The Quest for the Lost Shards of Power

by F M Andrews

  There are as many realities as there are minds to perceive them.

  This tale is but a single drop of truth in an ocean of possibilities.

  Chapter 0ne

  The light was fading.

  The passing trees, bathed in their early autumn colours of gold, bronze and red, were fast becoming monochrome shadows. The bird’s boisterous evensong had peaked and waned and the profound stillness of the evening, settled all around them. It had been a stifling hot day, the last dying gasp of summer before it surrendered totally to autumn, and the heat and dust had made traveling almost unbearable.

  Despite this, Turrin had spent most of the day on the driver’s bench, next to his father, watching the world slip by. Each tree they passed was different from the rest, yet together, they blurred into one unchanging forest. Mule, the family’s horse, had plodded steadily on, head down, his tail gently swishing the odd fly away. He never complained, although he never moved any faster than his own slow, even, pace and the view of Mule’s rear end had become as familiar as the trees, the dry, rutted road and the bright blue strip of sky above.

  It had been hard to stay awake on the gently rocking wagon and several times he had fallen asleep with his head on his father's shoulder. The course linen of the shirt, a comforting texture on his cheek as he dreamed happily of one day performing alongside his parents in some great lord’s hall.

  His parents were bards of exceptional talent, so well-known and respected that they could pick and choose where, when and for whom they would perform. His mother had a voice that would make even the hardest heart break and his father’s lute playing was famous throughout Feld. Turrin could not sing and his lute playing was ordinary at best but his parents were always patient and encouraging.

  “I think we’ll call that a day shall we?” Turrin’s father said “By that dreadful sound your stomach is making, I would say it is time to make camp for the night and give that angry beast you keep inside some food.”

  Turrin’s father gently guided Mule toward a small clearing on the side of the road that had obviously been used as a camp on several other occasions. The grass was well cropped by animals and there was a ring of stones for a fire pit with a stack of firewood under a makeshift wooden lean-to which some kind traveller had left for the next passer-by.

  The family began their well-practiced routine for settling down for the evening, quickly and efficiently making camp for the night, each with their own assigned chore. It was a lovely campsite in a small clearing with a chuckling stream only a few paces into the woods, yet for some reason, the more Turrin looked about, the less at ease he felt. Something was not right. He did not know what it was, but he knew that when he had this feeling, things had a habit of turning out badly. The last time he had felt like this was in a great lord’s hall just before a fight had broken out between several knights and a wayward knife, thrown by one of them, had impaled Turrin’s father in the thigh. It had taken several moons before he could walk with his usual vigour again.

  The place looked so peaceful that Turrin almost ignored the first twinges of unease, however, the feeling of “wrongness” would not go away. He took a deep breath, and told himself that this was stupid as he repeated one of his Father’s favourite sayings to himself: “If you concentrate on it hard enough, you can talk yourself into being fearful of your own shadow”

  Neither his mother, humming gently to herself as she set the fire or his father, settling Mule for the night seemed to feel anything was amiss, and yet Turrin’s mind began to play tricks on him. Collecting the fire wood from the lean-to at the forest edge, he imagined strange sounds and flickering shadows and a crawling feeling of unease made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  “I think that will be enough for tonight?” He told his mother, hoping that she would agree.

  “Just one more load to make sure. Save us having to stumble about in the dark if we run out” She replied before turning to fetch a blanket from the wagon.

  Turrin reluctantly made his way back to the wood pile. This time, he swore he saw a movement, a darker shadow than the rest, just beyond the tree line. Squinting he took a step closer.

  “Hello. Is someone there?” He asked in a tentative voice.

  There was no reply. A flash of metal catching the light from the newly lit fire caused him to freeze. The feeling of “wrongness” was nearly suffocating him now.

  Unreasoned panic overtook him and he turned and ran.

  The first arrow grazed his ear and sent him spinning to the ground. Dust filled his mouth and stifled his scream. Another arrow suddenly appeared in his outstretched hand, pinning him to the ground. There was a sound of running feet and a shadow as someone jumped over him. There were other sounds too but he could not make sense of them, shouts, the horrible scream of a horse, a deep guttural laughter followed by his mother's cry and the noise an axe makes when chopping wood.

  He could smell burning flesh and the coppery smell of blood. Lying, as he was, face down, he could not see what was happening. He tried to move but this made the arrow grate on the bones of his hand and a wave of burning pain made his vision blur and his stomach lurch. The arrow had to come out. From his experience of hunting, he knew that there would be less damage if you pushed the arrowhead all the way through, rather that pull it out backwards. Even thinking about it made him feel ill, and it took several deep breaths before he could concentrate enough to jerk his hand up the arrow shaft and pull the arrow out of the dirt. Gasping, he held his hand, still pierced by the arrow, and looked around. The clearing was unrecognizable, there was blood everywhere, their wagon, his home, was overturned and on fire. Mule lay on the ground with a huge hole where his heart used to be and, what he first took to be a bloody pile of clothing, came into focus as his father’s broken, headless body.

