Child of Shadows: Heroes of the Third Age: Lyri

By H. Shane Alford

Darkness Deepens...
The shadows of the past have been revealed. The Balance sways and the Shadowfall looms. Demons hunger to be unleashed and to feast upon the Bright World.

The Child of Light, the Herald of the Dawn, has appeared to proclaim the new day. Now, there is hope for tomorrow. But it is like a candle in a maelstrom.

From across Narianna, heroes arise to face the fiendish tide. The fate of all hinges upon the hearts of a brave few. But they alone are not strong enough. They alone cannot endure. Even the Lightbringer cannot see beyond the gloom of Oblivion.

Another must come...forged in black fire and tempered in suffering. Another must step forth and show the way down paths others do not dare to tread. Salvation cannot illumine the world without her. For its light to shine, the darkness must deepen. The Third Age awaits. All depends on the Child of Shadows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Shane Alford
• Release date: Apr 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780989073066

H. Shane Alford

Born in 1967 in the quaint, southern town of Social Circle, Georgia, Shane Alford spent his childhood embarking on one imaginary adventure after another. A graduate of LaGrange College, he holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Religion. Currently, Shane resides with his wife, Cheri, and their two children: Brendan and Kara, in Columbia, South Carolina. He has two daughters, Chelsea and Alexandra, from a previous marriage. https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18590712.H_Shane_Alford

Book preview

Chapter 1: A Shadow Begins

To you to whom I consign my tale, I beg, do not judge me overly harsh. As a child, I saw the world as a child. Now, long removed from that simple life, I set quill to paper as but a reflection of it, though cast from my hand long after that innocence was lost. And so, with your patient indulgence, please find that, though my words here crafted may seem removed from the musings of a young girl, they are as faithfully rendered as I may provide and carry with them the heart of my story, even if my turn of phrase or choice of words may seem odd to you. In a way, without the perspective I bring now both in afterthought and context, the fullness of my tragedy would be lost, emaciated to the seasoned palette of a learned reader. So, again, I ask your indulgence and thank you for it.

All stories have a beginning. Mine began in smoke and fire. Of course, there was a time before that night; but, to my remembrances, little remains save for fleeting glimpses: a mother’s gentle smile and a father’s warm embrace. The terror-filled faces that overtook those simple memories left little behind in their wake. Always, it seems, the darkness holds stronger to what remains of my past than light can illumine. Still, somehow, I remember some of what was before the shadows came, before the screams tore away my peaceful dreams and left nightmares behind. Somehow, I remember; somehow, I survived to do so.

A strange chill crept in through the eaves that night. My nest was within the loft of our simple, timber home. The thatched roof above held the warmth of the hearth’s fire below, keeping the unseasonable cold at bay, and I, coiled amidst the soft furs that were my bed, gave little thought to the draft. My refuge was comfortable enough and my insides were satiated with the filling meal I had eaten a short hour before. The smell of it still lingered in the rafters – warm, leavened bread, roasted partridge, and spiced fruit. Below, my parents whispered of the day that was coming to an end. My mother laughed softly at something whimsical my father had said and his own laughter rolled in to share in her amusement. She chided him gently that my sleep should not be disturbed. In truth, I smiled contently. That was how my dreams began as I drifted into slumber. It was the last such moment I would ever have.

The hour was very late, I suppose, when the peace I had always known was taken away. I did not hear the thundering of hooves or even the first blaring of the war horns. Somewhere in my dream, though, the discord pierced my heart and ripped me from my childish reverie. The air was already heavy with smoke, charring the memory that had seen me off to sleep. Inhuman cries consumed the night. From within my warm nest, I was plucked, pulled into my mother’s arms with frantic haste that shocked me and left my senses fully overwhelmed. Had it been less so, I might have cried out. But terror silenced any such sound.

Through the furs that enwrapped me, orange light touched my eyes. Flames rolled everywhere as shadows battled amidst them. I could not tell what cast these dark forms, but the glint of steel shone clearly enough. The cold air swirled with smoky tendrils as my mother and I ran, her body shielding me under her arm, her cloak thrown around my shoulders. The fog of her breath limned her face for only a moment as we paused amidst the chaos trying to find somewhere to escape. She chose a direction and we fled into the forest. It mattered not which way in the end. I never saw what became of my father.

My mother staggered and gasped before she fell. Her hot blood stung my face, spraying from the wound that appeared as the arrow pierced her heart. She pulled me tight, turning as she careened into the litter that covered the forest floor, carrying us both down but shielding me with her body from the impact at the same time – her last act of love. It was not until her grip failed that I lifted my eyes from her breast and looked upon the mask of death that froze her pain and sorrow and left the visage emblazoned upon my mind. The firelight shimmered upon her welling tears and traced golden lines down her cheeks.

It was when that reflected light was eclipsed that I looked upon the shadow that killed her. His armored silhouette, his crossbow still in hand, loomed over me. Everything that had been my world was devoured by his darkness. Steel-clad hands ripped me from the furs, from my last vestige of a loving time, and carried me like a huntsman’s prize, dangling by my small arm. Pain – something I had never truly known – gripped me. My wrist was crushed in his cruel hand. The sensation magnified as my shoulder wracked as he walked back towards my burning village. He gave no care to my plaintive scream as he took me deeper into the hell that would be my nightmare. Agony swallowed my consciousness. It was the only mercy I knew that night. It was short.

