by Ryan Cahill
About an hour passed as they worked their way through the dense, lush forest. Ahead of them, the trees fell away into a wide-open glade. It sloped down on either side towards a languid stream that flowed through its centre.
Calen knelt by the river, breathing in the fresh air, unfiltered by the dampness within the thick of the forest. The burbling of the river relaxed him. There was something about the way that it melted into the back of his mind without him noticing. But as he listened, a noise drifted into his ears. Something in the distance – a low rumbling, snapping, and cracking of twigs and fallen branches, rising to a crescendo. Dann and Rist seemed not to hear anything. They knelt by the river a few paces up, probably arguing as per usual. “Dann, how far into the forest did you say the herd of deer should be?”
“Ah, maybe an hour or so more.” Dann took a swig from his waterskin. “There’s a larger stream farther in, and they usually don’t come this far out. It’s too close to the village.”
Calen stood up slowly. The rumbling noise was getting louder. The birds around them chirped frantically as they jettisoned from the trees in flock. Calen caught Dann’s eye. He could hear it now too. Dann bounded over towards Calen, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow.
“How many of them were there?” Calen whispered, unsure why he felt the need to lower his voice.
Dann didn’t get the chance to answer. The bushes on the opposite side of the glade shook; the cracking of branches and stomping of hooves surrounded them. A tremendous stag, about eight feet in height, burst through the copse of trees on the other side of the glade, only stopping long enough to acknowledge the existence of the three hunters. Its powerful, sinuous horns caught Calen’s eye. As the stag came crashing towards them, more erupted from the trees. Four, nine, twelve; he stopped counting.
A piercing whistle zoomed past Calen’s ear. Dann’s arrow plunged into the right eye of the lead stag, killing it instantly. Its gargantuan body cascaded down the slope of the glade, slamming into a nearby fallen tree before being swallowed by the stampede. Both Calen and Rist loosed their own arrows into the onrushing herd. If they hit anything, it was impossible to tell, as the arrows disappeared into the blur of deer. The herd was nearly upon them.
Dann nocked another arrow.
“Get down!” Calen screamed.
Rist immediately threw himself behind the large boulder to which Calen had pointed, but Dann was lost in focus. His eyes narrowed as he found his target. He let his arrow fly just as Calen collided into him, sending their two bodies crashing to the ground behind the boulder.
In a daze, Dann whipped his head around to glare at Calen for ruining his shot, but seemed to catch sight of his rucksack being trampled into nothingness where he had just been standing. He glanced at Calen and nodded.
After a few minutes, when they were sure that the stampede had passed, they emerged from behind their guardian boulder.
“Well… fuck me. That was close,” Dann said.
“You nearly got killed, Dann!” Rist snapped.
“Pfft… You nearly got killed, Dann,” came the mocking reply as Dann knelt to look at the body of the large stag he had shot through the eye.
Calen’s heart still pounded in his chest as he surveyed the glade with a pensive gaze. It was a mess of upturned earth and broken branches. A shiver ran up his spine at the sight of the mangled body of a fawn that lay trampled on the opposite side of the glade, the snapped shaft of an arrow protruding from its neck. “Something spooked them good…”
Rist rested against the trunk of a tree, then slid to the ground with a sigh. “Maybe a bear?”
“I don’t think it was a bear. Come and look at this,” Dann called, waving his hand up in the air, a tremble in his voice. When Calen and Rist reached Dann, he was stooped over the corpse of the stag, tracing his hand along a vicious, wide-open gash that ran the length of the animal’s ribs.
“Gods…”
“What could have done that?” Calen asked.
“I have no idea,” Dann admitted, pursing his lips. “But the cut is far too clean to be a tooth or claw. It’s marked down to the bone…”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure,” Dann said. His hand probed the edge of the wound. He let out a sigh. “Whatever did it, I don’t think we should stick around any longer than we have to.
CHAPTER 2
The Gilded Dragon
By the time they emerged from the thick of the forest, the sun had already begun to set along the dusky horizon, but The Glade was still visible by the plumes of greyish-white smoke that gently rose from chimneys, and the warm glow of tallow candles that illuminated the cloudy glass windows of the houses.
