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Chapter 1

 

The fish’s scales glinted through the water. The water was unusually clear, or perhaps the water only looked clear because the reflection of the blue sky made it look healthy. My face rippled on top of the water, brow knitted in concentration. I have dark hair, strange eyes the colour of fire and high cheekbones that make me look harder than I am inside.

        My nails are long and white, I have calluses on my fingertips – I am a trained warrior. My hand pierces the water, and closes around the fish’s slimy scales. The fish’s scales are like silver plates all aligned on a table. The fish struggles in my hand until it dies in the open air. It goes limp, and I prepare the fish for my dinner. The sky is dimming, an orange glow hanging around the clouds. I gather some branches and lay them down to light a fire. The fire provides vague light, but it will do.

        The hand-drawn map I carry with me indicates that I am now in the Older Woods – the long forgotten woods that were once inhabited by my ancestors, before the first attack from the Niranda-kuul. My ancestors were the Anatanians, the first elves. The ruins of their mighty city still remain here.

        I am far north from the elven city Iona, and far south of the Dead Stretch. The elven city, Iona, is where I’ve lived for the past six years, since our home in the Green was attacked by the Niranda-kuul and my mother, Aliel, disappeared. Iona is my first real home – with actual buildings, and not just tents that we pack up with our belongings and carry with us as we move from place to place, avoiding danger.

        I finish devouring the fish, and take a drink from the lake. My head is pounding, and I feel unwell. I settle down for the night, and the same dream haunts me. The same dream I see each night. I know it’s not healthy to let something from the past haunt you, but I can’t help it. What I saw unnerved me and made me afraid.

        The fire goes out.

 

 “Tulas, farewell, Elka. May your journey lead you to your quarry.” My guardian, Induagel said at the gates of Iona, as I left to find my mother. He held my head with his two blacksmith hands, and kissed my forehead. Through teary eyes I waved goodbye, and although it was hard to leave my tribe behind, first I had to find my family.

        And so I walked away from my life, going back through time on the trail on which I’d first came to Iona. The trees were straight and tall, and soon the structures of my elven home blended with the trees in the distance until I couldn’t tell the city was concealed within the forest…

 

The next morning the sky is a pink haze. I fold my sheets, and stuff them into my satchel. I attach my scabbard to my belt, and sling my satchel over my shoulder. I attach my quiver of arrows on my back, and in my right hand is my trusted bow.

        I hope to move quickly through the Older Woods. There is a strange presence in here. The trees seem to bend; none of them seem to point to the sky directly. The light flickers through the high leaves in an almost eerie fashion. The light shifts all the time, but the leaves of the trees stay still.

        I move deeper into the woods, and up ahead I can see a silver mist. I reach the silver mist, and I walk through it. Time seems to freeze for a second, then the mist clears and I am standing amidst the ruins of the Anatanian empire. Large stone buildings must once of stood here. There were tall spirals of towers and huge domes, made of white stone flecked with grey once upon a time. The gold and silver they used is gone. The ruins show faint elaborate designs and patterns the elves would have carved into the stone. It is a very majestic place, full of memory.

        But the damage the Niranda-kuul caused remains like a stain.

I touch one of the walls, almost reduced to rubble, and I feel it tingle beneath my skin. Then I take some steps forward, and I cannot help but feel a little regret at moving on from this place. There is magic in the air and it makes me want to stay forever.

        But I have a mission to fulfil.

        So I keep moving, and as I walk I can hear birds singing and the Silver Brook rushing next to me. I can’t see the brook, but I can see the reflection from the water – a light coming through the trees.

        This is just the first part of my journey.

        First I shall move through the Older Woods, rumoured to still be inhabited by the Niranda-kuul, then I shall travel through the Ancient Bush – a land of white, crooked trees and dead soil.

        Up ahead, I hear a twig crack, and leaves rustle. I duck behind a large oak. Could it be the Niranda-kuul had returned to this place after so many years of abandonment? The leaves seem to steal the light, and the clouds seem to cover the sun, as everything is bathed in grey. I hear the crack again. Slowly and cautiously, I reach back and slide an arrow from my leather quiver. The wood of the arrow is cool. I nock my arrow and pull the bowstring and my elbow back so my index finger is nestled just below my cheekbone.