Pain woke me. Darkness crushed me. A heavy, grunting beast pinned me to the ground, battering me into the course woolen bedroll that lined his tent. Shadows played upon its canvass side panels as figures moved across the face of the campfires beyond. Men’s voices rumbled dimly, surreally in my ears as they shared their exploits. Someone laughed a deep, raucous laugh that soon echoed within their ranks. Above me, the Beast, his foul musk drenching his muscled form, continued his assault. A searing blade pierced me again and again sending shockwaves through my tiny body. My knees were pressed against my chest hard; my heels, against his hairy ribs. Massive hands, hard and calloused, locked together above my head. His thickly muscled arms straddled my shoulders. I lay fully beneath him. His hips rose, his back coiled, his hips fell. The sound slapped wet with my blood as he stabbed into me. I would have cried out as the pain woke me fully into my nightmare, but the thrust blasted the air from within me. Only a gasped whimper escaped my lips. For a moment he paused, grinding his groin into me. A fiendish chuckle fell upon my ears. His breathing and his heartbeat – raging in his thick chest – quickened in the instant that followed as he redoubled his attack upon my body. He knew I had awakened and it delighted him to hear me groan. He now drove into me more furiously than before, trying to bring more piteous sounds from within me. I wish I could say he gained no such satisfaction; but, I was only a child and had no such defiant composure. I gave him what he wanted over and over again throughout that night. I suppose his wicked pleasure ransomed my life in return.

His suffocating weight lifted from me as he unsheathed his weapon from within me. I gasped for breath and my hips ached from the battering I had taken. I tried to recoil, to draw into myself, to hold my knees to my face and hide behind them from his hungry eyes. But he was far from done with my torture. I kicked and thrashed with what little remained of my strength as he seized me again, dragging my body towards where he knelt. I spun and clutched at the woolen bedroll, clawing at it to escape. In my delirium, I cried for my dead mother. All was to no avail. Hands the texture of tree bark clamped my tender hips in a viselike grip. I stared at the black earth beyond the course fabric I clung to as I unveiled it, as I was pulled back to feed the Beast’s hunger again. I surged forward an instant later and sprawled, the wool scratching and skidding across my unformed breasts. He roared with lust and bore down upon me from behind, crashing into me with no hint of regret or mercy. His weapon tore through my small defense, penetrating to its hilt into my untouched bowels with a single thrust. This time, I did scream, but my cry was muffled as my face plowed into the cruel bedroll. My body grated against the cloth each time he hurled me into him. New blood flowed and hastened his passing. He growled each time his pace quickened. Bile filled my throat and dizziness stole my vision. At his leisure, he exchanged one wound for the other, ensuring that my agony did not abate from either. When, at last, he consummated his fury within my body, nothing of my childhood remained.

The cold air of night burned my naked flesh as he dragged me from his tent and tossed me into the firelight where his men savored their own carnal feasts. Something was said between them and a chorus of laughter answered before he walked away. I saw the light of the campfire eclipsed once more through my matted, sweat and grime drenched hair. A twisted-faced man crouched over me and smiled. The ruins that were his teeth gleamed with froth as he licked his thin lips lasciviously. His hand, gnarled and grotesque, lifted my face from the dirt by my hair and pulled my head to his lap but not to offer comfort or rest. Darkness hid what lurked there from my eyes but not from my lips. I pushed away from the foul, wet probe until his free hand struck me. My lips parted to cry out. The sound choked and was driven back into my throat. I tried to retreat, to bite. Each transgression earned me another blow, stunning me, gagging me. The vile man laughed deliriously as he strangled me until his body convulsed with spasms of relief. I vomited where he dropped me as he stood, cinched his trousers, and walked away.

By the first light of morning through the dark trees, many callers had taken their pleasure through me, some alone, some in tandem. I lay in the mud and blood, my white skin black with filth, and stared at the sky as it changed colors above me. My body was too ravaged to even notice the cold. I rolled my eyes away from the sky at the sound of horses and watched as the soldiers mounted and rode away. About their campsite there were other girls and women whose faces I might have known where they not shrouded in the same blood and grime as my own. I, at least, was alive. None of them had been spared. I envied them.

A clattering noise drew my swollen eyes to a dark specter moving in the morning mist. A wagon laden with all manner of provisions and gear rolled into my bleary view. Two oxen, black as pitch, hauled the mass towards me. Resigned, I prayed they would end my suffering beneath their hooves. But, alas, the pair stopped. A man’s boots dropped into the mud beside where I lay. I had no strength left to regard his face. Reflexively, I flinched as he squatted down, the tails of his long coat dragging the wet ground behind him. He said something in his foreign tongue, his words tainted with sarcasm, a sentiment that required no translation. With the butt of his whip, he prodded my naked body, testing for life. Satisfied that I was, indeed, alive, he took claim to my arm and hefted me up from my grave and over his shoulder like just another sack of goods. I could only whimper. He tossed me into the back of his wagon amidst the barrels and provender and remounted into the driver’s seat. The dim light of the sky vanished as he reached back and a cloak of burlap was drawn over me, his latest acquisition. Exhaustion took my consciousness as the wagon rattled along once more.

I do not know for how long I slept. It did not matter, though, as no rest came from it. I guessed it was near the midday that I awakened. Thick clouds gave me neither sun to gauge what time had passed nor warmth to chase the cold from me. The wagon had stopped and men laughed beyond the burlap shroud. I dared not move but the chills that ran through me gave me little recourse. I trembled and shivered uncontrollably. Given my state, no thought that I might flee was given any consideration. My body was wrecked, caked in blood and viler ichor. My torn flesh screamed and wracked me both within and without. Searing pain burned within my throat and other places. The smell of my flesh was rancid, tainted with the sweat of many of the same men that sat joking about the cooking fire. I could see them through a small crack in the sideboard of the wagon. In daylight, clothed in their armor, they appeared no more than men. I remembered each face, though, twisted in shadowy firelight from the night before – demons all. I shut my eyes and withdrew from the crack shaking fiercely, but their faces remained in my mind. My body screamed in silence as each one revived every moment I had suffered.

