First Chapter

 

Alannian crawled through coarse blades of grass, ignoring for the moment the stains on his cloak and tunic. The road before him wound, through shallow hills and the farms of poor to a decrepit village. He chose to hide behind a fallen log, studying each person as they rounded a bend. Even at the late hour, a group of farmers led along goats, pigs, and even a donkey.

He really should have thought this through. Uncle Halmar would have his head if he discovered him out here. Like every time before, Alannian remained only an apprentice, though at times, he considered himself more of a helper. His thirteenth birthday had come and gone, and still nothing had changed.

But then again, he had every right to do this. If only the man would listen to him.

He cast those thoughts aside, searching the faces for the one he desired. The people travelling the road talked in hushed whispers, about the lack of rain, the coming harvest, the death of the young girl, and most of all, the war.

Then Alannian spotted the one he’d been searching for, the one he only saw at a distance until now. The man, wiry as a stalk of corn, had shrouded himself in a gray cloak. He walked with a single minded purpose, though his gait seemed rather wobbly. If the man spotted him, then weeks of effort would be for naught, and Uncle Halmar wouldn’t trust Alannian to even polish a sword.

“We must be careful,” Uncle Halmar had said. “This man, Galta, would rather run then fight, but he would not stop to threaten lives if cornered. Above all else, we must ”

If that was true, eliminating the man would be much safer, but for now, Alannian would have to be content with merely following him. Definitely not a spy.          

As soon as Galta passed, Alannian stepped out behind a family of four, fingering the shaft of an arrow. When a woman glanced at him, he whipped his hand away as if burned. Thankfully, no one else glanced his way.

Alannian rubbed at his throat as an image of himself, dangling by a length of rope, face pale, feet limp and eyes sealed shut. His age wouldn’t protect him. Not long ago, the enemy hanged a boy only a few years older than Alannian.

He swallowed. That would certainly dampen anyone’s day.

A breeze blew through the plains, and again Alannian tugged at his cloak. Impatiently, he undid the sash on his left forearm, and stowed it in the pockets of his robes. The Silver Star, a symbol of the Yelmonta, was widely known throughout these parts. Anyone caught in possession of it would swing from the nearest tree.

The second, not as noticeable, green inlays over the hems of Alannian’s tunic. Both symbols could spell death, but magic easily hid them from the unsuspecting.

“Papa,” one of the boys, an unusually stocky one, complained. “You are being entirely unfair. It wasn’t my fault. He punched me first.”

Sending the boy a sharp look, the father shook his head. “And you punched him back. Now be quiet. I don’t want to hear anything else about it.”

Alannian pursed his lips. That boy was lucky to have parents. Only nine summers passed since his parents died. Ever since that day, his aunt and uncle had raised him, along with their daughter Nyrel.

He doubted his parents would recognize him now.

At long last, Galta entered the town, and Alannian parted ways with the family to follow him. The pungent odor of a tannery nearly made Alannian gag, and in a butcher’s shop, a chicken called out one last time before it died.

Swallowing uneasily, Alannian hesitated as Galta entered a tavern. Following the man was bad enough, but then again, so was entering a tavern. However, Alannian had come this far. He might as well see this through.

Drunkards slumped over tables, filth covered the peasants and the smell of ale hung heavy in the air. Ale frothed over mugs, right onto the ground, joining many other such puddles. 

He circled around tables and sat in the corner, while Galta chose a spot next to the fireplace. Alannian waited, listening in on a conversation from a group of men at an adjacent table.

“Did you hear? King Fayavor has burned another village to the ground.”

Clenching his hands into fists, Alannian his lip to keep back a growl. No matter how many times he heard those words, the result was always the same. King Fayavor, the ruler of the humans, Alannian’s own kind, had ruled in the plains for the past fifty years.

A heavyset man slapped his hand on the counter, his speech slurred and eyes the color of turnips. “Good riddance if you ask me. Dammed elf and dwarf sympathizers. Anyone who aids them deserves death.” Alannian growled furiously as the man continued on. “King Fayavor knows what needs to be done.”

As time passed, Galta put away drink after drink. More people entered as the sun started to set, bathing the tavern in dim light. Alannian drummed his fingers against his leg. He would have to leave if he wanted to keep his adventure a secret from everyone, especially his uncle.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

Alannian jumped and grabbed his chair just in time to keep it from crashing to the floorboards. Standing before him were none other than Nyrel and Tartha, but thankfully Uncle Halmar was nowhere to be seen.

Tartha’s angular chin and eyebrows— common to elves—exuded pure frustration. His auburn hair tangled like a twist of vines and his two front teeth pointed slightly outward, like a pair of fangs. He had freckles, though noticeably paler then Alannian’s own and auburn hair to Alannian’s blond.

