The Amulet of Skouran [Chapter 3]

[Vairocana]

I've decided to share what I've been working on for the past semester. It is a high fantasy novel that follows young Allo Travadon as his world falls to pieces under the machinations of an ambitious bastard prince and an dark sorcerer with even more vile plans.

Title is a working title. I'm terrible at titles. This is a work in progress, although I already have the first ~15 chapters done. I don't know if I'll post all of it (I am legitimately looking to get this published when I complete it), but here's a sample. Might post the first 5 or so chapters total. So enough of my rambling. Here's the story.

[spoiler=Map][img]http://i47.tinypic.com/25h1li8.jpg[/img][/spoiler]

[spoiler=Prologue]
[center][b]Brandon[/b][/center]

A sharp wind blew through the tall spires of Arengard, the capital city of Frelan. It was an overcast day with a steady drizzle masking the Golden City in shades of gray. Within the Gold Keep, Brandon Urfson, Brandon the Northborn, Brandon the Bastard Prince, stared down at his city. [i]His[/i] city. The son of an Ortasian prisoner of war, he had lived in entire life in contempt, but no longer.
"My lord." An echo of a voice whispered out from the darkness behind him. He had come, then. Brandon's adviser, a treacherous snake from the Shadowlands, that mysterious continent of cannibals and shadowdancers across the Agen Sea. He did not trust the man, if a man he truly was. He was an emaciated skeleton with gaunt, shining eyes that peered out of the cavernous depths of his skull. In the tradition of the sorcerers of his land, he had sharp patterned scars criss-crossing his face and down the length of his body. It was said that if you knew how, you could read a man's entire life in those scars. But it was because of this snake that he held the city. The sorcerer was a tool, and if used correctly, would bring him many gains. Brandon turned to look at the creature.
"What news do you bring?"
"After fifteen long years...the Amulet of Skouran has revealed itself to my eyes once more." The sorcerer smiled, revealing sharp yellowed teeth. His pale eyes never changed, however. They stared forward with the same dead malice that they always did. Brandon made sure that no expression showed on his face. Well then, the time had finally come to pay his debt to the vile man.
"Very well, sorcerer. I will alert my Savants." Brandon turned and strode out of the room, his long strides booming off the walls of the darkened room.

[center]***[/center]
Alone, the sorcerer reached into the depths of his blood-red robe and withdrew a small gray crown of twisted metal, spines sticking out every few inches. The crown was mottled brown-red on top of the metal, from the blood that was always taken when the crown was handled. He placed the crown gently on his pale bald head, groaning in ecstasy as the spines dug into his skin. With tears of blood flowing from his temples, he fell to his knees and whispered, "Soon, my lord. The time of your return grows near."[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Chapter 1]
[center][b]Allo[/b][/center]