The sound of the soldiers taking to their stirrups was followed shortly by the hiss of the fire’s death. A moment later my shroud was flung back and the wagon man looked down at me. His grizzled features snarled in a look of disgust. He barked something at me but I did not know the words. The furrowing of his brow, however, made his displeasure clear. Again he berated me, my eyes widening in terror. A swipe of the crop of his whip and I coiled into a ball. There was no escape, though, as he seized hold of my hair and pulled me from the wagon. My small hands grasped at his hand as he dragged me from it and across the campsite. I tried to scream, but my tortured throat only wheezed a piteous sound that carried not volume. Cold water engulfed me an instant later as he tossed me into the stream besides which he and his cohort had stopped. The flow was not deep and I found my footing enough to stand. I looked back at him in shock as I emerged from the frigid water, my teeth chattering. He laughed as I shivered before waving dismissively and tottered back to finish stowing his goods. He was very old, I thought, scraggily haired and round of body. The pungent smell of beer hung heavy about him.

Shaking beyond control, I waded – stumbled – through the slippery stones and stiffly emerged from the water. The man returned to me and pulled a broadcloth scrap down over my head through a hole he had slit with his knife. Like a farmer inspecting a new goat he has thoughts to buy, he tugged at my face, examining my teeth, eyes, and ears. Seemingly pleased, he motioned me to follow and returned to the wagon to remount. For a moment, I stood frozen looking about in a daze. His sharp, impatient shout broke me from it and I staggered to his call. My legs barely bore me and the pain between them made me wince with every step. I did not dare to look up to him when I reached where he stood. With no effort, he clamped hold of my arms, hefted me up, and put me back amongst his goods before climbing to his place and setting the oxen in motion with a crack of his whip. I huddled once more with the sacks and barrels, just another part of his collection of things. What use he had for me, I feared to guess.

Nightmares burned through my mind as the wagon rumbled along even though I was not asleep. Hunger soon added to my misery; thirst, as well. My last loving meal had been left behind in the mud the night before, and the vacancy within me twisted, cramped, and turned my insides. Almost mechanically, I picked at the small grains of fodder that wedged into the cracks of the wagon’s bed. These did nothing to sate me and only further drained my mouth of moisture.

A rider returned with orders for the wagoner as the day drew to an end. It seemed a well-practiced routine. The raiders would scout ahead and plan what attacks would be unleashed in the black of night before readying their camp. The old man would set to making the cook-fire and the evening meal among other sundry tasks. I watched through the crack in the sideboard as the rote unfolded. The old man gave little more than a glance to me as he gathered what provisions he would need in his tasks. I shied from even that slight contact.

Inside me, sickness grew as my bowels churned. The pain welled up tears in my eyes as I fought to restrain it. I knew that should I falter and soil the wagon, wolves would feast upon my corpse at the roadside by morning. The wagoner apparently read the signs in my doubled over body as I quaked with fever and, as dusk engulfed the camp, the soldiers distracted with their supper and preparations for the coming raid, he fetched me from my hole amidst the sacks and lead me into the woods to where a latrine pit had been dug. He hung a waterskin upon a tree branch before pushing aside the undergrowth and disappearing back towards the camp. Alone, I should have thought to run, to hide; but fear paralyzes such thoughts. Terror tore them away. The world was naught but shadows and I was a child within them.

Tentatively, I took down the waterskin and touched it to my lips. The first sip choked me. The pain in my throat was almost unbearable. Shaking, I forced more down and coughed dark blood as my penance. Still, I drank and flushed from my body as much of the violation as I could. When the old man returned, the soldiers had left to their wicked work. Darkness had descended in earnest. It was a blackness that surrounded me both within and without. He merely snorted and shook his head at the sight of me before towing me back to the wagon and the fire.

Having little strength remaining, I slumped beside the flames, my eyes loosing focus as I stared into the hungry glow. A wooden bowl appeared before me, its contents, some curdled brew like porridge speckled with strange herbs. Frozen, I did not respond in a timely manner to the proffered bowl which earned me another bark from the old man. With my hands still shaking despite the heat of the fire, I took the offering and ladled a small portion with my trembling fingers. It was bland but palatable. Hunger warred with agony as I partook of the gruel. The old man paid me little heed, busying about his work.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as he rolled out a leather bundle in the firelight. Within it were a strange assortment of metal tools and odd pouches. In a shallow, stone dish, he ground up a recipe of herbs and powders selected from the pouches. These he gathered up in a swath of dampened cloth and moved to where I sat. Without courtesy, he pulled back my head and applied the sticky poultice to my swollen cheek and lips. I tried to retreat but his fist held my hair tightly. A sour sweet smell like that of vinegar and honey stung my nose. Numbness ran through my skin at the balm’s touch. Gradually, he worked the ointment across my body, applying it to the innumerable scrapes and welts. He lingered upon my female places but only because my wounds there were most severe. Still, my chills redoubled and I could not help but shake and cry silently as he touched me. I wish I had seen pity in his eyes, but the look was more that of a merchant frustrated with damages to one of his wares. His ministrations at an end, the wagoner re-bundled his kit and tucked it back upon the wagon. At least, my pain subsided, if only slightly.

I sat beside the fire for an indeterminate time, pulling the scrap of broadcloth that was my only clothing as tightly as I could around me. I tugged at it nervously, compulsively, trying to hide within its limited confines. The old man ignored me as I fidgeted. He returned to the wagon, climbed into the back, and began reshuffling his goods to make ready for the delivery of pillage he expected when the raiders returned. I watched him through the dark strings of my hair but looked away whenever his gaze swept over me. In the darkness, he could not have noted my stare as I tracked him as a hare might a hawk lest he should swoop down upon me. Nonetheless, my eyes retreated at each passing look so as to offer neither challenge nor invite further attention.