On the other hand, Nyrel’s hair, which started out only a shade darker than Alannian’s when they were only a few summer old, had turned a sleek black. A thin scar ran above her right eyebrow, a reminder of the time he ‘accidentally’ pushed her into a stream.

He winced at the memory—not only the tongue lashing he received from Aunt Lenya, but the black eye Nyrel gave him.

“How did you find me?” Alannian demanded. “I thought I hid myself well.”

Nyrel exchanged a look with Tartha. “We were thirsty and Father went to check on something. You’re lucky he isn’t here. He told you to stay with the horses and polish their saddles!”

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” Alannian asked fiercely. “Uncle took you two and not me! Why shouldn’t I come? Why did he have to overact?”

Nyrel stomped her foot. “You nearly exposed us once, and you nearly did so again!”

“It isn’t his fault,” Tartha said softly. “I don’t think Halmar is being fair.”

Before Nyrel could retort, Alannian grabbed her arm. Galta, wavering ever so slightly, rose and crossed the tavern. Alannian steeled himself, his hands itching toward his weapons. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, but the man continued on, never once looking back.

“You see what you almost did?” Nyrel snapped. “It’s lucky he drank like a fish. Why don’t boys ever listen to girls? Life would go a lot easier if they did.”

“Don’t say that,” Tartha said. “We do know better.”

Alannian watched mesmerized, as Nyrel’s frustration with him turned onto Tartha. A couple head turned toward them, so Alannian pushed himself in between the two.

“They do not know better!” Nyrel growled out, reaching around Alannian to poke Tartha in the chest. “You are just agreeing with him because you like Alannian better.”

“Is that what this is about?” Tartha asked “That has nothing to do with it.”

Nyrel snorted. “It does too.”

“Does not!”

“Does—”

“Oh, for the love of,” Alannian muttered and finally stepped in. “Both of you be quiet!”

The noise of the tavern ceased to be and every eye turned upon them. “Dam,” Alannian muttered and said the next first thing that came to his mind. “Never mind them. These two just found out they had to marry each other.”

That succeeded in stopping the argument, but now both Nyrel and Tartha glared at him.

“We need to go.” He pushed past them impatiently. “I don’t want to lose Galta, or have Uncle find us.”

The two didn’t move, only stared over Alannian’s shoulder, both bearing twin looks of horror. Before Alannian could turn, a firm hand laid itself on his shoulder and a sharp voice spoke.

“Is that so?”

“Uncle Halmar,” he exclaimed, whipping around and shifting sheepishly, his cheeks flushing. The man’s cold, exasperated glare made him feel about eight summers old. By all of Ayasurda, how much had the man heard?

Uncle Halmar clenched Alannian’s arm in an iron-hard grip and pushed past another man, nearly sending the poor soul into a table. His uncle didn’t speak, not until they exited the tavern, and only then it was through clenched teeth. “I told you to stay at the camp. Why don’t you ever listen?”

“I do listen.” At his uncle’s glare, Alannian muttered. “Most of the time.”

Nyrel and Tartha followed, doing nothing to come to Alannian’s defense. Alannian considered shaking himself free, but dismissed that thought with one glance at his uncle. It would be best for him and all around to give him some breathing room.

Alannian shivered as the night air blew against his skin, as they traveled along a road running opposite to the one Alannian entered by. A half orange sphere, all that remained of the sun, crowned the horizon. While darkness almost claimed the village, the activity had hardly ceased. Mules and sheep bayed as their human masters led them along.

“Why don’t you ever listen, boy?” Uncle Halmar said through clenched teeth. “I told you to remain behind. You’re lucky you weren’t spotted.”

“But I wasn’t.” Alannian pulled himself free. “I was careful. No one ever spotted me. You’re being unreasonable.”

Uncle Halmar rounded on him. “Unreasonable? First, you disobeyed my orders and now this! That’s different, and you know it. I didn’t have good water to drink, but you do.” The man paused. “But it was a good thing I came. The spy is leaving tonight and we have to follow him.”

Alannian grinned despite himself. If he hadn’t followed the man, then they would have risked having the spy giving them the slip. He had saved not only them, but countless others. Maybe that would be enough for Uncle Halmar to forg--

“As soon as we catch him,” Uncle Halmar said. “I am going to triple your required amount of meditation, and you will be polishing all of our saddles until they shine. And that is in addition to your punishment for drinking ale.” The man grabbed both of Alannian’s arms and leaned over to stare him in the eye. “You are an apprentice of the Yelmonta, an order devoted to the greater good. While we are out here, you are to do everything I say. No matter what it is. Do I make myself clear?”