Calen stopped to breathe in the fresh air and gaze over the familiar sight of the village in the distance. He tilted his head back and rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck to relieve some of the ache that had set in. The return journey had taken them a lot longer; they had taken turns hauling the stag, which was no simple task considering its size.
Dann had removed its entrails to reduce the weight and strapped it to his makeshift sled. It was quite a handy contraption. The two planks of reinforced wood were locked together with two bridging slats and secured with handmade bolts. The deer was then strapped to the planks with roughly cut rope, which was strung through small metal loops on the upper edge of the planks. It made it a lot easier to haul the deer and caused less damage to the fur. It was quite a bit of effort, but it was worth it to get the massive animal back in one piece. The size of the stag meant there would be meat for all their families for quite a while. Anything they didn’t eat, they could sell.
The Moon Market’s festivities were well under way by the time the boys approached the outskirts of the village. The buzz of excitement echoed through the valley; roars of laughter and awe as storytellers from Gilsa and Camylin wove their fanciful tales could be heard amidst the constant hum of the cheerful, melodic music being played around campfires. The Moon Market was the biggest festival in the villages. It occurred every cycle, when the moon was at its fullest. Traders, entertainers, and bards from all across the western lands gathered in the market square of The Glade to flog their wares, commune with old friends, and share in the festivities.
The town guards nodded as the boys trudged along, each on the brink of collapse from exhaustion. Calen heaved the body of the stag behind him on the sled.
“Just in time, boys,” Ferrin Kolm, one of the guardsmen, remarked, drawing his gaze towards Calen. Ferrin had been one of Haem’s best friends. His face was warm and friendly, spotted with freckles. The skin on his lips was cracked from the frosty night wind. “Gods, that’s a nasty one,” he said as he caught sight of the gash that ripped along the side of the stag. “You boys all right?”
Calen nodded. “Aye.”
Ferrin’s mouth twisted as he and the other guard, Dalmen, exchanged a sideways glance.
“Will we see you both in The Dragon later to hear Therin?” Calen asked, changing the subject. He liked Ferrin, but they were already late and he had no intentions of getting caught up in any conversations that might make them even more so.
Ferrin gave a weak smile. “Aye, we shall see you there, young Bryer. We change over shortly.”
The boys said their goodbyes and carried on. They kept to the edges of the village to avoid trudging through the crowds. Even then, they drew the odd glance from a drunken traveller or two who had gotten lost in the moonlight.
When they got to Dann’s house, there was not so much as a flicker of candlelight to signal that anyone was home. “Father must already be down at The Dragon,” Dann mused. “We can leave the stag hanging out back. It’s cold enough tonight that it will keep till morning.”
The others nodded. Calen would have agreed to whatever Dann had suggested. He was cold and tired, and they should have been in the inn already.
It was difficult for the boys not to get caught up in the excitement as they made their way towards The Gild
ed Dragon, weaving through the crowd with ardour. The streets of the village were packed to the brim. Drunken revellers traipsed about, arm in arm, not heading anywhere in particular. Groups of young men bellowed songs of summer as starlight illuminated the streets.
As Calen, Dann, and Rist made their way into the middle of the village, the large, stout structure of The Gilded Dragon came into sight. Built from long, thick beams of spruce, the inn was one of the largest buildings in the village. It was also one of but a few buildings in town to possess a second storey; from which a thatched canopy extended outward. Under the canopy, there was a raised deck with a central staircase that formed the entrance to the inn. The top of the staircase was framed on either side by two ornate wooden dragons. Each scale was carved with masterful precision, and their tails coiled tightly around the balusters atop which they sat. They seemed alive, as if ready to tear, limb from limb, anyone who would do the inn harm. Lasch Havel, Rist’s father, commissioned them from a passing craftsman many summers ago. He was so thrilled with the finished pieces that he promised the craftsman free accommodation and mead for life. The man has made frequent visits back to The Glade ever since, and Lasch has stayed true to his word.
As they ascended the staircase, Calen heard the tumultuous hubbub of the drunken crowd within. The familiar sound was oddly pleasant to his ears.