At last satisfied with the new arrangement of wares, he descended from his perch and drew a woolen bedroll from beneath the driver’s seat. A hemp cord cinched it tightly. This he untwined before unfurling the roll’s length under the wagon between the solid, wooden wheels. Absently, he turned to return to the fire where I waited.

A bedroll. A man. Panic exploded within me.

With his first step, I, the hare, sprang from my place and scrambled over the black earth towards the veil of undergrowth that encircled the clearing. My heart pounded sending new waves of pain throughout my body. Dizzied, I swooned and staggered as I flung myself towards the woods to escape. There was no grace to my flight. I fell, I rose, I fell again, clawing and crawling through the mud and leaf litter. I heard the old man call after me, his voice filled with aggravation and rage.

I barely reached the first clump of laurels before he snared me. I twisted and fought, but there was no mass to my blows or kicks. Indignantly, he dragged and carried me back through the camp, cursing all the way. When he reached the wagon, he retrieved the hemp cord that had bound the bedroll and secured my wrists. He looped my ankles leaving me hogtied and helpless. With the flat of his boot, he shoved me beneath the wagon before stomping away back to the campfire, nursing an ache in his shoulder as he continued to spit angry words at me.

With the wheel as my shield, I wormed my way into its shadow and huddled there. The night passed slowly. Somewhere in its depths, the weight of my suffering pressed me into a fitful sleep. An avalanche of sounds ejected me from my dark dreams. The soldiers had returned.

Bouts of course laughter and bluster rang from them as they dismounted. Their armor groaned and jangled and their horses stamped about, still charged with the fever of the raid. There were other sounds as well – ones that set my heart quivering and racing all at once. A girl screamed amidst their mirth. I heard others echo her cry. Terror engulfed me once more.

Tremulously, I peered around the rim of the wheel half expecting some spectral shadow to stand there. There was none. Across the way, about the fire, men gathered and feasted upon the food the wagon man had readied. Their forms were hulking in the firelight as they recounted the night’s exploits. Beyond their circle were other figures less defined by the orange glow. Still, I could discern them well enough. What my eyes could not gather, my ears registered fully. Cries of fear and cries of pain melded with rapacious growls and vile grunts as other carnal hungers were fed. I shut my eyes tight and recoiled, reliving and sharing in each girl’s torture. I screamed inside, my throat constricting until I could barely breathe.

And then my breathing stopped with a thin gasp.

A bellowing voice thundered across the camp and was answered by a rallying shout. The lord of the demons had returned. I heard his exaltation and prayed once more for death. Daring it or worse, I peeked again to see the Beast strolling into the firelight – massive and terrifying. Under his thick arm he held his prize for the night. Her hair held the color of the fire in its waves, pale and disheveled. Long before he had arrived she had given up her struggles to escape his iron grip. She dangled, exhausted, still in her light gown, her small arms and legs draped limply. His men toasted him and nodded their approval as he paraded through their ranks, basking in their evil grins.

The wagon man appeared and gathered the girl, carrying her to a sheltered nook near the clearing’s edge where a canvas tent now stood as his commander sampled the evening stew. Into that den, he deposited her carelessly. After a few more words with his men, the monster wiped the froth of his drink from his bearded chin and followed after the old man, unbuckling and shedding his armor and gear as he went. He stood a moment before the tent breathing deeply before cracking his neck, shrugging and rolling his massive shoulders, and shaking out his naked arms and legs like a runner readying for a race. The old man waddled away indifferent to the display and gathered the trappings the warrior had discarded, setting them neatly upon a rack beside the tent.

I watched transfixed as the Beast drew back the flap of the tent and ducked quickly inside. Beyond him, the fair-haired girl startled and screamed. I saw his wicked smile as he reached back and closed the flap behind him. His eyes burned with hellish fire.

Soon, as the predator’s growl carried across the camp and the young girl’s pleas were transformed into a quashed scream, I recoiled into the shadows, desperate to deaden the sounds of her destruction. She was about my age; no older than ten. I wept as I heard her childhood and innocence taken from her. The Beast’s grunting and heinous roars pierced my mind and heart. Outside his den, bathed in fire, his wolves awaited their master’s scraps.

I blanched suddenly when the old man crawled beneath the wagon and lay down upon the bedroll beside me. Nonchalantly, he folded his arms beneath his scraggily white head and grumbled something under his breath. Bound as I was, there was no escape for me; but, and only a moment later, even with the clamor from the camp reaching its crescendo, he began rattling the underside of the wagon with his snoring. I dared to release the breath I held and marveled at him. I wished, too, for sleep, to retreat from the sounds that filled the night beyond the wagon’s wheel. I could not. It would not have mattered. They forevermore were all burned into my dreams already.

Gradually, the horrible sounds died along with some of the girls. By the small hours silence prevailed, broken only intermittently by a weak moan or pitiful sobbing. A couple of voices whispered near the fire, but nothing more, save for the old man’s snoring which continued unabated throughout the night. When even the hushed conversation faded, I drooped beside the wheel and cut my eyes towards the Beast’s tent. Nothing moved there either. I slumped back into my place beside the wagoner. It was then that I spied his knife, the knife with which he had slit the broadcloth that I wore. The hilt grew from his boot. The pommel, an unadorned ball of blackish metal, cast a faint sheen from the campfire. Dim though it was, my eyes locked upon it like a ray of salvation.

