Falling Chapter One Version 1.2

I wish writing a book was maybe a little more straight forward. I seem to do a lot of back and forthing, and that’s what happened to my beginning Chapter. The major struggle in this third and final book is between Daryl and his brother Readen, so the book has to start with Daryl. So I scrambled the fist two chapters and finally ended up here. I’ll post Chapter Two in a couple of weeks.

I hope you enjoy this. It’s still a work in progress, so comments and corrections are more than welcome.

AND—Ta Da—Click read more to see the cover for Book 3 by Kurt Nilson.—and the rest of the chapter.

Chapter One 

Fifteen riders on magnificent hawk-headed flying horses circled the landing field outside the small town of Flat Rock. Enormous monstrous dog-like creatures, half metal-half flesh, with scales of armor, swarmed over the walls into the village. Their stubby metallic wings beat with a ringing Daryl Me’Vere, astride his Karda, could hear from high in the air. A sound he hated. He forced down the pressure building from his chest into his throat––hatred, anger, fear for his riders and for his people below.

At his signal, Karda and riders swooped across the field, snatching unwary monsters, the urbat, in their wicked talons, carrying them high above and dropping them to their deaths in the middle of the throng attacking the gates. Other riders aimed arrows at the urbat tearing through the streets after townspeople, most of whom fought with swords, spears, axes––whatever was to hand and sharp.

Daryl and Abala dropped down to about twelve meters, twice as high as the urbat could reach with their stubby wings and massive bodies. They crossed the walls, circling the village. Screams and cries and urbat snarls and howls rose, and he heard the clang of swords and hoes and scythes against the urbat armor. The savage brutes swarmed through the small town, and Daryl shoved down his anger. He needed to fight urbat, not his emotions.

Below him, a terrified unarmed villager stumbled to his knees, an urbat half flying, half falling directly at him. A second villager ran to shove his short-bladed spear overhead at its belly and impaled the creature. The impact knocked him down, but he scrambled to his feet, put his foot against the urbat, pulled his weapon free and slashed it across the throat. Thick, yellow ichor ran in runnels between the cobblestones.

Daryl flew on, drew on his talent and fire bolts, long, narrow bursts of flame from his spread fingers, incinerated every urbat he caught in the open, careful of the villagers and the buildings. He fired and fired until Abala peeled away to beat his way up into the air and beyond the walls. 

~What are you doing, Abala? They’re still fighting.~ He spoke telepathically.

~And you have depleted your talent. You are so tired I can feel you sway in the saddle. We have other work to do. Another kind of monster to find.~

Daryl scrubbed his hands through his hair, wishing Abala didn’t know him so well. When frustration tried to clamp down on his chest again, he shoved it away to take long, deep breaths, pulling strength from the air, the clouds, the sky. Restoring his power through elemental Air was difficult--impossible for most--but Daryl was a formidable Talent and there wasn’t time to land to draw power from deep in Adalta.