  Bile rose to his mouth and his legs began to tremble as he looked frantically for his mother, he had to help. Sagging to his knees, he fought the pain and the nausea. Where was she? He had heard her scream but maybe she had given the attackers the slip and was now safe in the forest. He started to quietly edge towards the tree line, scanning the clearing to make sure that no one was looking his way. One of the attackers with greasy black hair tied in a knot, torn leather jerkin and brown linen trews was kneeling with his back to Turrin. He was huge and somehow out of proportion, his shoulders and upper body seeming too large for his head and lower body. He was grunting as he struggled with something on the ground. It was an odd sound a bit like the sound pigs made when they rutted. There were two others, both grimy and poorly dressed, with similar proportions as the first man. At that moment, their whole attention was focused on the man on the ground and whatever he was doing.

  Turrin took one last step back into the trees and safety. He was confident enough in his woods skills to be able to find his mother and then disappear from here, but before he set off, before he left behind his father and his home for the last time, he could not resist one more glance backward.

  #

  Turrin sat bolt upright, gasping, his body shaking with emotion, bathed in sweat as he struggled to wake from this reoccurring nightmare. Gulping down air, he tried to focus, as the awful visions of that horrific day gradually faded, to be replaced by the familiar moonlit walls of his room and the comforting sound of the cherry tree, rubbing against the thatch. Thad, the ginger cat who had adopted Turrin last winter, strolling in from the forest one frosty evening and never leaving, was curled up at the foot of his bed. Opening one eye, he regarded Turrin with a look that plainly said “Is all this disturbance really necessary?”

  Turrin’s heart rate was easing and his breathing was slowly returning to no
rmal as he adjusted his reality between that terrifying night, six turns ago, and the present. Glancing at the small, puckered scar in the middle of his right hand, he reassured himself that it had all happened long ago.

  He had been found the next day by a group of travellers who were heading to Upper Hull’s harvest festival. They had come across the carnage around midday and already the flies and the crows were busy on the bodies and the smell was enough to make the strong men and women gag. They had buried his father and his mother in the same grave along with their heads, which they had found in the fire. Mule had been cut up for dog food as it would be sinful to waste such an unlooked for bounty. It had been the dogs that had found the unconscious Turrin just inside the tree line, suffering from shock and loss of blood.

  They were kind people, traders, the lifeline between villages and a means for news and goods to be spread throughout the country. They realized immediately that Turrin needed a healer and, fortunately, it just so happened that their next destination was the village of Upper Hull where a renowned healer, Errin, made her home.

  It had not taken long for Turrin’s physical injuries to heal under Errin’s expert care, however, it took much longer before he was able to trust people, laugh or even live a normal life again. Errin had realized that her patient would not survive in the world without her care and had kindly offered to adopt him. His new life had become much more insular than the one he had lived with his parents. His day-to-day world now consisted of the cottage and its orchard, herb and vegetable garden, chicken run and beehives. This was more than enough for him as every day he acquired more skills form Errin. He learned how to make mead and cider that merchants would pay the earth for and how to grow, dry and prepare herbs for cooking and healing. She also taught him the basics of setting bones and stitching wounds so that he could give her a hand when she needed it.

  Errin had insisted that he should retain something of his past, and so she had asked a local forester, who was also a talented lute player, to give him regular lessons. It had taken a while for Turrin to accept a new style of playing and teaching but Rarrin had quietly persevered. In the end, Turrin had begun to understand that the music was within you and that everyone had a different way of expressing it. Rarrin turned out to be a great friend and would often take Turrin with him on his excursions deep into the surrounding forest, teaching him woodcraft as well as giving him and appreciation of how special the natural world truly was.

  Errin was a small, feisty woman with white hair which was forever escaping from her loosely pined bun, creating a soft, wispy halo, which framed her compassionate face. Her kind eyes danced with delight at every aspect of life and her smile, although warm, also held a tantalising hint of mischief. She was known as healer without peer, not only in the village but for many leagues around and it was quite normal for people to turn up on her doorstep asking for help. She had a small cottage at the bottom of the garden where she would treat these needy visitors. It also had a couple of beds in case the patient needed to stay until they were well enough to travel again. For these services Errin would not ask for money but never the less, many kind donations were left anonymously on her doorstep. As a result Errin and Turrin had a very comfortable existence. The only blight in his life was the terrible nightmares that he still had and the sense of unbearable loss he always felt afterwards. It was the craziest thing, that even though the nightmares always ended so horribly, for a small moment in time, he was once again that little boy in a loving family with no concept of pain.

  Turrin could not judge how far the night had progressed, but from the look of the shadows cast by the nearly full moon on his wall, it was not yet passed the midpoint of the night when one day became the next. With a sigh he collapsed back onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, consciously trying to slow his rapid breathing and racing heart. It was true that the dreams were less frequent now, but they seemed to be no less vivid, in fact, if anything, he felt that each dream was as intense as the last.

