Chapter One
The maiden was no older than twenty. Her soft features told anyone that easily. A red bandanna covered her dusty-blond hair, cropped short near her ears. She was extremely thin-probably from the lacking of nutritious food in the Dragon's Eye inn at which she was working.
At least it pays well, she thought ruefully as she scrubbed clean a saucer. Her hands were amazingly soft despite the fact that she had been washing dishes the entire morning. She set the saucer down and reached for another plate to rinse.
"Are you done yet, Ranna?" a man called to her impatiently. Just by the sound of his voice, anyone could tell that he was an overweight man, beefy and usually ill-tempered.
Ranna's lips thinned. Clearly irritated, she shook her head. "No, Mister Phillid," she replied, her words slurring into a long sigh.
"Last time I checked, we didn't keep you here to simply wash dishes," the owner of the inn and tavern snapped. He turned his head and Ranna could see clearly his fat, red face. She glanced away and set a clean plate on the counter. "Get over here and help tend to the customers, girl!"
"Yes, sir," she responded stoutly, her emphasis on "sir" showing her disrespect. If Phillid notice, he said nothing.
Walking out from the kitchen, the young woman felt more than one set of eyes on her. Men, some drunk, turned their faces. One whistled, but Ranna didn't seem to mind. Working in a tavern taught her a lot, and disregarding catcalls and hoots was one of those lessons.
She promptly walked over to a table where a young man was sitting alone, his feet propped up on the chair opposite of the one he was sitting in. Strands of dark brown hair fell over his eyes, but he looked up still the same when he heard Ranna's approaching footsteps.
"Old man giving you trouble?" he asked before Ranna could ask what drink he wanted. Ranna gave him a wistful smile.
"No," she told him honestly. "It's a busy night, that's all."
The young man-not much older than she was-nodded. "I'll take an ale then," he said politely. Ranna nodded and skirted away to the bar. Phillid quickly shuffled around to fill a mug.
Within minutes, Ranna had returned to the man and handed him his drink. He handed her the coins without being prompted, but before she could move away to another table, he questioned, "What's your name?"
Ranna's eyes couldn't help but glance over the man a second time, slightly taken aback. Her lips pursed. "Ranna," she replied stiffly and then walked away. The man smiled at her and took a sip of his ale.
The night passed quickly, Ranna handling most of the customers by herself. It was fairly busy, but the Dragon's Eye inn had seen much better nights than this. Only once did Phillid have to come and break up a would-be fight. It seems one man, obviously drunk, had claimed the other was cheating in their card game. Other than that, the night was ordinary.
"Closing now," Phillid growled, breaking Ranna's thoughts. She glanced up and saw that the moon was already far into the sky, midnight and closing time. "Everybody get out." Surprisingly there was a good number still in the bar. The man who had spoken to Ranna earlier was still sitting quietly in the corner. Hearing Phillid's announcement, he stood and began trailing the larger crowd out of the door.
He glanced at Ranna as he passed, his eyes surveying her, she knew. As his eyes paced over her, she felt a flash of pain come to her forehead. Her hand flew up to touch the skin. The man turned away just as Ranna brought her hand down. Curiously, Ranna watched as the man walked out of sight, but Phillid hurriedly closed the door, blocking her view.
"Get to bed, girl," he snapped. Ranna flew out of her muses with a snap, hearing his voice. "You be needin' to work tomorrow again." Ranna, too puzzled by what had just happened, didn't argue.
*** *** ***
"They're coming!" the man shouted. Mosrael breathed out heavily and nervously but he said nothing in reply to his father. Instead he clutched his sword tight in his hand, doubting that it would help at all.
"What are we going to do?" Mosrael's mother asked frantically, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. Her dark black hair fell from the bun it was in and down her back. She didn't seem to notice. In her hands was Mosrael's younger sister, just a baby. Even though there was no way for the little one to know the terrible danger they were in, she was wailing loudly.
"We're going to fight," his father said decidedly, glancing at his son. Mosrael nodded grimly, trying to assure his mother. "Go, Manae," he said to his wife. "Run south as fast as you can. Mosrael and I will hold them off and then find you in Belisaere."
Manae hesitated but she was far too consumed by fear to object. She glanced at her husband and nodded dumbly. Quickly, she hurried from the house. As she opened the door, Mosrael caught a peek of the Dead that were coming their way.