Slowly, I moved towards the weapon. My breathing was only a faint whisper, but it sounded like the panting of a hound to my ears. My heart raced uncontrollably and I feared the sound of it alone would rouse my captor. My eyes darted furtively to the old man’s face, to the dagger, and back again, over and over, as I strained against the hemp rope that held my wrists behind me, binding them to my ankles. Thoughts as to how I would gain the weapon or use it could not form clearly in my frantic mind. Squirming, inch by inch, I traversed the distance. When at last I was there, my face beside the old man’s thigh and my body jackknifed with my hands near to the cuff of his knee-high boot, the full desperation of my condition seized me. I craned my neck over my shoulder and searched the darkness, barely able to see where my hands groped. Awkwardly, I strained my fingers and touched the pommel. I grasped it. The wagoner snorted in his sleep, freezing me. Only when the rhythm of his breath returned did I move again. I arched my back and contorted just enough to slip the dagger from the scabbard tucked into his boot. Once I had freed it, I scooted away and slowly moved my legs, sawing the rope against the blade held tightly in my small hands. Thankfully, the meticulous old man had kept it very sharp and it made quick work of the hemp cord. My ankles were free. Blessed by my youth, I managed to slip my still bound hands beneath my bottom and soon they were in front of me. Sitting now, I clamped the hilt between my feet and ran the remaining knots across the steel until the lashings were cut and I was loosed.

I dropped the dagger upon the blanket absently. That it was a weapon with which I might slash, stab, or kill was a thought that never entered my traumatized mind. It was a tool that had freed me from the rope, nothing more. I crawled away from the wagon, again making for the bracken. I was almost there when I spotted the sentry.

The soldier sat upon a fallen tree trunk just beyond the reach of the dwindling light of the campfire. His hood and cloak blended almost flawlessly with the night. Had he not shifted slightly and blew a deep breath I would have seen him too late, if at all. Fortunately, his attention was turned outward into the darkness. He had taken no notice of me behind him although I was mere feet from where he sat. That I had frozen where and when I did proved of even greater import an instant later when another figure’s head rose facing me above the tree trunk from where she was kneeling. Her face was masked by her tangled red hair but her eyes caught enough of the distant firelight to shine through. I held my breath as her hollow, haunted gaze passed over me blindly. Then, mechanically, her head bowed again before the seated soldier. He moaned, his gloved hand extending to tangle his fingers in her bobbing locks, forcing her to pleasure him more.

With painfully slow motions, I crawled away from the scene and took another track. Once within the cover of the undergrowth, I rose to a crouch and stepped as lightly as I could into the dark forest. My tender feet seemed to find each bramble and sharp stick; but, compared to what I had endured, the pain barely registered.

For hours I stumbled along, leaning upon the trees for strength. Falling into them would be more correct. Forest sounds engulfed me as did the blackness of night. There were no stars or moon above, just a firmament of thick, lumbering clouds. My breath clouded the air closer to me as well. The unnatural cold numbed me. The meager broadcloth offered no comfort. I had no idea where I was or to where I was going. All I knew was that I had to keep moving, to keep running from the horrors that pursued me even if they were but figments. To me, that night, they were terrifyingly real.

I had escaped. All that remained now was to survive.

Throughout my short life, the vast forest that men dubbed the Greymere, a part of the great Silverwood, had always been a place of both wonder and mystery. My people called our lands Einhervaldheim, a name that stretched back through untold generations and recalled a time when our forefathers, the Einhervald, claimed them after a long, bloody war. This was our home, our heim. We, the Asgevar, were descendants of that race of giants, of that army of conquerors. Ours was a lineage of proud, independent, and resourceful people skilled in the arts of battle and, of course, of survival. We had settled throughout these forest, hills, and lowlands along the mighty rivers that flowed through them and we had prospered. For centuries it had been so. The clans dug their roots deeply where they laid claim, entwining the very souls of our people with the earth, rocks, grass and trees. That I, a child born of this heritage now stared into the dark, twisted boughs above me and felt so alone, so afraid, and so disconnected from all of it was, perhaps, no surprise given all that had befallen me. Yet, still, I felt ashamed.

My father, a goodly man, had been a woodcutter and knew the nature of every tree. He could summon from within the living wood shape and form. He fashioned all manner of beautiful designs. Amongst my kinsmen, this art, the art of the Kaelvrot, was sacred. Those that could merge the spirits of the world with the swirling, entwining knot-work were revered and honored. Upon every surface, wood or stone, our craftsmen drew forth these images. Every beast of the world, every green thing was reflected thereon. From the lintels and posts that framed the doors of our homes to the wooden bowls that held our meals, the Kaelvrot wove our lives into the fabric of our world. It was this art for which my father had been renowned. Now, as I clung to the rough bark of an old oak, shivering in the night, my memories alone would be all that remembered his work. That I felt so much a foreigner here within the lands he loved so much made me ashamed.

I had stumbled my way through the dark for many miles. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. I had followed it like an ethereal path in hopes that it would lead me to a warming fire. In the back of my mind I knew there was no guarantee that the flames would be welcoming. I had left a campfire behind to escape into this frigid darkness. What waited around the next might be just as horrible. As my fingers and toes froze, though, and my small body grew ever more filled with lethargy, little choice remained. To survive, I had to find shelter and warmth.

I found a muddy road along my trek and slogged along beside it until the first gray light of the predawn began to make skeletons of the black trees. A chilling drizzle began to fall, but there was no room left for it to add to my misery. Or so I thought. The rain took the cold even deeper into me.

The snort of a horse lifted my eyes from the black mud through which I trudged. The smell of smoke fought with the falling rain to hold its claim to the air. Before me, a short distance away, a menhir stood dividing the road around it. The great stone rose perhaps a dozen feet above it and was covered with weathered symbols and runes. Lichen clung to its surface and a ring of ferns adorned its base. Flowers should have been growing there as well. I knew this to be so for the stone marked the place where all my memories had been born. My world, though, was dead. I stared at it as rain and tears merged upon my shivering cheeks. Beyond the rock, down the hill and across a low, stone bridge that spanned a lazy stream were the ruins of my life. The charred, hollowed out walls of homes circled what had been the village square. Nothing remained of the thatched roofs. Sooty smears marred the stone walls above window and door openings. Everything within was as black and gutted as the void in the pit of my stomach. I looked to my left to where the horse stood. It was the miller’s old, shaggy, gray mare. The animal regarded me and stamped nervously, the whites of her eyes wide. A frayed tether hung from her neck, dangling. There were burns upon her withers.