A smile crept onto Allo Travadon's face as he hurdled the fruit stand. The bag of gold thumped satisfyingly against his thigh with each step. Distantly, he could hear the shouts and struggle of the two guards as they attempted to keep up with him, hopelessly entangled in the throngs of people perusing the portside marketplace. His smiled widened into a laugh. If only he could see that fat pig Syros' face when he found out he had been robbed! The so-called Merchant Lord was nothing more than a big bully, threatening honest shop keepers into paying a "protection fee". Honest shop keepers like Allo's father. Well, if they must pay a fee, it would be a fee paid with Syros' own money! He was light as a feather, his slim frame slipping easily through the currents of people like a salmon swimming upstream. Those guards had no chance. A growl came from his left, and he almost tripped on a loose cobblestone. Pacing him from the rooftops was a large cat-like figure, well muscled and covered in short dark fur. He did not wear the cumbersome armor of his human counterparts, but instead a light cloak emblazoned with the Golden Willow. A beastman! How had Sryos gotten a hold of one of those? Suddenly Allo's mad flight no longer seemed like a game. Beastmen were fast and agile, despite their size and strength. It was be tricky escaping this one. However, Allo had spent his whole life wandering the markets and twisting alleyways of Tyre, whereas this new acquisition of the Merchant Lord was undoubtedly fresh from some slave ship off the isles of Telken, or from the distant plains of Serrida. The first thing to do would be to cut off the beastman's line of sight. Allo ducked into a nearby tavern, the Drunken Ship, the tilted sailboat on the sign proclaimed. Weaving past startled patrons and an angry innkeeper, he headed for the kitchens. Inns always have a back entrance for the servants to come and go, as well as to bring in supplies for the cooks. The fat cook almost had him, but at the last minute Allo twisted to the side and avoided his ham-sized fist. He burst from the noisy kitchen into the shadowed alley and immediately headed to his left. For a brief time, Allo thought he had lost the feline guard, but when he exited the alleyway, the beastman was waiting for him. Allo cursed, pivoting around and trying to get back to the alley. This beastman was no fool, he might not know the city as well as Allo, but he knew enough to predict where Allo would exit. Lighting quick, a clawed hand shot out, managing to snag Allo's collar. Even as the fabric began to stretch, Allo already had a small knife in his hand, and with a quick precise movement, cut through the caught fabric. He was in a bad spot. The beastman was faster than him, in a flat race, he would lose. The sudden ripping fabric had thrown the beastman off balance though, and Allo had a few precious seconds head start, just enough to sprint around the corner and slam hard against the wall. Sure enough, the beastman bounded past, his momentum taking him well past where Allo crouched. The alley was a dead end, with Allo at the entrance. But he did not run. Facing the beastman he held a pouch out in his hand. "You're after this? Your fat master's precious gold?" It was difficult to read expressions in the guard's golden eyes and alien face.
"Yes," he replied in thick Common, "I do not wish to hurt a child. Give me the bag." Allo was going to regret what he was about to do. Ground Flametongue spice was expensive. He tossed the bag at the beastman, running as the bag left his hand. The beastman's reflexes were impeccable, and he caught the bag with ease. What he did not expect, however, was Allo right behind the bag. He gave the bag a mighty kick, bursting its red contents straight into the beastman's golden eyes. Allo dashed hastily out of the alley with the yowls of the blinded beastman following him.
Just to be safe, Allo spent the next hour milling around in the middle of large groups of shoppers in the main market square, just inside the tall walls of the city. With the port directly outside, the market was a maelstrom of sights and smells. Men and women from all over gathered to haggle and trade in dozens of languages. The tall dark-skinned traders of the Telken Isles, their hair hanging in thick braids adorned with bells, the bowlegged horse traders from Serrida. He even thought he saw a Northman, golden hair glimmering in the sunlight. He wandered the large square market effortlessly, riding the current of bodies that ebbed and flowed. The smell of fish dominated the square, being so close to the bay, but underneath there was the blend of spices that the Telkenni traded. Cinnamon and saffron, mint and myrrh. Once he was certain he was no longer being pursued, Allo meandered around to the far side of the marketplace and ducked into a narrow alleyway formed by the walls of a butcher’s shop and a cloth merchant. The walls here were rough and unpainted, stingy merchants did not care to waste gold on walls that customers would not see, and butcher’s never had the money to begin with. The pitted surface made for easy climbing and Allo scrambled up them like a spider.