        I swing around the tree and there is a black shape. A memory flashes into my mind…

…I see far away a flame light up the sky like a beacon. Then I hear familiar drums, and chanting. They are saying, “Niranda-kuul, enda u Anul.”…

        “They are coming!”

        I yelp as I see the figure, and release the bowstring in surprise. The arrow whistles into the sky. When I look back, the figure is gone. I duck back behind the tree, and the footsteps upon twigs continue. I reach above me, and search for a branch to lever myself into the tree. I find one, but I’m not sure it can hold my weight. Holding the small branch, I bend my elbow and my body rises a few inches off the ground. I put my feet on the trunk to push myself upwards. My bowhand reaches up and I find another branch. I leap for the branch with my free hand, and I’m dangling from it. Then I start to swing, and with the momentum from the swings I can get my leg around a thicker, more stable branch. And it’s easy climbing from there.

        The cracking of twigs and the rustling of leaves is faint now, but it’s below me. I feel a looming presence. I rest with my back to the trunk for a moment, and observe the ground below. Nothing.

        Then the air rushes past me and blackness caves in.

 

 

Slowly I open my eyes, and the blackness fades away. I am on the ground, in a bed of red autumn leaves. The green leaves are all the way up there, the light streaming through them in rays. I feel strangely calm.

I roll onto my stomach. Leaves crunch beneath me as my vision does a 360° turn and a child comes into view. A boy with a small, white face, jet-black hair and pointed ears like mine. An elf-boy. I raise an eyebrow in question.

Why would an elf-boy be out here? It might be dangerous.

Cautiously, I ask, “What is your name?” The boy doesn’t seem to respond. His large grey eyes watch me intensely, or observe me as a father’s eyes would. But then he reaches down, and sticks one of his fingers in the soil, and begins to write. I follow his hand as he writes one word:

Édan.

Édan leans down so he can see my eyes. He touches my cheek with one of his fingers, and smiles. Édan then takes my hand and tugs me to my feet. Then he leads me through the trees, pulling me after him. The trees sway in his presence, bending, then rippling straight again. I stare in amazement as we run. Édan is dressed in small grey garments, dashing over the sticks and leaves with an unseen grace. Perhaps it is the way the sticks and leaves brush aside, clearing a path as if Édan had an aura of the very wind that weaves through these woods.

Édan leads me down a small slope and we enter a glade. The Silver Brook is now in view, gushing past. There is long green grass, and trees are tall and arranged like candles in a cake. There are a few hills, and a pool of crystal water, surrounded by grey rocks covered in dark green moss.

Édan sits down at the base of the slope we came down. He is playing with a silver, spherical object. I turn from him to admire the glade. It is beautiful. I walk over to the pool, and drink. For some reason, my throat is dry. The cool water trickles down my throat, and restores my croaking voice. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn to thank Édan, but he is gone.

I turn back to the pool, and something is written in the soil at my feet:

The glade is safe, but they are waiting for you.

Waiting to kill you.

 

 

I continue through the woods until it is night, and the stars are the only things to guide me. A carpet of cloud covers the moon, so there is sparse light to help. Édan is nowhere in sight, and I’m starting to think he was a dream. I trek through the woods, stepping over fallen trees, and winding ribbons of streams. The leaves of the bushes and other vegetation whip my arms as I walk in the shadow of the tall trees. I have been walking through the Older Woods for five days. The elven city of Rithandir lies ahead, and there is where I will stop for supplies. It is but two days from where I now step.

        As I push my way through the woods, I still feel that unearthly presence hanging around. It is like an imaginary drape across my shoulders, that I can feel but cannot see. I stop walking, and make camp. Salted meat is my dinner, and then I fall into sleep. There is a rush of water as I enter the dream…

 

        “Mother! They are coming!”

        She lay there, motionless, eyes still open. Tears formed in her eyes and she screamed. Her scream ended with a gurgle; as if she were drowning and then she screeched and hissed like a cat. I jumped back, startled. She rose from her bed with a glinting knife and lunged at me. The knife entered my flesh; bore straight through my muscle and ribcage to my heart.

        I screamed, pouring blood, and died.