"Shadow Hands," his father voiced. His tone was dark and angry. Slowly he turned to his son. "Mosrael, I want you to go."
"And leave you here?" his son asked incredulously. "I can't do that, Pa. We're fighting together."
"And then we'd die together," he snapped. "Go, Mosrael." When Mosrael didn't move, his father shoved him to the door. "Go before it is too late."
"Pa. . . ." Mosrael felt his grip slacking on his sword. His father stood sternly over his son.
"You're a young man, Mosrael," his father said, his voice deep and sincere. "You have a life ahead of you. Go find your mother and your sister. Take care of them."
Mosrael nodded although the action didn't register in his mind until seconds after. He hugged his father tightly, but their embrace didn't last long at all.
His father pushed him away. "Go," he said to Mosrael. "The back door; it's your only chance now."
Mosrael wasted no time. He hurried to the back door and yanked it open just as the door near his father snapped to pieces.
"Go now!" his father yelled without turning. Mosrael seemed to be frozen in place. Only when he saw his father's blade crack into pieces and clatter to the ground; only when he saw the Shadow Hands swamp around his father, surrounding him into darkness, did Mosrael begin to move his feet.
Mosrael raced from the house and down the road. The night was dark, but there was enough light by the moon for Mosrael to see. He raced down the road in anger, his skin even paler than usual in the starlight. His black hair was mixing with sweat, but he didn't stop running.
Then he heard a scream.
Instantly, Mosrael stopped. Not a second after, the scream was cut off, leaving Mosrael shaking uncontrollably. He knew that scream. It was his mother's scream.
Move, he told his feet. Run away! But they didn't listen. Mosrael looked behind and he saw his house in flames. Somehow it had been set on fire.
Mosrael breathed in heavily as he saw the Dead begin to converge near the turn in the road behind him. He swallowed, sensing that horrible lump of fear in his throat.
Before he could work out a plan in his mind, he was flying down the road, his eyes blinded by tears of fear and rage. He had no family now. He was alone. Mosrael only had one thought as he sped along, leaving the Dead and his home behind. Revenge.
The maiden was no older than twenty. Her soft features told anyone that easily. A red bandanna covered her dusty-blond hair, cropped short near her ears. She was extremely thin-probably from the lacking of nutritious food in the Dragon's Eye inn at which she was working.
At least it pays well, she thought ruefully as she scrubbed clean a saucer. Her hands were amazingly soft despite the fact that she had been washing dishes the entire morning. She set the saucer down and reached for another plate to rinse.
"Are you done yet, Ranna?" a man called to her impatiently. Just by the sound of his voice, anyone could tell that he was an overweight man, beefy and usually ill-tempered.
Ranna's lips thinned. Clearly irritated, she shook her head. "No, Mister Phillid," she replied, her words slurring into a long sigh.
"Last time I checked, we didn't keep you here to simply wash dishes," the owner of the inn and tavern snapped. He turned his head and Ranna could see clearly his fat, red face. She glanced away and set a clean plate on the counter. "Get over here and help tend to the customers, girl!"
"Yes, sir," she responded stoutly, her emphasis on "sir" showing her disrespect. If Phillid notice, he said nothing.
Walking out from the kitchen, the young woman felt more than one set of eyes on her. Men, some drunk, turned their faces. One whistled, but Ranna didn't seem to mind. Working in a tavern taught her a lot, and disregarding catcalls and hoots was one of those lessons.
She promptly walked over to a table where a young man was sitting alone, his feet propped up on the chair opposite of the one he was sitting in. Strands of dark brown hair fell over his eyes, but he looked up still the same when he heard Ranna's approaching footsteps.
"Old man giving you trouble?" he asked before Ranna could ask what drink he wanted. Ranna gave him a wistful smile.
"No," she told him honestly. "It's a busy night, that's all."
The young man-not much older than she was-nodded. "I'll take an ale then," he said politely. Ranna nodded and skirted away to the bar. Phillid quickly shuffled around to fill a mug.
Within minutes, Ranna had returned to the man and handed him his drink. He handed her the coins without being prompted, but before she could move away to another table, he questioned, "What's your name?"