Once on the rooftop, he paused to admire his city. The great port city of Tyre sprawled out before him, crowded buildings and twisting streets. To his left stood the Inner City, where the rich merchants sat and got fat off their trade. Unlike the maze of the slums, the Inner City was laid out in precise geometric lines, converging around the grand trade house at the center, set on a tall hill like a jewel in a crown. No expense had been spared for its construction, and it swooped and soared magnificently, the white marble glimmering in the sunlight. At its apex stood a statue of Edat, god of commerce, his fat jolly face upturned in a smile as he juggled a bag of coins and a scale in his large meaty hands. Allo wished more merchants looked as kind and merry as their patron god. To his right was the crowded marketplace he had emerged from, and beyond that, the great port that gave the city life. A forest of ship masts stood out in the blue water, the Bay of Tyre was the only safe landing point for leagues, the rest of the land ended in sheer jagged cliffs, a quirk of nature that had made the residents of Tyre very rich. People of every land and creed mingled on the docks, like ants they scurried about, intent on their business. Allo sighed. He wished he could join them, captain a ship of his own and go on adventures and see new lands. But as he headed home, it was not toward the docks, nor toward the fanciful houses in the Inner City that he headed. Instead, he headed toward the Rat Quarter, an area of buildings on the far side of the Inner City, furthest away from the life-giving sea. It was where the poorest of Tyre lived, the home of vermin and the squalor they lived in. Moving deftly across rooftops, he skirted the Inner City, moving parallel to its brilliant white walls as he made his way around toward the Rat Quarter. The smells of the sea and exotic spices were soon replaced by the stale smell of sweat and despair. He had to move a little more cautiously now, cutpurses also frequented the roofs. He saw a group of four in the distance, but he kept low and avoided trouble. Soon he dropped down in the alleyway behind his father's shop, a small bakery, and slipped inside the back door. He heard voices coming from his father's study, where he would often help his father with bookwork. He assumed it was nothing more than a friend in for a visit, and began to sneak past the door—careful to avoid the spot where the floorboard creaked-- when something he heard made him stop.
"...the boy is too young; he's hardly ready to be off by himself!"
"He just turned fifteen, Tomas. He's three years older than when I began my squireship."
Allo was intrigued. It sounded like they were talking about him. A squireship? Was his father talking to a knight? He felt his heart jump. Was it possible that he was being considered to become a squire? His father's voice was gruff-- it always was-- but now there seemed to be a certain edge to it. The stranger's voice was deep and smooth, golden honey flowing through the door.
"Aye, but there are no royal master-at-arms here to teach the lad the way. Only poor old me, and what I can remember from a long time ago. He is not ready."
"Dammit Tomas! We are out of time! Maybe out here in this piss poor slum you do not hear the events of the world, but things are happening, and we need the boy."
Allo jumped at that outburst. There was steel under that honey.
"We are out of time," the stranger repeated. "Do you know how I managed to find you?" There was creaking as if the stranger were leaning forward. His voice dropped and Allo had to press his ear against to door and strain to make out the next few words. "The amulet is active again. And if I could follow it here, then..."
"The Imperials! Blast it fool, why did you not say so sooner?" The door flew open and Tomas nearly bowled Allo over. "Allo! What are you doing here son?"
"Father, what's going on?"
"No time, go pack your things, we need to leave!" As his father hustled him up the stairs, Allo caught a glimpse of the stranger, still sitting at the table calmly. He was a handsome man, light brown hair pulled into a simple tail to keep it out of his eyes. He had a broad forehead and strong cheekbones. He was in simple traveler's garb, a nondescript brown cloak over some supple leather and clothe. At his side hung a slim rapier.
"Who is that man? Why are we leaving?" His father ignored his questions and pushed him more insistently up the stairs. Tomas Travadon was a large man, and although the years had softened his body, there were still slabs of muscle underneath. He herded Allo with ease. Once they reached Allo's small room, he went to the far wall and bent down, removing one of the floor boards. Underneath was a small chest which he delicately pulled out, struggling a little to fit his wide arms through the hole. The box was mahogany with a gold inlay, and a silver lock. It was something a baker would never be able to afford.
"What is that?" Allo asked, but his father ignored him as he pulled a key out from under his heavy apron. Unlocking the box, he pulled out a small amulet, strung on a fine iron chain. It appeared to be made of bronze, about the size of Allo’s palm. It curved outward slightly and seemed to be made entirely out of a finely crafted latticework, so tightly woven that the entire thing became opaque. He reverently held it as he turned around and faced his son.