Slowly, my mind reeling, I turned my gaze back to Tyresvrad, my village, and walked on. The sacred stone was set to guard us ages ago. It was filled with magic. So I had always been told. I could not conceive how its vigil had failed or why its protective magic had abandoned us and left us damned. It stood as it had always stood, but the place it marked was no more.

I will not – cannot – describe all that I saw as I made my way through the village. That is not to say that I do not recall. I will never forget. But words do not have the depth to hold such scenes, such death, such destruction. Let it be enough to say that the raiders’ work was complete and utterly thorough. Rumors of war had drifted through the land since the springtime. I had heard the faint whispers, but could not at the time form images to give them meaning. As I stood surrounded by the burned out world of my childhood, I no longer lacked for such understanding. The light of morning crept slowly across the land behind me as I walked but it brought only gloom and no comfort.

I found my mother’s body near the shell of our home. The squawk of ravens feasting led me to her. As I mentioned before, there was no sign of my father. Frantically, I drove the carrion birds away and fell once more at her side. Her hand was cold in mine. I knelt there for a long time. Perhaps, I would have remained until death reunited us; but the old mare came along having followed after me and broke my wake. The horse watched me from a short distance away as I began my next solemn task. Throughout the remainder of the day, foolishly some might judge, I gathered smooth stones from the stream and carried them to where my mother lay. The day was almost done when I placed the last one upon her cairn. Beside the mound, I collapsed, draping my arms across her entombed form and cried. My voice had been torn from me by the raiders, so all I could do was heave my heart into the air with tortured gasps. As I lay there, begging for death, I knew I was alive. Pain told me so. The old mare watched solemnly.

With night coming on fast, I lifted myself from my lamentation and approached the skittish horse. As gently as I could, I took hold of the frayed tether and reached to caress her nose with my fingertips. The frightened animal whickered and pulled backed, bucking her head. I held on and persisted until gradually she let me stroke her face. Slowly, she calmed as I softly patted her neck. I wished I could whisper kind words to ease her fear, but I had no means to give them utterance. The burns she had suffered were bad. A heavy beam beset with flame had struck her, it seemed. There was little I knew to do to aid her, but her demeanor settled with my presence alone, which I was happy to share.

From amongst the ruins and the dead, I gathered what I would need to build a future and to live. I wrapped myself in the clothes of the fallen; I donned a thick fur as a cloak and wrapped my feet in much the same; and took from what stores that remained food and drink enough to fill a small satchel which I slung over my shoulder. Simple things were added to my equipment: a flint and steel to strike a fire, a hooded lamp to light my way, a knife to employ in my tasks, and a single pot to hold my meals.

Beside the shell of my house, upon a raised, stone nook beneath an overhang where dry firewood was neatly stacked, I settled in for my last night in Tyresvrad. Ironically, I did not hazard to build a fire for fear that the demons might return to claim me again. Instead, I wrapped myself in the furs and found some small comfort. The old mare kept me company, shirking off the cold rain. I watched the rain-soaked slurry of ashes streaming by the hearth wall like old, congealed blood until sleep claimed me.

Scavengers woke me before the morning light. The mare whinnied nervously and tromped in the mud – a wet sucking noise. From within the nook, hidden behind the woodpile, I heard their sounds, their voices. Men, the most profane of creatures, stalked through the ruins in search of anything of value left in the raiders’ wake. One had spied the old mare and had moved to claim her – a notion she rejected firmly as she bolted from him. Others of his gang were busy searching through the rubble of lives. Their features and clothing marked them as foreigners, or Skrel, as they were known to my people. They were Turanians like the raiders, invaders from a distant coast that had laid siege to our lands generations ago and who now controlled much of it by virtue of their vast, professional armies. In death and destruction, they sought fortune and gain and cared nothing for what we held sacred. I hated them for it. It was a sentiment that was newly born in me but one that was growing fiercely. What I had taken the night before would have been freely given; what they stole from the dead would have been fought for in life. Granted, in the aftermath of the raid, little of substantial worth remained. But the raid happened quickly and in the depths of the night. For these men, time was more casually spent and the daylight gave them the means to do a more thorough reconnoiter. They employed it to its fullest, searching each burned out home and each corpse for the smallest treasure. I could hear their exchanged words clearly enough, but their tongue, the Ayln, conveyed only a smattering of meaning to my Asgev ears – not by word, but by inflection and emotion. They delighted in the devastation and took pleasure in all that was reaped in its aftermath. Again, I hated them for it.

A wiry man in a long cloak approached my home and disappeared around the corner and from my line of sight. I could hear him within, ransacking the ruins, braking whatever remained as he dug through the ashes vainly seeking phantom wealth. When all that was left inside had been shattered, he reemerged and slogged near to my hiding place. He stopped and regarded the woodpile with terrifying curiosity. My heart stopped. His shadow loomed and grew larger as he studied the nook, his mind contriving the possible golden hoard that might be hidden within. He wet his lips in anticipation. His hand reached for the first chunk of split log and snatched it from the top eagerly, tossing it aside before grabbing for the next. I remained motionless in the fading darkness and, for a few fleeting seconds more, unseen.

Across the square, one of his comrades suddenly hooted in celebration, snapping his attention instantly along with that of the others in the gang. Something had been discovered. The next split timber dropped back into place with a resounding thud as he whipped towards the revelry and ran to join it. A cascade of laughter and loud shouts echoed from the ruined house that had been the home of Tyres, our laird.

