The little village of Tridon was nothing more than a speck in the great land of Alesia. Along the western side of this great land lay the mighty mountains of Belfar. Surrounding these was the lush forests of Jelnair, known for its fierce inhabitants and dangerous, crooked trails. At the very interior of this jungle lay this particular village, on a high cliff, which, mercifully, was not frequented by the beasts of the forest. The inhabitants were a curious race, known to the outside world as the Sildrefars.
This curious name was probably from the fact that every one of their kind – no matter how young - had lustrous, shining silver hair, which they usually wore freely, or else cut short and used beeswax to fix it into spiky, permanent shapes. What the inhabitants themselves called each other was quite unknown, for no one had ever been to one of their villages to find out for themselves. There was no other race on earth that could compare to the archery of these people, the hunters of the wild. Even more powerful was their magic, which was said to be dazzling, when honed rigorously. Sadly, very few of these tribes remained, keeping within their leafy borders.
At present, it lay slumbering silently under the bright crescent moon. At the far end of their village stood the house of the man who was perhaps the most important. Though the rest of the world did not consider a Healer to be so very important, it was he, the Nerswon (a name borrowed from the father of the craft) who lived there. His name was Glodin, the village's only Healer and potion maker.
In his house, in the place which would normally have been used as a loft, slept a boy, with eyes as green as the leaves of a forest during springtime, and hair as silvery as the tip of a spear.
He was probably the most unimportant person in the village, if status was taken into account. But, where fraternization was concerned, he was second to no one. Being on excellent terms with everyone in the village, he was welcomed everywhere and granted special concessions by those who were in power. He was an able assistant and a cheerful smile was ever on his lips. He was, by everyone's standards, 'a thumping young lad.' Thus was the nature of this boy, whose name was Eridor, and on whom the future of Alesia rested.
At present, however, he was deep in the wild thicket of sleep, fighting a dozen monsters at the same time to achieve the 'ultimate prize,' a sweet potato, found only in the eastern part of the land. As he tore apart every one of the monsters with his mighty sword, the dream suddenly changed.
Mist...mist everywhere…it was compressing him in, forcing his to close his eyes and wait, unable to breathe…or even hear…suddenly, it cleared, and he found himself standing on a wide plain, with soil as red as the blood in his veins. And as he stood there, it seemed to him that there were a great many others besides him, invisible yet able to be heard. The moon was red, a color he had never observed in it before. Then again the mist drew in around him and he suffered the pangs of his strange imprisonment yet again until he found himself standing on the peak of a mountain whose bottom he could not fathom. Then, a great voice, terrible and mighty to hear, spoke to him "Your world is in danger. Go to the city of Ondres, which lies to the north of your land." Frightened and shivering, although he knew not why, Eridor spoke, and his voice appeared no more than a whisper in comparison with the other voice "But what can I do? Tell me more!" But the voice did not speak again, and mist closed in around him. Then, a brilliant orange light flared up in front of him, and he saw the outline of an enormous bird, and a gust of strong wind flung him off the ground he stood on, until darkness rushed up to meet him, and in his last moments of consciousness, he heard a voice say softly,Go…
Eridor woke with a start, gasping in great gulps of air. The dream, an oddly real one, had left him shaken. The dimly lit room nearly blinded him after his eyes had been accustomed to the whiteness of his dream for so long. He pushed himself up on rough pillows and squinted until he could focus again on his room. His breathing gradually calmed down, and pure confusion was replaced by softer emotions, like curiosity. What was that dream? It was so real and lifelike. What did that voice tell me to do? he wondered, alarmed that he had already forgotten.
Sighing, he got up from his bed, sinking his leg into the coarse, yet warm boots that all villagers wore. Groping in the semi-darkness, he located his thick fur coat, and pulled it over his shabby tunic. Last of all, he stuffed a wad of cotton in each of his ears, to keep out the wind from infecting his ears. Ready, he decided to take a walk in the nearby woods to clear his mind. It was safe, for the wild beasts hunted at this time, and never frequented the riverside. So that was where he decided to go: the River Siren, named for the weird wails that emanated from it during summer months. It was said that ghosts cried for their lost lives there, but more sensible Elders had suggested otherwise.
He nearly smiled, as the memory of various men, children and women crowded around the river coursed through his mind. Some had taken it into their heads to dive into the river while other, more reluctant villagers examined the objects nearby, as though hoping to find an explanation there. Their eyes were sharp, and even minute details were not lost on them. But their efforts were in vain, until one young diver found a huge rock with various cracks in it. Upon coming closer, he could hear a faint moaning sound. During summer, when the snow of the hills melted, the water would doubtlessly flow faster, producing the shrieking sound they had heard. And the decision was duly taken to name the river, Siren.
The night was oddly bright; only on full moon days did it achieve this level of brightness. As he stepped outside, the cold seemed to strike him like a hammer, despite the protective clothing that he wore. Mist bloomed around his face every time he breathed, and his hands were already numb with cold. Cursing rigorously under his breath, he proceeded to walk upon the path that led to the village gates. As his stride carried him through centre of town, sharp ears swiveled and no less than twenty wolves jumped to their feet, relaxing when they smelled his all-too-familiar scent. For, his fraternization had extended even to these wolves, and each one of them had received some delicious scrap or other from him during the course of the years. Now they went back to gnawing their bones, which left him wondering how they could do it all day without pausing.