"Son, do you see this amulet? This amulet is the most valuable thing in the world. Guard it with your life. Never let it out of your sight." He slipped the chain around Allo's neck, and tucked the amulet beneath his shirt. The metal felt strangely warm against his skin.
"Father? What's going on?" There was something about the way his father was acting, a sharp tension in every movement that made Allo increasingly alarmed.
"The man downstairs is named Orson. He is a friend. Do as he says. And Allo," he gripped the boy around the shoulders and looked into his eyes, "you have been the best son any man could ask for, and I love you. Now-" There was a tremendous crash downstairs and Orson burst into the room.
"They've found us," he announced, "is there a back way out?"
"Vashtar damn their souls!" cursed Tomas, "Yes, take the boy. I'll slow them down."
Orson laughed. "You? Slow down an Imperial Savant? Trained knights would hardly give them pause, and you're nothing but an old washed up squire."
Allo's blood ran cold. [i]Savant[/i]. Stories told of how they were noble knights with great power who fought to protect Frelan, but if those stories were ever true, it was of an age long gone. The Savants of today were nothing more than the king's butchers, sent to put down any resistance within the kingdom.
"Go!" Tomas roared, shoving them down the stairs toward the back entrance. Somewhere, he had obtained a battleaxe, and Allo was shocked at how well it seemed to fit in his father's meaty hands. The axe was a huge double crescent monstrosity, with a wicked spike attached to the head of the haft. The metal had become dark gray with age, but the edge still gleamed deadly sharp. At the bottom of the stairs, Orson took Allo by the arm and headed left to the back, toward the small entrance by the ovens, as Tomas grimly marched toward the main entrance, axe in hand. Allo wanted to call out, but Orson, somehow knowing, placed a gloved hand over his mouth as he herded the boy out.
"Quiet now," he whispered, "we don't want to attract attention." As they left the store, Allo heard his father roar out, then a sickening wet sound and the thump of a body hitting the ground. Allo cried out, but Orson’s hand was still in place, and all that came out was a muffled groan. Tears stung his eyes. Somehow, he knew his father was dead. Once in the alleyway, Orson lead him swiftly through the maze of crooked streets, glancing over his shoulder every few feet.
"We have to go back! My father!" Allo cried, struggling against Orson. He didn't understand what was happening, but his father couldn't be dead. Not that big gentle man, with his balding head that shone in the light of the ovens, his kind eyes that crinkled into slits when he smiled. Not him.
"Idiot child, you'll make his sacrifice nothing!" Orson struggled with the boy. They were no longer alone, somewhere behind them, smoke had begun to rise from the streets, and the people running toward them cried of fire. Orson cursed, "He's set fire to the buildings to smoke us out, Vashtar blessed fool! He'll kill the entire city for you!"
"What does he want with me? I'm nobody!" Allo had tears in his eyes. In a few moments, his entire world had crumbled. Why was this happening? Orson shoved him roughly against a nearby wall, staring hard into his eyes. "Listen to me boy, there's not much time. I must go stop this madman. You must go to Eastwatch, and from there, cross the Galay River into Serrida. Follow the road until you reach Daenmyr, where you will find an inn called the Iron Tankard. There, wait. Friends will come to find you. Do you understand?"
"No!"
Orson cursed again. "There is no time to explain," he hurriedly tore off his glove, and worked a small stone ring off his finger. It was a brilliant blue, in the image of a coiled serpent. He placed it to his mouth and whispered something to it. Allo strained to make out what he said, but it didn't seem to be in Common. Orson placed the ring in Allo's hand. "Do NOT lose this. It will help explain things. Do you know the story of the Lost Prince?" Of course Allo knew the story of the tragic prince who had died in a fire fifteen years ago. He shared the same birthday as the baby and had even been named after him. He told Orson as much.
"Good. Now away with you! To Eastwatch!" He gave Allo a shove and headed in the opposite direction. The trickle was now a river of people flowing away from the smoke, which had become a thick black cloud threatening to block out the sun. Panic had taken hold of the slums, and people shoved and kicked and screamed as they tried to get further away from the hungry flames. An old woman was not nimble enough and fell in the midst of the crowed. Her cries as she was trampled to death were drowned out by the panicked screams of the living. Allo watched Orson, a head taller than everyone else, battle against the current toward the flames. Allo pocketed the strange ring and grimly followed.[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Chapter 2]
[center][b]Aada[/b][/center]

