The sun dawned at Arnoan's small farm, bringing a new fruitful day. Laying beneath his blankets, eyes uncomprehending and mind groggy, it took Arnoan a while to remember it was the day of the Aollane Autumn market. And of the words that had been said in the kitchen the night before. But he dismissed them from his mind and set his mind on the market; he had always been taught the value of patience. He would know soon enough from them anyway.
He could see them all now; merchants from all the provinces gathering to sell their wares; farmers bringing in their pre-Winter produce; local townspeople spending on food, exotic objects and wares.
But ever since the war which had struck Durandor and the Rael aggressors had taken half of the Dendrodal Province, it had stirred unrest and dissension between the peoples.
Life was not as simple as it used to be. There were more beggars for a start, he had noticed at his last visit to the Aallane, the Province capital. There was less money, less produce and less producers and that was the same situation everywhere. Even the Delagore Protectorate in the east was taking it hard as wealth and resources started to fade into the financial abyss of war.
The army needed resources and everyone was doing what they could for the war effort, but the relatively untouched peoples of the Aollane Province had grown wary and restless as the war was starting to be lost at the Soltaic Front.
To add to this strife and suspicion between people, a quarter of the people in nearly all Aollane communities were of Rael descent. There was many a division ever since the war started, and some small fights had sparkled the rest of the dry wood into a riot.
Arnoan would never have known any of this had he not overheard Freor talk to one of his merchant friends from the north about it.
He reluctantly got up from his warm bed and dressed. Putting on some worn slippers, he walked into the corridor beyond to the washstand at the room in the opposite direction of the kitchen. He washed up with cold water and proceeded to the kitchen.
As he silently padded along the wooden floor of the passageway, he heard Freor talking to his mother about the state of the country, talk which they always spared him from.
'Good morning, Arnoan' greeted Freor from his usual position at the head of the small rectangular table. He was clean-shaven and fresh, looking to already have eaten. 'Remember, we have to go to the market today to get some supplies and some news.'
After eating a slow breakfast, he completed his daily chores. He didn't complain. He had a more fortunate existence than those at the stands at the entrance of the Aallane market, where most of the poor gathered to beg for even a single copper Iorad.
Times of late, he had noticed every time he travelled to the market, had brought in more drifters. The news he had received from his friend, Gaelbril, who owned a shop there, had told him that the ruler of the Rael Empire had declared war a few months earlier after a tense diplomatic situation between their countries and that that was the cause. He also said that the councillors had come back from the old times and were going to enslave them all as in the past. Though he was a friend, Arnoan had sense enough not to trust in his word too much; he was a voracious creator, receiver and deliverer of many rumours and he seemed to believe all of them by heart.
According to recent news, they had taken a couple of towns and cities in their surprise attack against the province of Denrodal and that had lead to fleeing of thousands of people in all directions.
Their advance had been stopped at the Soltaic front, where the war was being fought over the key city. But he, unlike everyone else, did not really worry who was going to rule them unless they didn't crank up the taxes too high.
He had known nothing about a war, his life being a simple farm worker. He didn't care either, for a war fought so far from his homeland, though he did not like the prospects of more beggars. He pitied them and did not wish for more suffering than need be, and these days the rich seemed to live on the damned foundations of the poor. It seemed that fear and hatred was ruling this land now; Arnoan had noticed it in all sorts of people and in different forms, the last time he had visited Aallane. For something so far away, this war caused even more trouble than the regional bandits.
As the warm desert morning drew on, Arnoan dressed for their journey and stepped onto the terrace, glancing at Freor saddling two horses at the gates, wearing the light colours of a thin desert garb. Unusually though, he had a sword buckled at his side and more than a few knives to spare, although the hunting bow strapped to his back was not amiss. The only thing that would prompt Freor to wear that would be an expectation of more than just a little trouble.
Arnoan helped him bring a few large heat-resistant packs, tying them down on the horses, and also a few water skins. Though Aallane was on the other side of the Teramor Mountains, which were famous for its forests, animals and springs, it was better to be cautious than run out of supplies and end up having to chew hard tack after their hunting arrows ran out.
Then, they exited the stables at the side of the house, which they were lucky to have in the poverty that was consuming Aollane. Leading their horses to the gate, they farewelled Shandris, as usual, and then started a slow canter. The city was not that far, but it would a good hour of hard riding to get there, and they wanted to get there as quickly as possible without tiring the horses.
