Borcrie, Chapter 1

A solemn full moon glared down at the silent city of Amallayris. It coed a calming wind that seemed to try to sooth the cities grievous mood. Like a mother brushing her hand gently over her child, the wind tenderly ran its fingers through the hair of six year old Egill Moonstone as his eyes intently stared at his father's back upon the roof of their spiraling gray-stoned home. His father glared down at the empty streets of Amallayris, watching an empty paper bag rustle down the alley with the wind. Apart from the periodic hoots of the owls in the thick canopied forests surrounding the city, it was the only sound that thumbed in his ears.
He choked abruptly as a thick knot formed in his throat, leaving six year old Egill staring at him from behind with a look of utter confusion on his face. His father was only imprecisely aware of his sons gaze. A stream of tears suddenly burst forth and his cries echoed through the empty streets. He quickly clamped his hands around his face to muffle the sound.
Egill crawled forward and weakly pulled on his father's soft, black pants, begging for his father's attention. His father turned his head and gave Egill a stern gaze with his tear-reddened eyes. He wiped a tear from his cheek, then gently spoke to his son.
“Listen. What do you hear?”
“Nothing, Dad.”
The father nodded. “Exactly. Nothing. The world is lifeless. Soullessly drifting on. But it was not always like this. Once their was a time for laughter, but then the elementals were born.”
“Elementals?” Egill squeaked.
“The essence of earth composed into solid form. They cannot be killed, yet the slaughter hordes of our people. No where on this planet is safe from them. They were born when we started taking from the earth. Erupting from under ground for the sole purpose of defeating man. Their retribution…revenge for our greed.”
“Dad, your scaring me,” Egill quivered.
“No! Do not fear. Do not even know the word. They feed off of fear. And I worry that the fear of this city may soon lure them close.”
The father bent and placed his hand on Egill’s fragile shoulder. “But there is hope. A way single way to defeat them. An organization named the Borcrie own a weapon, join them, make them use it. Lead men to victory over this evil."
His final words trailed off to fill the silence of the sleeping city; a city replete with fear.
His father's eyes shifted towards the moon. He gasped as its curtains suddenly shifted color. He jumped over his son, shielding him with his body. A bloody ooze dripped down the moon and the horizon burst into an orange flame, regressing the surrounding forests into a thick, black ash that rained down on the city in sheets.
“Get back!” Egill’s father commanded.
“W-what’s going on, Dad?” Egill stuttered.
“Get back!” his father berated.
Egill sank away from his father, hiding himself in the shadow of the brick chimney that jutted out of the roof.
A nerve-racking shriek echoed above the crackle of he flames licking through the forest. A hail storm of fire rained down from the sky, turning the forests into a sea of ash that flooded into the streets, turning everything black.
A faint glow emerged at the curb of the alley, it source was hidden behind a broken wall.
Egill’s head popped over the chimney curiously.
“Stay!” his father commanded, harshly.
Egill nodded faintly, soullessly, and hid himself in the shadows. His father careened his neck over the stone railing of the roof, trying to find the red glow. A sharp crackle caught his attention. The glow washed forward, heat bombarding the broken wall. An image of a man caught the father's eye. The body was suspended in air, and the same red glow radiated off his skin.
The man let out a course gasp for air and clawed at his neck ravenously. Egill’s father stumbled backwards as he noticed a flaming hand ringing the mans neck, its blurred fingers dug into his windpipe.
Abruptly, a fiery lance exposed itself from behind the wall, its bearer still hidden. It thrust forwards and jabbed through the stomach of the man with a faint hiss.
The man let out a final gasp. His eyes receded into his head. The flames that emitted from his lance hungrily licked at the raw flesh, turning his skin a dark black.
Egill’s father gasped as the lance wielder stepped forward out of the cover of the wall. Its figure resembled that of a human, but its features were blurred out of recognition. Its body was completely engulfed in flame, but it did not injure the figure in any way. Its scorched hand slowly pulled the fiery lance out of the man, savoring the taste of death. A few flakes of ash from the mans scalded stomach fell to the ground.
A rancid smell erupted from the mans corpse, and Egill’s father involuntarily snorted in disgust. His eyes widened as the fiery figure slowly turned its head, its blurred black eyes meeting his.
The figure opened his palm, releasing his grasp on the corpses neck. The body fell limply to the ground.
Sharply, it turned, craning it’s body around until it faced the father. He gasped and clambered backwards until he felt a tinge of pain as his spin crashed piercingly against the bricks of the chimney.
Egill’s tiny head curiously peered over the chimney top, but it was hidden by a critical gaze from his father.
A wave of anticipation flooded his body, making his brain numb. He gazed from his crippled position for the creature’s red luminosity, but was blinded by confusion and fear. His eyes accidentally washed over the blood-stained moon. He wished for its comforting winds that once coed a song of security, but only felt a bombarding sense of death.
His stomach shuddered violently as a brutal pain erupted up his spine and spread like wild fire throughout his body. He felt his hands grow cold, even though he plainly saw a yellow flame greedily lick them. He tried to budge, but his feet were unresponsive. The horrible pain in his stomach numbed to a dull throb. A dark haze fogged his vision, and doing the only thing he could, he peered downwards.
The same flaming lance was now submerged in his gut, its point burrowed into the crumbling chimney, pinning him down. No blood dribbled from the fatal wound, though a constant sizzle made him realize the intense heat evaporated any moisture in his body.
The lance shifted. It slowly rotated as its wielder revolved it out of the body. Its cricked point scrapped the father's diaphragm and tore into his lung, sending a sharp, pulsing pain throughout his body. He lost vision in one eye, and the other rapidly hurdled into darkness. His stomach lurched as the flaming warrior dug the lance out of his stomach. A strong, burning hand firmly placed itself on his shoulder, and Egill’s father gazed weakly into the dark, heartless eyes of the fiery warrior, looking like black coal in a fire pit.
“Egill…” it hissed in a low, inhuman voice. It was alien to the father's dieing body. “Egill…” it hissed, growing louder, “Where is the boy!?” the soldier violently shook Egill’s father’s shoulder, and a wave of heat from the warriors touch scalded his skin.
“You…will…not…find…him……here,” he recriminated in a voice so weak and hoarse it sounded similar to the voice of the elemental.
“Useless!” The elementals voice snapped, like a twig shattering in a fire. A strong hand gripped the father’s neck and tightly coiled around it. A constricting squeezed snapped his neck, and sent his body tumbling to the ground, but he had died before the hand had struck.
The head of the same six year old boy stuck out of the shadow of the chimney. The boys eyes watered, and he fought hard to squelch the lump in his throat.
“Father,” Egill cried under his breath, “Why?”