Aada stood on the hard frozen ground of her home, naked as the day she was born. A flurry of snow flew up and around her, causing her skin to pimple, but she did not feel it. As far as she could see, there was nothing but flat white land, a frozen desert where very few lived, and none prospered. She was nervous, this was her first Dreaming, and she did not know what she would see. The [i]Teran'delha[/i], the Dream Ring, hung from a leather cord around her neck, nestling in the small valley of her exposed breasts. Any other type of metal would be searing cold by now, but whatever substance the [i]Teran'delha[/i] was made of, it remained slightly warm no matter the weather. Her people had been on the verge of extinction when the ring had come to them, and it had saved them. Using the ring, their [i]Unnai[/i], their Snow Blessed, could dream True Dreams, things the clan needed to see in order to survive. Where the fish were under the thick ice. When an ice storm approached. With the Dream Ring, her clan had grown strong once again. Now it was her turn. She nervously sat upon the ice and snow. Soft Southerners might have gaped at this display, but ignoring the Mother Winter’s icy kiss was one of the first things an Unnai learned. She closed her eyes and let her body relax, reaching deep inside her, to the dream...
[i]She was floating by a large flag, a set of scales on a field of azure. Below her spread out a great Southern city. She gasped, she had never dreamed of buildings so tall, or so close together. The soared to the sky, some flat and square, others domed. Colors, reds, browns, whites, blues, all sparkled in the sunlight. She was at the top of a hill, and as it sloped away, the buildings continued, but even more packed together, and losing much of the luster and color of the large ones at the center. And there, in the distance was [/i]water[i]. She had heard of the oceans to the west, where the Murvai clan fished and traded, but no one had told her it was so [/i]big[i]. She strained her eyes, but she could not see the end of it. Why had the [/i]Teran'delha[i] shown her this? Distantly behind her, she heard screams. Maneuvering her astral body around, she saw great gouts of flame spewing up from a warren of dirty looking buildings. With a thought, she moved herself closer to the fires. Standing in a clearing surrounded by flames were two men, weapons drawn. They were of no consequence. Idiotic Southerners were always fighting and dying over stupid things. It was of no concern to her. Something glimmered from the corner of her eye. Pressed against the side of a building, watching the two men, was a boy, around the same age as she was. He had dark hair that hung down to his chin in ringlets, and his clothes were patched and worn. Hanging from his neck was a brilliant light, more radiant than the sun reflecting against the pure snow. As she squinted at the light, trying to make out what was underneath, the glow faded a little and she could make out a distant shape within the blaze. Her breath caught.[/i]
A great tugging motion tore across her body and suddenly, she was back amongst the snow and ice, covered in sweat and gasping for breath. Surely she had been mistaken. Even as she tried to convince herself, she knew it was futile. The [i]Teran'delha[/i] never lied, and it always showed what needed to be seen. With a heavy heart, she gathered herself and began to trek back toward her clan, camped several miles away. As she walked, she struggled with how to convey what she had seen to her elders. How do you tell your people that their world was ending?[/spoiler]
[spoiler=Chapter 3]
[center][b]Allo[/b][/center]