Ranna's eyes couldn't help but glance over the man a second time, slightly taken aback. Her lips pursed. "Ranna," she replied stiffly and then walked away. The man smiled at her and took a sip of his ale.
The night passed quickly, Ranna handling most of the customers by herself. It was fairly busy, but the Dragon's Eye inn had seen much better nights than this. Only once did Phillid have to come and break up a would-be fight. It seems one man, obviously drunk, had claimed the other was cheating in their card game. Other than that, the night was ordinary.
"Closing now," Phillid growled, breaking Ranna's thoughts. She glanced up and saw that the moon was already far into the sky, midnight and closing time. "Everybody get out." Surprisingly there was a good number still in the bar. The man who had spoken to Ranna earlier was still sitting quietly in the corner. Hearing Phillid's announcement, he stood and began trailing the larger crowd out of the door.
He glanced at Ranna as he passed, his eyes surveying her, she knew. As his eyes paced over her, she felt a flash of pain come to her forehead. Her hand flew up to touch the skin. The man turned away just as Ranna brought her hand down. Curiously, Ranna watched as the man walked out of sight, but Phillid hurriedly closed the door, blocking her view.
"Get to bed, girl," he snapped. Ranna flew out of her muses with a snap, hearing his voice. "You be needin' to work tomorrow again." Ranna, too puzzled by what had just happened, didn't argue.
*** *** ***
"They're coming!" the man shouted. Mosrael breathed out heavily and nervously but he said nothing in reply to his father. Instead he clutched his sword tight in his hand, doubting that it would help at all.
"What are we going to do?" Mosrael's mother asked frantically, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. Her dark black hair fell from the bun it was in and down her back. She didn't seem to notice. In her hands was Mosrael's younger sister, just a baby. Even though there was no way for the little one to know the terrible danger they were in, she was wailing loudly.
"We're going to fight," his father said decidedly, glancing at his son. Mosrael nodded grimly, trying to assure his mother. "Go, Manae," he said to his wife. "Run south as fast as you can. Mosrael and I will hold them off and then find you in Belisaere."
Manae hesitated but she was far too consumed by fear to object. She glanced at her husband and nodded dumbly. Quickly, she hurried from the house. As she opened the door, Mosrael caught a peek of the Dead that were coming their way.
"Shadow Hands," his father voiced. His tone was dark and angry. Slowly he turned to his son. "Mosrael, I want you to go."
"And leave you here?" his son asked incredulously. "I can't do that, Pa. We're fighting together."
"And then we'd die together," he snapped. "Go, Mosrael." When Mosrael didn't move, his father shoved him to the door. "Go before it is too late."
"Pa. . . ." Mosrael felt his grip slacking on his sword. His father stood sternly over his son.
"You're a young man, Mosrael," his father said, his voice deep and sincere. "You have a life ahead of you. Go find your mother and your sister. Take care of them."
Mosrael nodded although the action didn't register in his mind until seconds after. He hugged his father tightly, but their embrace didn't last long at all.
His father pushed him away. "Go," he said to Mosrael. "The back door; it's your only chance now."
Mosrael wasted no time. He hurried to the back door and yanked it open just as the door near his father snapped to pieces.
"Go now!" his father yelled without turning. Mosrael seemed to be frozen in place. Only when he saw his father's blade crack into pieces and clatter to the ground; only when he saw the Shadow Hands swamp around his father, surrounding him into darkness, did Mosrael begin to move his feet.
Mosrael raced from the house and down the road. The night was dark, but there was enough light by the moon for Mosrael to see. He raced down the road in anger, his skin even paler than usual in the starlight. His black hair was mixing with sweat, but he didn't stop running.
Then he heard a scream.
Instantly, Mosrael stopped. Not a second after, the scream was cut off, leaving Mosrael shaking uncontrollably. He knew that scream. It was his mother's scream.
Move, he told his feet. Run away! But they didn't listen. Mosrael looked behind and he saw his house in flames. Somehow it had been set on fire.
Mosrael breathed in heavily as he saw the Dead begin to converge near the turn in the road behind him. He swallowed, sensing that horrible lump of fear in his throat.
Before he could work out a plan in his mind, he was flying down the road, his eyes blinded by tears of fear and rage. He had no family now. He was alone. Mosrael only had one thought as he sped along, leaving the Dead and his home behind. Revenge.