Face falling, Alannian muttered a hasty apology, but his uncle wasn’t done. “If you had a normal Master with the Yelmonta, this would be enough to have you dismissed. Is that what you want to happen?”

“No, sir.” Alannian stared down at his shoes, chewing on his lip. He very much doubted his uncle would report this to the leaders of the Yelmonta, the Elders of the Council. After all, Alannian’s own parents had been members, and from the stories he heard, they had been quite important.

At long last, his uncle released him and turned off down the road.

His smile now long gone, Alannian followed Uncle Halmar down the street. What he did nearly made it worth getting in this amount of trouble. At least he would be able to take some of the credit with the Elders of the Yelmonta but he kept his head bowed to keep his emotions hidden. After all, it wouldn’t do to aggravate his uncle any more.

Their horses, already saddled, waited for them off the road, behind a line of rotting stumps. Alannian paused.

“What are they do here? I thought they were further along.”

Uncle Halmar smirked. “They are trained well.”

“Dasera,” Alannian murmured, patting his horse’s neck as he hauled himself up. He had raised the horse from a colt, slighter then its twin, but full of spirit. Keeping a firm hand on his weapons, he nudged the horse down the road.

The stars shone over the darkened plains. A narrow stream trickled down the side of the road and went up to meet the foothills of the Savräcrate Mountains, which grew the Ven Istremino Forest on their other side, the homeland of the elves. Alannian glanced toward the setting sun: a hint of longing seized him. In all his time, he’d never gone more than ten leagues into the plains, which stretched out for hundreds of leagues.

“We don’t have much time,” Uncle Halmar said. “There will be no mistakes. For now, we will capture him and that will be it.”

Alannian perked up. “And then maybe you’ll let me use a sword.”

The man’s lip set in a firm line. “Think again, lad. You are a Ranger of the Yelmonta, as was your Father. Your skills lie in the bow, not the sword...just as I am not a Mage, since I scarcely have any powers at all.”

Nyrel glanced at him sympathetically. “Don’t be so angry. Being a Knight isn’t what you think. Waving a sword around gets old after a while.”

“You’re lying.” Alannian snorted. “You at least get to go in when you capture the spy and not stay on the side like a coward.”

Uncle Halmar sighed with a healthy bit of irritation. “I’m a Ranger. We stay to the shadows, in order to bring light to the rest of the world. The Aynura crafted each race to where they would feel most at home, and on a smaller scale, gave us abilities that mustn’t be squandered.”

“I know. I know.” Alannian glared down at his saddle. How many times did he have to hear the same story? It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being an Apprentice with the Yelmonta, but he wondered if that was all he was destined to be. The others were able to do so much more, and even several simple spells.

“Listen,” Uncle Halmar said. “Each of us was made by the Aynura for a purpose. You have to find your own.”

Alannian wanted to say that was unfair, but he stared down into Dasera’s majestic white mane. When was his uncle going to let him learn the ways of the sword? Was uncle never going to let it go?

You knock yourself out with a training sword once, Alannian picked at the reins. And no one lets you hear the end of it.

He eyed the other’s weapons, their swords gleaming in the moonlight. Why didn’t anyone give him a second chance to redeem himself? At times, he felt like a fire was trying to rage with himself, but he lacked the strength to release it. He wanted more. Whenever people compared him to his father, Alannian smiled, but he wanted to set himself apart.

“Rangers aren’t all bad,” Nyrel whispered to him. “General Besrio of Virtona is a Ranger, and our grandfather was one.”

Occasionally, they passed a farmer’s house. A rabbit darted across the road, disappearing into the knee high grasses. In the distance, even under the dimming light, their mark was clearly visible on the top of a hill, just the first of many. A solid line of green awaited them to the north. It was not the Ven Istremino, the home of the elves, but the Sential Forest, a mere patch of grass when compared to the other.

Alannian forced his concentration back to the man. His hands itched in anticipation. If they moved quickly enough, and at the right moment, then that would ensure their mark would go quietly. But the window narrowed with each moment.

“He is heading to a rendezvous point,” Uncle Halmar murmured. “We need to get to him right after that, not before. By the time he is discovered missing, we will have him.”

The hills soon dipped down into full valleys as the moon trailed over the cloud ridden sky. Normally, Alannian would have long been asleep, but his eyes remained wide open.

Thankfully, the man pulled off the road.

Uncle Halmar, his gaze as piercing as a hawk’s, looked back at them and held up a hand. Without a word, Alannian dropped to the ground. Like he had been trained to do, Dasera remained standing on the side of the road.

At Uncle Halmar’s nod, they hid the horses under the branches of a tree.

“Keep your wits about you,” he instructed. “Even in the dark, don’t forget to watch your step.”