Allo pressed himself harder against the wall, trying not to breathe the thick ash swirling through the air. By some force—luck or the gods—the collapsing buildings had formed a circular clearing, an arena of rubble and fire. At its edge stood Orson. Across from him was another man, dressed in supple leather over black wool. He was a scarecrow of a man, gaunt and tall, his eyes black pools as they stared at Orson. His black hair gleamed in the firelight, a long intricate braid that fell down to his waist, the bells in it gleaming like molten silver. In his hand was a longsword, but instead of metal, it seemed to be made out of glass, brittle and delicate, with a blue sheen. Somehow, even from this distance and heat, it felt cold. A [i]Solkas[/i]. A soul weapon, a Savant’s weapon.
Orson had drawn his Solkas as well, a thin rapier that glittered in the flames. The heat was nearly unbearable, but Allo kept low and grimly watched on.
"Orson de Lok, the Thunder's Cry. Eighth on the Imperial most wanted list."
"Only eighth? I'm hurt, Enumas."
The two men began to circle each other, seemingly oblivious to the flame and smoke that whirled around them in a frenzied waltz.
"I am not here for you, but if you get in my way, I will not hesitate to kill you." The imperial Savant-- Enumas-- has a soft voice, but somehow it carried clearly through the crackle of fire.
"Kill me, Enumas? I'm better than you."
The gaunt man nodded his head evenly. "Normally that would be true. But you do not carry your familiar with you today. I do not know what you have done with her, but without her you are lost."
There was a clatter of rubble and something burst forth from behind a wall of flame. Orson twisted, barely avoiding it. In an instant, Enumas was on him, hammering down with his longsword, probing for any opening. Orson fell to one knee under the assault, but managed to fend off each blow. With a violent surge, Orson countered with a series of lightning fast strikes toward Enumas' face, forcing the Savant to back off. Orson regained his feet, a sheen of sweat on his brow. Somewhere in that exchange, his hair had come undone, and now it fanned out behind him like a cloak. Trotting to a rest behind Enumas was an enormous boar, its ivory tusks glowing red in the light. Orson gave the creature a weary nod. "Terasva."
The boar grunted, and then replied, "Orson. I'm sorrowful that we must meet like this."
Allo had always heard that Savants traveled with magical talking beasts, but he had dismissed it as the wild fancy of bards and drunkards. Apparently not. But where was Orson's? Enumas and Terasva took the offensive again, each circling to one side of Orson. In the open, there was no way to keep them both in his sights. They would take turns striking out at him, forcing him to spin to meet each attack, wearing him down. It was clear he could not keep this up for long. Allo set his mouth into a determined line. He didn't have all the facts, but this man was in mortal danger, and it was to protect him. He had to help. Looking around, Allo picked up a jagged stone-- about the size of his fist-- and with careful aim, hurled it at Enumas' head. Lightning quick, Enumas spun and knocked the stone away with a casual swing of his sword. Their eyes locked and Allo felt his breath whoosh out of him in one great wind. He felt paralyzed, pinned by that piercing gaze. The eyes dropped down to Allo's chest, where the amulet his father had given him hung. The Savant's eyes widened in recognition and surprise. Orson took that moment to strike, lunging forward with his rapier aimed at Enumas' heart. The gaunt man jerked to the side at the last possible moment, taking the blow to his shoulder instead. The slim blade swam through leather and flesh easily as if it were piercing silk. However, Terasva had not been sitting idle. The second Orson had made his move, the mighty boar had charged, and his wickedly sharp tusks had flayed open Orson's left leg, causing him to collapse. Enumas carefully extracted the blade protruding from his shoulder and dropped it at his feet. Blood seeped slowly from the hole, staining his clothes a deep red. Ignoring the wound as if it were no more than a splinter, the tall Savant approached Allo, sword outstretched.
Allo stumbled back. His limbs felt like lead, he wanted to run, but the Savant's dark eyes held his gaze like a hook. Orson lay motionless on the ground, in a slowly widening pool of blood.
"I have no quarrel with you, boy. Give me the amulet and you will not die today."
It wasn't a threat; it was merely a statement of fact, which made it more terrifying. Allo knew about men who talked big, who blustered and bluffed and threatened. Enumas was not one of those men. When he said he would kill you, it was no more than the truth.
There was a wild shriek behind them, and Enumas broke his gaze, freeing Allo from whatever mesmeric power that had ensnared him. Orson had somehow managed to reach his Sokas once more, and had laid a gruesome slash across the boar's face. Orson looked deathly pale, as white as the bones under his taunt skin. He looked directly into Allo's eyes, ignoring the advancing Enumas, and croaked, "Go!"
“Orson de Lok, known as the Thunder’s Cry, by Imperial Decree of our majesty King Rikkard, I hereby judge you guilty of treason, and sentence you to death,” Enumas intoned. “May the gods have mercy upon you.”
He raised his blade high and brought it swooping down. As the shimmering blade swung for Orson’s neck, the rogue Savant cried out something in a tongue Allo had never heard before, and shattered his rapier in a blinding flash of light. A roar, if it could still be called that, rushed outward. It was unlike anything Allo had ever experienced. Once, some traders from the Shadowlands had arrived carrying a strange beast. It looked much like a Beastman, but even larger and on all fours, with tawny yellow fur and golden eyes that glared furiously out from the heavy iron bars. It had let out a roar that vibrated through Allo's very bones. It had been so loud that the animal's handlers were all specially trained deaf men, for hearing men would not be able to think under such a noise. This was ten thousand times worse. It was no longer a sound, but a force, that lifted and flung Allo back, some raving beast devouring everything in its path. Loose rubble was flung like salt, and fires were snuffed out instantly. A huge wave of dust flew into the air, casting the area into darkness deeper than night. In this choking atmosphere of chaos, Allo struggled to his feet. All he could hear was a pounding ringing in his ears that seemed to vibrate his entire body in time with his heart. He staggered around, bruised and cut, unable to gain his balance or see. The only thought that occupied his mind was Orson's dying word: go. And he did. Somehow, stumbling, crying, and falling over more times than he could count, he made it to a refuse gate along the high wall that surrounded the city. The entire area had been abandoned, and Allo had no trouble staggering through the small wooden gate. He made it another four feet before his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground, darkness taking him.[/spoiler]

