Untitled Masterpiece
an excerpt

Prologue

Running hard, Bob hazarded a quick look behind his shoulder. They were still there, twinkling far away figures gaining slowly, their silver mounts not even appearing to be straining. His breath came in ragged short gasps, his entire side burning like fire. His quickening spell which allowed him to dart across the rocky beach as if a blur was failing and hadn't guaranteed his escape like the hand written label on the potion bottle had promised.

"Damn", he thought as panic began to seep in. Steal from the Angel Knights, so easy with the right tools the black robed man had promised him in that tavern two weeks ago. Like Stealing from a blind and deaf two year old had been his analogy. Yet these deaf and blind toddlers rode mystic, fast mounts and all clenched sharp weapons that glowed with pure white light. Bob had the distinct feeling that they were a little angry with him. Murderous rage angry as if each of the eight figures had caught him slitting their mother's throats.

"Oh, please Lord Dexigon," he prayed to the patron god of Thieves, Bards, And acrobats, "Let me survive this." Bob had a bad habit of getting deeply religious in moments such as this and then quickly forgetting his devout oaths as soon as he was safely out of harms way. Perhaps it was his God's moment of judgment or mere coincidence that the potion that had carried him this far took this ironic moment to completely fade. The beach he had sped across rose up to meet him as the disorienting effects of suddenly slowing down so quickly caused him vertigo and his foot caught a large rock, tripping him and spilling him into a rag doll roll for several yards. The object he had so rightfully stolen was knocked out of hand and when skipping across the rocky sand. Gasping hard as the sky spun above him he heard his pursuers approaching, knowing that he had only a few minutes before they were upon him.

He sat up and a wave of red agony slammed into him. His leg had broken badly; it lay at an awkward angle that made it hard for his eyes to look at. Whimpering, dizzy and fainting he pulled the black wand from his shoulder pouch. He wasn't at the instructed location to use it but he doubted the looming knights would assist him in reaching the cliff caves that were still off in the distance. He broke the smooth wooden stick in half and with an audible pop a familiar black robed figure was suddenly there, standing in front of him. Bob started to speak but his consciousness shrank down to a rapidly closing pinpoint. The black robed figure startled at his sudden summoning looked around quickly, assessing the situation. His rube lay on the ground, obvious usefulness was past him now, the hated holy rollers seconds away, and ah, yes there it was, almost lost amongst the scraggly sand growing weeds but glimmering like a shining star on a clear night, The Archangel. He quickly bent over and grabbed it, hissing in pain as contact with the hand sized gem started burning him and dropped it into a deep pocket in his robe. Looking up as the knights bore down on him; he smiled, twisted a ring on his finger and winked out of existence.

Bob, blissfully unconscious never learned of his employer's betrayal or his subsequent death as the knights leaped from their mounts and quickly surrounded him, hacking him to bloody bits as they howled their rage into the evening sky.