived them to be breathing abhorrently loud. It was a wonder to him that they did not wake the entire sleeping world. He uttered the name of his prey in his own native tongue. It did not come out correctly pronounced though, his mouth was no longer capable of making such pronunciations with his over-elongated tongue and mal-formed fangs. It was but a slobbery sound, spat more than said really, and its tone laced with malice. There was little time between his descent from the great oak and the sinking of his fangs into a poor lamb’s neck. And at first, the other sheep, lying meek and comatose didn’t even rouse, his initial attack so quietly executed. They did not stir until he was onto his second victim, not even bothering to devour a credible amount from the first. He gorged and chewed and sucked at the bones of the hapless sheep. He stopped only to slap his long tongue across his jowls, savoring the taste of fresh, hot blood. His eyes rolled back into his head in pleasure but his lids stayed open, revealing a horrifying and pupilless gaze. Finally, and all at once, the other sheep awoke and “baaaad” in their own form of terror. The Goat-thing tossed the meal he’d been holding, it slammed against a tree with a deadening “thwap” sound. A small explosion of panic took the pasture then and the intruder went onto his third course of what was likely to be only the beginning of the feast. His jaws were rich with blood, rich with meat. He swallowed portion after portion but it barely soothed the insatiable hunger within. That was until, unexpectedly, his feast was rudely interrupted.
An unwanted sensation gathered around his calf muscle, it promptly became a surging pain shooting up his brutish leg. He looked down and witnessed a mongrel savaging away at his calf. The goat-thing let out a howl in pain, in anger, in both. He swept a backhand at the pathetic assailant and caught the thing broadside in the ribs. The mutt reeled but recovered and came back, its efforts redoubled. Stupid, stupid thing! Thought the goat creature. The dog bit into his other calf and savaged away, shaking its head left then right then left then right as its teeth kept locked on its foe’s leg. Another interruption came from across the field, the sound of shouting. The goat-being looked up and saw a human holding a torch. He was a small orange dot backdropped by his man-dwelling off in the distance. He was no threat, decided the creature straight away, not likely at least. But then again, humans could be tricky. He returned his attention to the dog and grasped it in both hands, he ripped it from his limb and threw it so hard into the ground that the dog’s torso left a heavy divot in the soft earth. The mutt gave a mortally wounded yelp and then went quiet. The creature looked back to the man. “Come for me!” he hissed in his own language. But the man-figure just stood there waving his torch. “Come for me!” The monster hissed again, daringly. “Come so that I may devour you too!” The creature contemplated charging the man but decided against it. I’ve eaten enough was his choice. And adding man-meat to his supper was not what he sought that night. He picked up the last sheep he had slain and tucked it under an arm and leapt away with it. He would put it on ice and save it for another time.