The doors to the inn swung open abruptly. For a moment, Calen smiled, eager to join the celebrations within. Then Kurtis Swett and Fritz Netley came stumbling out onto the deck. Arseholes.
The two young men guffawed, shoving each other back and forth. “Anya is only waiting for you to take her, Kurtis. I don’t know why you’re waiting. I would have her in a heartbeat!” Fritz teased, stumbling a little and taking a deep slug of mead from his tankard.
“You will keep your filthy hands—” Kurtis stopped mid-sentence as he saw Calen, Rist, and Dann standing in front of him. A scowl spread across his face. “What do we have here? Has Mother allowed the children to come and have a drink?”
“Get out of the way, Kurtis,” Dann snarled, attempting to push past the two young men.
As he did, Fritz rushed towards him and shoved him in the chest with two hands. “Whoa, now. Don’t you speak to us like that, you little piece of shit.” The smell of mead wafted from his breath. Fritz was bad enough sober. Alcohol only made him worse.
Fritz manoeuvred himself to shove Dann a second time. Calen leapt forward, balled his hand into a fist, and caught Fritz across the cheek with his knuckles. Calen couldn’t keep the look of shock from his face as Fritz touched his forefingers to his tender cheek. “You are going to regret that!” Fritz shouted, his eyes narrowing into a glare.
“Regret what, might I ask?” queried the calm, smooth voice of Lasch Havel, who had appeared as if from nowhere, standing between the young men and the door to the inn. Lasch was not a tall or imposing man, but he was highly respected in the village. His hair was tightly cropped and grey. A thick scar ran from his left eye into the obscurity of his fierce blackish-grey beard. He cut a particularly intimidating figure, with the sleeves of his mead-stained shirt rolled up past his elbows and his bar cloth draped over his shoulder. Despite his usually charming demeanour, he was well known as a man one did not cross.
“Ehm… nothing, Master Havel. We were just turning in for the night. Fritz here is feeling a bit ill,” Kurtis said, looking down at his feet. Fritz scowled at him out of the corner of his eye. The two young men shuffled off down the stairs as quickly as their feet could take them, not daring to look back over their shoulders as they disappeared into the crowded streets.
“Aye, safe home, you two,” Lasch called down after them, more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He cast his eyes over the three in front of him. “Come on in, you three. Therin is about to begin.” He turned to Rist, raising a cautionary eyebrow. “Rist, remember, your mother needs you up early tomorrow to help with the house.”
“Yes, Father.”
Lasch nodded, gesturing Rist into the inn. A smirk spread across his face as he saw Calen stroking the knuckles of his right hand. He placed his hand on Calen’s shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“He deserved it,” Calen said sheepishly, shuffling his feet on the floor.
“Aye, no doubt he did.” Lasch let out a deep chuckle as he shoved Calen through the doors of the inn.
The interior of The Gilded Dragon was equally impressive as its exterior, especially around the time of the Moon Market. Calen was immediately greeted by throngs of people, buzzing about and attempting to squeeze onto one of the many tables strewn about the main floor. Many tried to balance tankards of mead in each hand, protecting them from the flailing body parts of the other patrons. The warm and enticing aroma of Lasch’s fresh-baked bread mingled with the sweet, honeyed scent of the famous Gilded Dragon mead. It made his stomach rumble.
The room was bathed in a soft yellow glow, which emanated from the beeswax candles that were dotted all around. The bar stood along the western wall; a long, solid oak countertop that stretched from one side of the building to the other. Behind it were massive wooden casks, each several feet taller than Calen and filled to the brim with Lasch’s homemade mead. They were bound with wrought iron hoops, and a tap was inserted along the bottom of each.
A raised wooden stage sat against the eastern wall of the room, roughly six feet wide and pushing about four feet out from the wall. This was where the bards, storytellers, and performers stood as they entertained the crowd.
Just as Calen reached the edge of the crowd surrounding the bar, Rist pushed through the swell of bodies, extending his arm outward to hand Calen a large tankard of mead. “Drink it slow. I nearly lost an arm in that madness,” Rist said, throwing his free hand over Calen’s shoulder.