But it was not their plan to be caught by bandits while having a leisure ride; they had multiplied in the region and appeared at the worst of times. Nobody knew where they had come from, but Freor had ideas that some of these were deserted soldiers from the army or shadow guards working as bandits for the Rael Empire.
Today, there were not many travellers upon the Old Mountain Road, but that was to be expected. The appearance of someone on this remote region would likely be suspicious and another sign for bandits. The road was long, but compared to the others to Aallane, it was shorter and winded through a pass in the mountain range.
Everyone they met up the road travelled in groups and each person had countless knives and swords on them. Even Freor and Arnoan had equipped themselves with weapons, and they were well known and liked around the district.
Arnoan had never liked trouble, and had avoided it throughout his life like the plague. He never fought, for that would have only emboldened the aggressors he had met into further action. Always, he had walked away when confronted. Nobody ever faced him anymore though, for he was a master at self-defence as his Uncle had taught him. And plus, he was bigger than most men of his age.
As they neared the Capital of Aollane, the sense of security increased and they saw more people along the roads. The one thing that hadn't changed though was the weapons. The road had been reasonably level throughout their journey, but now it started to slope slightly downwards.
Around them, the mountain forest glittered almost magically, revelling in the glory of life. Calls of many creatures could be heard and the place seemed full of the energy of life. But soon, that all changed.
As they came within the last three miles of the city of Aallane, the capital of the province, something unforgivable had been done to the woods, the symbol of freedom of the people. Every tree had been blackened by fire and the stench of burnt animal flesh invaded their nostrils. The place had been defiled and the stench of pollution hung pungently around the road.
As they trotted along on their horses, a column of soldiers in dusty, burnt white armour walked pass, helmets off and every face weary. The commander took notice of them, but they were largely ignored when he continued to march.
In the distance, Arnoan could see the tallest spire of the castle which had stood in the centre of the great city for generations. But beside it was a pillar of smoke, overtaking the spire and rising into the heavens before disappearing into a black cloud above. Arnoan was already shocked with destruction of the wildlife, and thought with melancholy what the smoke up ahead may mean.
They exited the mountain forest into a bowl of land miles wide that was only filled with grass. Up ahead, there was high hill in the centre of the bowl which held the foundations of a great city. It loomed above them in the distance, constructed with pride in the white marble that was so plentiful in the mountain range.
It boasted a high fortified stone wall with many battlements, and only one entrance into the whole city. The sloping road curved upwards to the hill, to the great arched entryway surrounds by many protecting arrow holes.
The whole city was surrounded by cliffs, as it was situated in the middle of a great plateau. To get inside the city, one had but to take the road upwards, cross the wide wooden drawbridge which led from the angling road to the entrance, and then to cross the threshold protected by a portcullis and gate.
But even these defences apparently had not stopped the destruction which had occurred inside the gates. Smoke, great billows of it, rose from the silent city. All the other travellers had disappeared from the road, and he saw nobody enter or exit the large city. The whole bowl was still; not even a bird dared to chirp. A lump started to grow in Arnoan's throat.
Freor started to look uneasy as they neared the city, the smell of burning flesh overwhelming the pungent smoke, nearly reducing Arnoan to retching.
As they started to rise up the slope, they could now clearly see that the East Gate was ominously closed. Before they had reached the drawbridge, a sliver had opened in the gate, a line of men filing through the opening. As they positioned themselves in a wall before the gate, they drew their swords with a dull ring. Their blades were despoiled with blood, and their armour covered in numerous dents and scratches. They looked like the very outlaws that they had so painstakingly tried to keep clear of.
Arnoan looked them over a second time before realising what they were. His eyes widened as he took sight of them again, disbelief clear on his face and even more so on his mind. They were the a contingent of the Aallane Guardsmen, but they looked so outlandish and so different from what they had been that even Arnoan, who knew quite a few of them, had mistaken them for bandits.
Even more worrying was the fact that each face was drawn in grim determination, and they were prepared to kill without hesitation. He could tell something bad had happened, though he hoped not to find out and be turned away at the gates.
Once they reached the threshold of the portcullis, he could dimly hear the testing of bowstrings from the narrow openings which dotted the wall around the gateway into the city. Freor decided to stop them quite a distance from the line of men, who stood stiffly in warning.
As Freor prepared to speak, a man in slightly better armour than the surrounding men drew away from the formation of soldiers and walked up to them, though he stopped at a point where they would have to talk with inconvenient loudness to communicate.