Afforded the luck, I slipped from my hole and dashed around the corner of the wall and into the wood line unnoticed. I cast no look behind as I ran leaving the remnants of my world veiled in sheets of driving rain and esurient laughter.

Through the next few days, the showers continued, blowing in relentlessly from the north. Soon, within a few weeks given the bitterness of the cold, snow would follow. I could not know how long it would be until the seasons would change in earnest and white winter would descend, foregoing autumn altogether. But I did know that it was coming on fast. It was still summer, but the world had given up all hope for warmth or mercy. The chill of death gripped the land.

The forest around me offered little in the way of readymade shelter from either rain or snow. An outcrop of stone or the root ball of a fallen tree offered what little I found, and I made the best use of these overhangs that I could each night. Tucked deep beneath such, the leaves the wind had stashed away were dry and I managed a meager fire. It warmed me enough and, with the aid of my small lamp, held back the darkness. Still, I quaked throughout the night from fever. Most of my lesser wounds had begun to heal but those more grievous afflicted me still. Constant travel and the cold dampness left my tender flesh inflamed and raw. Walking was agony. Simple functions of my body were blinding with pain.

The fourth night found me huddled beneath the low boughs of a broad evergreen. The rain had passed around the noontime but a brutal, blustery cold followed throughout the afternoon and into the evening. The wind rasped through the needles and stung me wherever my furs failed to guard. I reinforced my defenses accordingly after each assault and eventually achieved a stalemate with the wind. The stones I had stacked to shield my fire fed light and warmth back to me which I soaked in. At some point, exhausted, I slumped into the hollow between the splayed roots and fell into a deep sleep in their embrace. For the first time that I could remember, I did not shiver from within or without and my mind was mercifully still.

My fire had died to embers when I awoke. The tiny red seeds of flame gave no light and the shroud of night was thick about me. A fearful sound had made its way to me and lifted my eyelids. I heard it again in wakefulness and sorted it from the rustle of the wind instantly. A wolf howled and its call was answered fourfold. The pack was near. My pile of firewood was almost spent and the night had many long hours still. This last consideration really did not matter, I guess. Wolves hunted at all hours and would kill me at any, day or night.

Paralyzed with fear, I stared at the boughs of the tree. They were as a dark curtain draped across the black world. I stared and waited for them to part and for the hungry, yellow eyes of death to find me. I did not have to wait very long. Beyond the curtain, the wolves gathered. I heard their breath and the faint shuffling of the leaves and needles as they circled my hiding place. A sinister growl rumbled through the night. My small knife found my hand; it was a feeble thing.

The first of the pack snuffled the needles that concealed me. A shimmer of pale moonlight crept past its frightful silhouette as the boughs parted. A low growl framed by white fangs preceded its yellow eyes. The wolf’s ears were bent low and back; its hackles brisling. It was easily thrice my weight, probably more. Slowly, it stalked into my den, the muscles of its ominous form tensed as it readied to claim its meal. When it did, I would be ripped from my refuge and dragged into the moonlight and torn apart before finishing my next breath.

The wolf feinted, lunging then stopping as it tested my resolve to live. I had little left and cowered. As the creature moved towards me again, I kicked at the fire’s embers and sent a scattering swarm of red cinders into the air. It was not much, but the blast surprised the beast and it sprang back, retreating from the shelter of the tree. I had bought myself a few more breaths, but the pack did not retire.

Frantic, I took to the only escape I had: the tree. Whirling to it, I climbed, pushing through the clusters of smaller, dead limbs that wove through the understory, snagging at me and impeding my ascent. Below me, the wolf returned to find its meal was beyond its reach and snarled furiously. A pair of its pack mates paced about at its flanks, sharing its frustration. Were it the depth of winter and their bellies drawn tight with hunger, their ire would have been more so. But, despite the strange cold, it was late summer and game was still plentiful. There was easier food to be found. One relatively large possum like me proved hardly worth waiting for. Nonetheless, I remained treed well after the dawn even though the pack – to my ears, at least – had moved off long before first light.

From my perch, much higher in the windswept evergreen than was necessary to escape the terrestrial wolves, I had an ample view of the surrounding forest. The tree stood atop a fold in the rolling terrain and from near its crown I could see quite a distance. The north wind had cleared the sky. To the south, the direction I had chosen out of happenstance, I could see a line of ephemeral, white streamers, the smokes of many campfires gathered together across a wide span beside the cut in the trees marking the course of a wide stream called the Asdrimar, one of the innumerable tributaries of the mighty Eidremere River. To the north, beyond the ashes of my life, several days travel at the pace a small, injured girl walked, there arose a great plume to mar the sky. Another village along the raiders’ course burned. Beyond the flames, there was a place of which I had only heard in stories: the vast Mar’chelvyn, the Midland Sea. Across its gray, stormy waters, the Turanians had come decades ago to claim Einhervaldheim. To the east, Xorconum’s Throne, the sun-seat of the god of the heavens, bathed the northernmost spur of the Valdrinor Mountains. The distant peaks were ever white with snow and, as a result, glistened in the morning light like sharp, foreboding teeth upon the far horizon. To the west, a seemingly endless forest extended, wave upon wave of undulating green and silvery gray where evergreens and deciduous trees danced to the wind’s cadence.

The southern course which I had taken, I reasoned to my chagrin, would lead me further into the skrels’ midst. An army of the demons camped along the water’s edge, evidenced by the untold campfires. West would see me towards them as well, though how long it would be before that encounter, I could not guess. There were other Asgev villages scattered, hidden within the forest that way as well and, for now, no towering smoke marked their destruction. North again was beyond all considering, which left only east. But, to my knowledge, only the wilds were that way. I recalled no mention of clan steadings in the high mountains. Tales of terrible giants, the Valigrym, winter wolves, and the other dire beasts that roamed there, however, filled my imaginings. As I began my descent, I decided upon what deadly path to take. I would go west and hope to find more of my kinsmen before the Turanians found me or them.