  He took a deep breath, held it, and then slowly let it out. The wind paused, releasing its grip on the cherry tree branches, allowing them a small respite from their restless movement and in the silence he heard the sound of quiet voices floating up from the living room below. Turrin listened intently. Voices in the middle of the night was usually a bad omen. It often meant an injury, an illness that had taken a turn for the worse, or a difficult birth, yet the tone of these voices seemed to be calm and conversational.

  Cautiously he slipped his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to disturb the cat, and tiptoed to the top of the stairs. There were two voices, one was Errin’s and the other was a deep, resonant man’s voice that rose and fell in an almost musical way. Fenrick! The bard!! How wonderful. He must have come for the harvest festival next week. No one knew when or where he would turn up, as he liked to surprise, but everyone knew that it was a real honour to have him perform in your village. Word would spread far and wide that their village had been chosen by Fenrick this year.

  Fenrick was a close friend of Turrin’s parents and had been a solid presence in his life for quite a while after the attack. He was a tall, slim man, with a mop of dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, both of which were sprinkled with silver streaks. A ready smile and an intelligent twinkle in his eye gave him a friendly, approachable manner. He would always tell wonderful tales of Turrin’s parent’s escapades, making sure that he knew what truly great artists they had been.

  Over the years Fenrick’s visits had become less frequent as he could see that Turrin was well cared for by Errin, that he was making his own choices in life and that he was becoming an accomplished healer. Fenrick had also recently become the royal bard which had taken up much more of his time and his last visit having been almost two turns ago now.

  Turrin crept down a few stairs and then stopped. One part of him wanted to race into the kitchen and throw himself at Fenrick but strangely there was another, new part of him that was suddenly shy. He knew that he had grown up a lot in the last few turns and a disturbing thought hit him.

  What if the Fenrick of his childhood memories was different to the real Fenrick who was sitting by the fire now? Quietly, he made his way down a few more steps until a burst of Fenrick's gusty, infectious laughter dispelled all Turin's worries and he found himself racing down the last few stairs, and into his friend’s arms. Memories came flooding back of these same arms holding him tight as the night terrors engulfed him during those first few years after his parent’s death. The smell of wood smoke and leather meant security and safety and Turrin had not realized how much he had missed him until this moment.

  Fenrick, a man whose passion and livelihood was the art of word craft, was wise enough to know that there were times when silence was much more powerful than words. For several moments they sat quietly soaking up the comforting nearness of each other before the bard gently asked.

  “Still having those dreams?”

  Turrin nodded his head against Fenrick's chest.

  “So do I,” Fenrick sighed, “So do I. I can't seem to get on top of them, but they are not getting worse. Are yours?”

  Turrin's head shook from side to side this time as he pushed back so he could look into Fenrick’s eyes.

  “They don't come as often now, but when they do, they are still bad.”

  Turrin squirmed himself down onto the bench and Fenrick lifted his arm so that he could snuggle in and rest his head on the bard’s chest.

  All the trauma of the dream combined with a full day of hard exercise and the fact that he was only twelve turns old finally caught up with him. His eyelids began to droop, but before he could let himself go back to sleep there was one burning question that he need to ask

  “How long will you stay?”

  Fenrick chuckled.

  “As always, it will never be as long as I want but I will stay as long as I can.”

  “The harvest festival and dance is in three days, can you stay for that?”


  The harvest dance was really a display of the physical strength and dexterity of the men and the grace of the women and there was often bonding agreements announced soon after the festival.

  “I wouldn't miss it,” Fenrick smiled, “Do you think they will let me perform?”

  Errin and Turrin both laughed.

  “They will let you start but I'm not sure they will let you stop.” Errin commented wryly.

  At that moment Thad wandered down the stairs, gave Fenrick a disdainful look and settled himself down for a leisurely lick in front of the fire.

  “Yours?” Fenrick asked raising an inquiring eyebrow at Errin

  Erin shook her head gently “No, actually he adopted Turrin, follows him around everywhere like a shadow.”

  The cat sensing that he was the centre of attention, dutifully lifted his leg and began to lick his bottom.

  “Fits in well here I see” Fenrick quipped.

  No one said anything for a while, each thinking their own thoughts as the cat continued his ablutions.

  Turrin sighed deeply, all the tension drained from him and feeling content here in the fire lit warmth of the kitchen, he closed his eyes.

  Fenrick and Errin were talking again but this time it was about people and places Turrin did not know and slowly his breathing deepened and sleep finally claimed him.

  #

  He woke some time later with his head still on Fenrick’s chest. He was so comfortable that he did not want to move.

  Fenrick was talking quietly, the vibration of his chest, tickling Turrin's ear.

  As he became more and more awake, he began to tune into the muted conversation.

  “The signs are all pointing to the fact that we have to act now. We have simply run out of time. I do not think that he has knowledge of your whereabouts yet, however, I think that he is closing in and it is inevitable that he will soon begin to concentrate his efforts on our boundary. When that happens he will cause so much misery and mayhem that we will be unable to escape it, let alone act to prevent it happening. I know you think that you are not ready yet, however, I don't think we have a choice.”