Changelings Book1 Dragons & Demons

Chapter 1

The Changeling Prophecy

When Netherworld's Children are Scattered and Scorched.

When a Maiden Wields an Angelic Sword with a Dragon's bite.

When Shadows Creep with Evil Intent.

When Bloody Revenge Rises from the depths.

When Raziel's Legacy is Sought and Found. When the Threshold is Crossed and Conquered.

When Shapeless Ghosts are Made Solid.

When Frozen Tears Form a Bridge.

The Changelings will Fly from Darkhaven and Banish the Darkness.

Chapter 1

The lad moved slowly down the narrow, cobbled street, avoiding eye contact and exchanging no pleasantries with passers-by. He wanted to blend in, to become unnoticed, and dressed as he was in a filthy, grey tunic and shabby, brown breeks, he succeeded easily. The sun was warm and the sky clear, yet he stuck to the shadows, slipping stealthily into a narrow lane between the high, wooden buildings. The thatched roofs almost touched above him and the thin line of daylight did little to dispel the gloom, as he wended his way past the Dragon's Head Inn towards his work-place.

   The city square was busy, stalls and carts thronged with vendors and customers. Farmers sold their wares to merchants and left with pouches and purses bulging with silver and gold. It was market day, busiest of the week; rich pickings for a careful pickpocket.

His nickname was the Hawk Jack the Hawk - well known amongst the lowlifes and thieves of Ness, a small city with an equally small castle and a crumb-ling defensive wall that had been built centuries before, to keep out an enemy that no longer existed. Nonetheless, it prospered on the main trade route between the capital Darkhaven and the distant western city-states of Grimswade and Haarsfalt.

Jack picked up a small, empty beer-keg, carrying it on his shoulder through the crowds, before setting it down and settling for work. He sat on the small barrel, eyes closed, chewing on a long sweet blade of grass. The shoppers took no notice of the lad, dressed in rags, relaxing in the sun. Some brushed by roughly, annoyed at the inconvenience of having to walk around him, and they paid the price.

Jack's small blade would slash swiftly out and cut the strings holding their money pouches, and his nimble fingers dart into his loose tunic with his rewards. He had been caught red handed a couple of times, usually by his victim or spotted by another. He had even been chased by the city guard, but never caught. Jack knew the penalty for thievery; he faced a terrible flogging and a lengthy term in the local jail; this made him learn his trade very carefully and become one of the best in his field.

"Mornin' Hawk lad," the familiar drawl of Harry the Crow filled his senses, as he blocked out the warm sunshine.

The telltale aroma of Crow's unwashed flesh and rotting teeth announced his presence louder and clearer than the tower bell that had sounded at noon. Jack's guts twisted and his heart skipped a beat. He wiped his sweaty palms on his legs.

"Wotcha got fur me t'day, boy?" Jack opened his eyes and looked up at the gaunt man hovering over him like a dark phantom. He wore a filthy, black jacket and an ill-fitting pair of baggy breeks, tied at the waist with an old rope. He had hair like black straw, and if he stood still, you might mistake him for a scarecrow. Some said that the rope around his waist was the same that the city guard had used when Harry had swung on the gallows for murder; the livid red scar around his throat being testament to the truth of the rumour. But he had survived, and once he had paid the price for his crime, he was freed. In no time he became legend among the city's lowlifes and cutthroats, their self-styled leader and divider of the take. Taking care to breathe only through his mouth, Jack smiled cautiously and reached into his shirt, producing two small purses of coin.