Tentatively, I set my feet back upon the earth, praying that the wolves had, in fact, moved on. After a few guarded moments, hearing nothing but my own thundering heartbeat and shallow breath, I pushed back the boughs of the evergreen and emerged. Thankfully, naught but the fading forest foliage greeted my gaze. Swallowing in search of moisture in my dry mouth, I settled my small leather satchel’s strap across my shoulder and turned to the west, the morning sun pointing the forest’s shadows down the path I would take. I rubbed the sting of the tree bark from my hands and glanced over them. Small scratches and abrasions showed the recklessness and speed of my climb, but none were serious. With a final exhale, I resigned myself to my trek and started.

Not even a morsel for a hungry pack.

I spun on my heels towards the strange, bemused words, words in my native tongue. The whites of my eyes flashed in the sunlight as I startled. Behind me, but a dozen strides away, a man clad in shadows leaned casually against a silver oak, his gloved fingers laced atop the gracefully curved limb of his ebony black bow. His face was mostly hidden in the dark hood of his long cloak. Only the tip of his nose and black bearded chin protruded. I spied no moustache upon his angular face. His eyes were invisible, but I could feel them as he studied my ragtag, pitiful form. A long sword, its pommel set with a large onyx, and a quiver filled with black fletched arrows crisscrossed his back and peeked above his shoulders. Black armor, hardened leather by its look, layered his torso, the hauberk skirting his loins and bound by a broad belt where two curved knives rode flanking each hip. His breeches matched – all in black – and were girded with leather cuisses on his thighs and poleyns upon his knees. His high boots wore no cuffs; they were streamlined with sturdy greaves wrapped snuggly around them. Leather vambraces tooled in the same design adorned his forearms. Slim throwing blades, lightweight and balanced, rode both his arms and calves, completing his lethal ensemble. He was not overly tall, though to me he seemed towering. His form was fit, agile, and altogether deadly.

I thought to run, but the fearsome bow he held slew that musing.

You are far from home, child, he said evenly, his statement thinly veiling the question as to where that might be.

I nodded slowly, my eyes locked upon his dark form.

Where are you going?

My eyes gestured furtively back to my path, but I dared no move for it.

Well, he said casually, it is fortunate for me that we seem to share the same horizon. I regarded him dumbfounded. He feigned not to notice. There are many patrols spread throughout the Silverwood along that way, he added matter-of-factly, nodding to my chosen course. Thane Gunthor means not to be caught unawares by the so-called ‘rebels’ he claims that infest the Greymere. It will take some cunning to avoid so many soldiers. As you chose that path, I can but assume you possess such skills, which, as I said, is to my good fortune. I am in need of such expert help if I am to escape this forest alive.

The man he named was unknown to me, but I did know that a thane was an Asgev laird in service to the Skrel. That someone with my own people’s blood in his veins might have so much of it on his hands as well shocked me. That this shadow-man might need my aid was laughable. Still, there was a charisma about him, a calm bearing, and a kindness of demeanor that my heart screamed to embrace even as my mind spun like a trapped animal seeking escape.

His gaze lifted to the trees as he took in a full measure of the morning air, testing the crisp wind. Besides, the breeze is better that way, I think – less smoke. I stiffened and my breath froze as he shouldered slowly away from the silvery oak and took a guarded step towards me. He stopped as he read the language of my body, seeing the terror in my eyes. He held his ground, one hand upon the grip of his bow, the other extended palm out peacefully. You do know these woods, do you not? He asked, gesturing with his free hand.

My eyes flitted around the forest nervously, answering his query, I think, before my head answered no. In truth, I knew something of them: simple things my parents had taught me, but nothing of use when it came to avoiding soldiers.

He smiled.

Have you family? The dark man asked gently, already guessing at the answer.

I shook my head timorously.

His eyes lowered and a heavy sigh slipped slowly from him as he nodded again knowingly. A name, then? He asked, almost plaintively.

My lips moved to speak but no sound emerged. I shied from his gaze, embarrassed.

A mysterious dryad, he mused, tapping his gloved fingers to his lips thoughtfully. Perhaps, I will call you ‘wolves’ bane,’ then.

He chuckled lightly at my frown, pleased to see something other than fear in my doe’s eyes.

Can you speak? He asked softly before accepting my demureness as evidence of my stilled voice. Well, for now then, I will call you Lyri, if it pleases you. Do you know the word?

I nodded. It meant ‘little wind-song’ as through the trees at night.

I am known as Keyl by those who favor me. He offered a slight, courteous bow. May we share this path, Lyri?

Again, I nodded and granted him a meek expression I had thought forgotten: I smiled. He returned it in kind.

Chapter 2: Silver and Blood

Keyl, I learned, served a man named Gylaedrik Redgar, a marshal and Asgev laird. He had come from the north, from Baern’s Hall, an ancient Asgev stronghold that stood alongside the Astraelon River. Keyl was a ranger tasked with scouting the movements of Thane Navreth Gunthor’s troops, among others. The long war, the Arnghildrok, which had begun with the Turanian invasion nearly a century earlier, continued, flaring in its fury from time to time. Turanian land-barons had secured most of Einhervaldheim generations ago, building massive fortresses of stone to anchor their hold; but the Argevar, my people, had never been conquered truly. While the Skrel laid claim to the western plains and the coasts, the forests – for the most part – were still ours. Men like Gunthor strove to end that claim in return for Ayln gold. The war, then, continued with all of its atrocities. It had long ago ceased to be a meeting of vast armies and had become a struggle between a well-equipped, crusading force and a proud people fighting to survive, to hold on to their homes, beliefs, and traditions. This current campaign was meant to