With Uncle leading the way, Alannian and the other two followed him down the face of the hill. Alannian crept around stones, and lifted his feet slowly, but surely, just as he had been taught. The grass temporarily disappeared as they neared a valley, flowing with the gentle trickle of a stream.

Next to gently swaying reeds, stood the man. Alannian crouched down, in a line of bushes. He readied his bow, but held it down at his hip. Rocks clattered down the side of the hill as men on horses came down. By light of the moon, armor glimmered on one man, but the others didn’t have any whatsoever. The one soldier dismounted first and approached the man.

“Galta,” the soldier said, “you’re finally here. I’m Captain Kevli. What do you have?”

“Not much,” Galta replied. “The Yelmonta are moving their troops as we thought, but something is out of place. Rastha himself has left the forest, and no one seems to know where he is.”

Alannian chewed on his lip, wondering if he had heard wrong and whether they should move closer. How was it that Rastha, the most powerful and wise member of the Yelmonta, would leave without telling anyone?

Kelvi’s eyes widened slightly under his helmet. “That is...unusual. Does it have anything to do with the Incarnation?”

Alannian blinked in shock. For eons, the Incarnations had kept peace in the land, the cycle running from the elves to humans to dwarves. It was they who led the Yelmonta and kept the peace between the three races.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the spy said. “King Fayavor has destroyed the Incarnation Cycle.”

Kevli glanced toward the other two men with him, one wide shouldered and the other as slim as a reed. “You might believe so, but nothing is certain. Whatever Rastha is doing, it is obviously very important. Don’t dismiss anything.”

Galta shook his head. “It is not our job to interpret anything, only pass it on to Thurzil.”

Thurzil, Alannian picked at the hem of his tunic, his gut twisting. Thurzil was the right hand man to King Fayavor and the darkest of all the creatures: a warlock. Warlocks were twisted beings of darkness who delighted in bloodshed and destruction. Alannian prayed only half the rumors he heard about Thurzil were true.

Galta plunged his hand into his robes and pulled out a scroll. “Here is everything that I acquired.”

Uncle Halmar tapped Alannian’s shoulder and breathed his orders. “Take out the horses, and then we will move in.”

“Like always,” Alannian so wanted to say but his uncle had already crept away. Stringing his bow, Alannian concentrated, aiming for the nearest horse. He waited, and then released the string.

The horse reared, and then toppled over backward, its blood staining the ground. Screams filled the air as quick as lightning, Alannian killed the next two horses, and the last, shaking itself free, took off.

While the others shot toward the men, Alannian aimed for their legs. The first soldier went down with a scream, and Uncle Halmar went straight for the leader. The night air filled with the clangs of swords, as Alannian grabbed another arrow.

Nyrel and Tartha fought the other soldier, each swiping to keep him on the defense without actually harming him. But Uncle Halmar didn’t give the other soldier the same benefit. A moment later, a head fell from lifeless shoulders.

We’re actually going to pull this off, Alannian thought. And what’s more, they would be able to retrieve the orders they needed. All he had to do was incapacitate Galta. His aim was true, and the man fell to the ground, an arrow sprouting from his knee.

Yet, Kevli, the leader, ducked a vicious swipe, a brutal smile on his face. “You think we didn’t know about this?” the man said. “This isn’t your trap, but ours.”

Uncle Halmar’s eyes widened as the thundering sound of horses reverberated up and down the valley. “Nyrel, Tartha, get back now!”

A burst of light left Uncle Halmar. Kevli flew through the air, hitting the ground with a cry of pain. Knocking Galta out with a meaty fist, Uncle Halmar made a step toward Kevli.

“Father, we must go!” Nyrel shouted. “The orders don’t matter if we don’t get Galta out.”

Alannian shot an arrow toward the soldiers. “She’s right. Our orders were to get the mole.”

Nodding and letting loose a whistle, Uncle Halmar blocked blow after blow. A thundering sound of galloping horses announced the horses’ arrival. Alannian clambered into the saddle, but only after letting loose one final arrow.

“No!” Kevli shouted. “You won’t get away.”

Kevli cried out, his words foreign. A ring of fire scorched into existence, surrounding them and barring their escape. Dasera reared and it took all of Alannian’s strength to keep from tumbling to the ground.

“He can use magic!” Nyrel shouted, struggling to keep her own horse under control.

“Move around it!” Uncle Halmar ordered and with much urging, Alannian made it through.

Alannian and the others charged out of the clearing, with the soldiers on their tails. Dasera stumbled over a loose stone, slowing him so Alannian fell behind. That was all the opening the soldiers needed. A ball of light left Kelvi’s hands. Before Alannian could move, the light hit him square in the back, and darkness claimed him.