“It’s your family’s inn,” Dann said as he emerged from the crowd behind Rist. He choked down a large mouthful of mead. “Why do you even queue in the first place?”
Rist rolled his eyes with a sigh. Dann shrugged towards Calen in response.
“I think I saw your dad over this way, Calen.” Rist set off, pushing his way through the crowd.
“A little sensitive sometimes, isn’t he?” Dann said. He clinked his tankard off Calen’s, and they both took a deep gulp of mead before following Rist into the crowd.
Calen soon spotted the broad outline of his father. Vars Bryer was a lean but powerful man. His thick, broad shoulders were earned from years of working with the hammer and anvil. His short brown hair was flecked with specks of grey, and a muscular jaw carefully outlined his face, slightly leathered from the flames of the forge.
As if sensing Calen approaching, Vars turned his head and stood up in one fluid motion, pulling his son firmly into a warm embrace. “It’s good to see you, Calen.” Vars’s tough, no-nonsense exterior often melted away when it came to Calen and his sister, Ella. Even more so since they lost Haem. His eyes scanned Calen’s body up and down, searching for any cuts or bruises. “How went the hunt?”
“Actually, something—” Before Calen could finish his sentence, the tumult that had filled the room only seconds before dissipated into a wave of hushed whispers.
A tall, thin figure stepped up onto the stage. His face was obscured by the hood of his long heavy cloak, which looked as if it had seen all four corners of the world. Coloured a mixture of muted browns and greens, it was scuffed all over and covered in dirt and clay. Despite this, it seemed tough and truly unscathed by time, giving off an air of immortality.
As the whispers droned off into an unerring silence, the man pulled his hood down onto his shoulders. His fine silver hair was tied back over his ears and up into a ponytail, which emphasised his sharp youthful facial features. He had a narrow jaw, high cheekbones, and supple milk-bottle skin. His ears, soft and thin, tapered off into a point at the end. It was almost impossible to determine how many summers he had seen.
Elves were rarely seen west of Wolfpine Ridge, or in the world of men at all for that matter. Theri
n was the exception, and his stories were legend. People travelled for some distance just to hear the whispers from his silver tongue. Rumours floated around The Glade that he was older than the empire itself and had witnessed those legendary tales unfold with his own eyes. He was the villages’ worst kept secret.
“It has been some time since I have visited these lands.” The elf’s calm and subdued voice seemed to fill every crack and crevice of the room. “Much has changed,” he muttered, almost to himself as his eyes searched the crowd. “It is my great pleasure to have returned!” he roared as he threw his arms wide open.
A rapturous applause erupted throughout the room.
“Settle down, settle down,” Therin said, gently pushing his hands in a downward motion, a wry smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “Tonight, my friends, is special. Tonight, I tell you the story of how the ancient city of Ilnaen was obliterated from existence. Bands of fire and destruction spread from the centre of Epheria to the foothills of Mar Dorul and the Lodhar Mountains, forming what is known to us elves as the Svidar’Cia – The Burnt Lands.” Therin surveyed the room, his gaze greeted only by awe and wonderment. “Tonight, I shall tell you the story of the fall of The Order and the birth of the Lorian Empire – the true story.”
Growing up, it was a special thing for Calen to hear Therin’s stories of a time when all the races roamed the lands freely. The beautiful ornate elven cities, the mighty giants, and the heroes of old. But most of all, he adored hearing of The Order and the noble Draleid who protected Epheria, fighting fearlessly astride massive dragons – some as big as houses. The stories told by some of the other bards were decidedly different.
“Fane Mortem…” Therin allowed the name to sink in. “The Emperor of Loria was once but a young mage, rapidly rising through the ranks of The Order. Born to a noble family inside the city walls of Al’Nasla, it was not long before his Spark was noticed. By the age of six, he was sent to the city of Ilnaen to train with the legendary mages of The Order. There was no greater honour among magic wielders in the kingdom of Loria. To be chosen to practice your craft alongside the ancient mages of the elves and giant clans was a rare thing indeed, and it was no mistake they chose Fane, for his Spark was both raw and powerful.”