Two of them, however, left the pack and ran to him, stopping short and wagging their tails excitedly, eyes gleaming brightly in the darkness. Smiling, he fondled his pets, which had grown with him since he was ten. His master, someone he regarded as his father, had presented them to him, and their bond ran deep, deeper than physical contact. "Shadow, Sinnear, how goes your day?" he enquired of them, addressing the jet black one first and the silvery one next. Then, he continued his walk through the village, until he stood at the edge of the steep cliff. This was the part he would enjoy the most.
Angling his foot delicately to reach a rock which had been wedged there, he pushed it with all his might, jumping on it just in time before it slid down the cliff. Faster and faster it sped, until his surroundings became a blur and his eyes watered, before freezing in the chill. As he reached the bottom, he jumped off, only to land on a pile of honeysuckle, which the children would place there, before proceeding to play the rock sliding game. He remained crouched there, covering his eyes until they melted, and slowly stood. By Verlon, that's the last time I'll slide during winter. But this resolution would never last, and he knew it.
Just then, the two wolves collided into him, flung off the cliff by the speed of their ascent. He groaned, shifting beneath their combined weight. Today is my day of redemption for my sins, it would seem, he thought, wincing as they got off him.
Finally, order was restored and he proceeded along the riverside silently, staring deep into its dark water. After all those hilarious incidents, the memory of his dream still haunted him. A plain with red soil, standing on top of a mountain, a voice telling me I'm Alesia's savior…like that would be possible, he thought with a snort, kicking a pebble into the water. The most that I will ever accomplish is to succeed my master in his craft as a Healer. He was nothing but a commoner, not a savior. The thought was not an encouraging one, but it was true; his mind had become reconciled to it years ago.
Only then did he realize that Sinnear and Shadow were no longer with him. They must have gone off into the woods, he decided, and continued his walk. They knew the way back, and nothing would happen to them. I need some time to think, he realized, for despite all his skeptic comments , his mind refused to let go of it. He made straight for his favorite spot, a huge beech tree with wide sprawling branches. He climbed up the trunk nimbly, and settled himself in a crook. A pale red moon, gleaming over a red, cracked land… the vision beset him again, as soon as he closed his eyes. What could possibly be happening? he pleaded of the gods, begging for some level of understanding.
And they replied. His alert ears swiveled – another peculiarity of his race – as they caught the faintest trace of wood crunching under feet. He waited breathlessly, wondering if it was another villager. Another set of footfalls were also heard, this one heavy, clumsy and in the opposite direction. His doubt was settled, no villager ever walked so clumsily. Everyone was fleet and light-footed. He pressed back into the tree, keeping his eyes half shut so that they would not gleam in the moon's reflection. Having concealed himself thus, he waited, not knowing why he was so tensed. After all, anyone could wander in the woods…
But some sense inside of him warned him that whatever presence there was, was hostile to him. Suddenly, a dark, stout figure appeared, obviously the heavy footed one. He plodded to the base of the tree, and flung himself on the ground, panting. "A fine job, asking me to meet him at this dump," he muttered between deep breaths, hardly taking care to hide his voice. Eridor tensed as the other person came closer. This one even sounded more dangerous - with the light, sure, panther-like stride of a trained killer. The figure under the tree went on ranting, obviously indifferent to the other footfalls. "For five hundred crowns, I'd—" he stopped short, obviously struck with fear.
"What are you doing?" came a silky voice, smooth, and containing concentrated anger. Then the owner appeared, and Eridor caught sight of a powerful, six-foot tall figure, with a traveling cloak fastened around him, hooded to hide his face. At his hip hung a razor sharp sword, which Eridor recognized as a rapier of the finest make, just like his master had. This person was dangerous, very much so.
The stout person stumbled to his feet, quaking with fear. "No-nothing milord. I h-have a message from H-Him." The tall person stood perfectly still, staring at the other with awful intensity.
"Speak."
"You are to meet him at the city of Ongred in five months. The- the package must be ready by then." The man spoke more confidently now, and some of his soppish behavior began to return. His stance grew less rigid and he scratched his unshaved chin as he said, "And between you and me, I woul'n mind a wee bit o' advance of the reward."
The other person was silent for a second. Then, in a dangerously agreeable voice, he said, "I will give you the entire reward now."
Faster than the eye could see, he whipped out his rapier and plunged it through the unfortunate man's heart. As the man crumpled around a pool of crimson, the killer calmly cleaned his sword and sheathed it again. "The reward for hired filth is death." Eridor was white with fear, and his sweaty hand slipped on the rough bark, producing a rustling sound. The assassin whipped around immediately, scanning the forest for the source. As though fate had sent it that way, another round of rustling occurred, followed by a doe which sprang out of the woods, took one look at the man, and fled back to the dark interior.
The assassin relaxed, and looked at the body of the dead man. At this point, when his face was against the moon, Eridor caught a glimpse of a long, fine, nose whose shape was ruined by three thin scars, intersecting each other. Oh no, what's happening? Eridor's fear and sense of revulsion returned as the ground underneath the dead man seemed to wriggle, and, like water, moved all over the body, sucking it underneath before solidifying, and becoming normal again. A long sigh was heard, and the assassin rested against the tree briefly, as though tired.
Don't look up, begged Eridor, scared to death.
After some time, the killer drew himself upright again. Casting one final sweeping glance across the ground, he swirled around and walked out of sight. Eridor remained where he was, too scared to come down. Magic…he must have been very strong. While magic was commonplace, sustaining a feat like that required years of honing the mind. One small mistake and any number of leagues around the person might have liquefied, killing untold hundreds and the caster as well. Then, convinced that he was gone, Eridor dropped to the ground and ran back to the village, still full of what he had just witnessed: a killing.