[DARKPLANT RISING]

Wow. Wait, wait, wait. What? This is impossible.

…Someone on this forum is actually describing stuff in a good way.

See, in that way (and many others) this is completely different from over ninety-percent of the fictions in here, those written by either (i) kindergarteners, or (ii) people who have brains like kindergarteners. I’ve even seen someone describe a sharp sword slashing down “as though the air was butter”. Hell, what’s that supposed to mean? He probably saw something about some random guy in a fantasy novel bend steel bars like butter, and just misinterpreted it due to severe lack of intelligence, but well, you can pretty much say that’s the average level of YCM.

Now, your description is mostly wonderful, though I felt some things could be worded better. (This is just personal, but for instance, I think the “…This beastman was no fool, he…” part is better off as “This beastman was no fool; he…” or “This beastman was no fool. He…” You get it?) To name one example, I especially loved how the bag of gold was thumping “satisfyingly”. Sure, you can often see bags of gold thumping on thighs in literature, but not many thump “satisfyingly”. There were many other pretty interesting descriptions in here, too.

Now, one thing I was a bit concerned about was how the beastman’s strike was quite too sudden. If you’re going to start a story with the main character being attacked by a random monster (which will most likely be a mindless mass of muscle who acts as a [url=http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DeadHerring]Dead Herring[/url] to prove that the main character is a witty badass), it should be better as either:
-The story starts in the middle of the battle. Swords/claws/fangs swung down, main character either slashing back with his random legendary blade or just fleeing through a dilapidated building/random crowd of unimportant characters.
OR
-The main character is first enjoying his life as a random inhabitant of Pallet Town with no [b]Starter Pokemon[/b] special powers or such, but then realizes something is wrong. It could be a distant growl or dark clouds gathering or whatever – in this case, perhaps the first idea. For several paragraphs he’s talking to either himself or a second random character (one that either gets killed instantly or later becomes one of the three main characters), that something sinister is coming. Then, the random antagonist appears and the two start fleeing.

You choose which is better, but either way I say that’d make the start-off a bit more action-packed.

Oh, and I say you should weave description of a race or tribe or city into other things. Sorta like teachers tell you to “show, don’t tell”. For instance, “Beastmen were fast and agile, despite their size and strength” could be fitted into an attacking scene like…let’s say, “The beastman struck forward with surprising agility that quite didn’t fit its size. Just as Allo instinctively jumped back, the bulk crashed into a vegetable shop, and its claws ripped through a wooden table on which boxes of all exotic colors had been peacefully resting till just a split second ago. Avalanches of *insert random made-up names of vegetables in that world* crashed down upon the behemoth, but Allo wasn’t going to see if it would be buried alive. He was already running on top speed, rushing past countless men and women and children wearing masks of surprise, completely ignoring the vegetable shop’s owner’s yelps of shock…” That could add action and also tell the reader that this Beastman isn’t the typical man-friendly monster appearing in Dragon Tale or Barney.

That’s all I can say. Oh, but just two last things:

One: “The Shadowlands” is the name of the enemy nation in the well-known novel series Deltora Quest, so I would change it to something else.

Two: True, as you said, “The Amulet of Skouran” isn’t that alluring the name. But there’s a very easy way to make this better.

You know a novel series called “The Bartimaeus Trilogy”? Well, it’s not a Trilogy anymore, but that’s not the important part. Book 1 is called “The Amulet of Samarkand”, which isn’t that different from here. But its official name is “The Bartimaeus Trilogy Book I: The Amulet of Samarkand”, which sounds a tad more interesting.

If you add something interesting to make it longer, it could sound better.

Anyhow, this was a pretty good read (well, I don’t comment unless it is. Of course, except when I’m telling the author how he sucks and should get the hell out of this section like everyone else). I look forward to new chapters (though I might not be able to read them for some time, given tests are quite near).

That’s my two cents.

[Vairocana]

Pretty sweet critique. I wasn't aware there were people who understood how to write on this site.

Well there's clearly an issue with how I've portrayed the beastman, but mostly because you've interpreted it as a "random encoutner monster". Right now my concept is that they're an indigenous sentient species that live alongside humans (enter racist subcontext here).

I might change Shadowlands, but I feel like that is such a generic sounding name (the idea behind it is something that gives off the vibe of unexplored cultures and mysticism, with a dash of sinister, kind of like how Africa was once the Dark Continent) that I won't be running into any lawsuits or anything. Still, it's something to keep in mind and it's not a huge thing to change.

Titles are the bane of my existence. I actually do want to make this a trilogy, so I might take your advice there (but then I'd have to figure out what to cal the trilogy! Ahg!)

But basically I'm going to not worry about it until I need to, ie, when the novel is actually done.

Anyway, thanks again for the review. I had kind of forgotten I had posted this. Posting chapter 2.