'State your business, Freor! Don't even think to run or we'll turn you into a pincushion.'
A sudden look of anger came to Freor's face and replied just as strongly.
'Who are you to threaten me, Captain? Mordas, you know who I am and what my business is. Is your trust so unworthy that you would confront a good friend and threaten to kill him, even when he is powerless against the might of your men?'
The man called Mordas paused for a moment in sincere thought, shifting his feet uncomfortably, before warily replying.
'I am sorry, Freor. But where all on edge at the moment after what has happened here, and in our current condition we are pretty much suspicious of everyone. You may enter the city, but we will be watching you.'
With those last words, Mordas motioned with his hand, covered in a blood gored armoured gauntlet. With a grinding noise, hidden hinges swung and the gates opened just a fraction more. The soldiers started to form a surrounding square, boxing them in the middle. Then, they marched through the gates, into the unbelievable destruction beyond.
Arnoan's eyes widened as he saw what had happened to the place he had wandered in as a child.
As they entered the Aileon Square, he glimpsed at the bodies hidden under heavy woollen clothes littering the corners. There were marks of soot lining the roadways, as if fire had managed to burn on the hot stone. The statue which used to dominate the middle of the central fountain was gone; in the place of the stone king who had once proudly stood there was a beheaded figure hung from the arms by two ropes to two lamp poles. The bloodied man was like a voodoo doll; he had been stuck with no less than two dozen red-feathered arrows. Arnoan shuddered at the sight. The man must have had a horrible death; he probably was used as target practice by whoever had done this.
Freor stared blankly at the gruesome image, before he calmly meandered his way through the wooden wreckage and the gored weapons that lined the plaza. The square opened up for him as the men allowed him to approach the central fountain.
Arnoan did not follow, and instead he stared in horror at what Freor was doing. Sidling up to the hanging cadaver, Freor carefully dislodged an arrow from the flesh of the dead man with the slick movement of his hand, eyeing the gored shaft with minor distaste. Carefully, he held it up to the lamp so a small red and black insignia on the shaft caught the light.
He turned back to the square of men, signalling to Mordas. The captain kept his distance from Freor, but what they said was still too soft to be heard by Arnoan in the swath of awkward soldiers.
Abruptly, Freor hurried towards Arnoan in a brisk walk, and with the captain's orders the men parted before them. Soon enough, they were out the gate and leaving the city far behind.
Intrigued by the strange behaviour and all that he had seen, Arnoan started to question Freor with energetic fervour. For once, Freor seemed amiable to divulge important information about the wider world with Arnoan.
'The city was attacked by a Raelian soldier battalion. I suspected that it was the Empire's work, but I was only justified when I saw the insignia on that arrow. I asked Mordas about it, but he wasn't too cooperative.' 'All he said to me was that some citizens rebelled when the soldiers came to the gates, because they wanted to be ruled by the benevolent and compassionate leader of the Rael Empire. They believed the lies of Rael because, like so many people on Ioradas, they wanted to have some hope in a world troubled by hunger and war.'
'So, that's how the gates were opened', surmised Arnoan, solving the conundrum of the carnage that had occurred in the city.
'Yes. It seems that gate guards were overwhelmed by an angry mob, and the gates were opened to the battalion. A one-sided fight took place at the gate and plaza, but soon the enemy soldiers had taken the entrance and the main plaza.'
'But soon enough, they were besieged on all sides. Through the main road and the side streets, the garrison managed to drive out the invaders, close the gates and then pick off the last of Rael's soldiers with arrows. That column of soldiers we passed on our way here was apparently searching for any remnants of the battalion.'
After everything he had heard, Arnoan started to doubt that Freor was the man who he said he was. The façade which he showed to world was starting to crumble in Arnoan's eyes; how did he know all this? When Arnoan asked the very same question, Freor only answered in a suspicious 'I've travelled a lot' excuse.
Arnoan suspected that Freor knew more than he let on; it was evident that he was no simple farmer. Arnoan had never had any reason to question Freor's past and the strange journeys that took him months to complete, but now it was becoming evident that Arnoan was not privy to a world which seemed to include his mother and uncle.
When they returned home, Arnoan was silent throughout the evening, pensive and dismissive of the idle talk in which the conversation strayed into. Shandris was concerned, but after Freor recounted the destruction at Aallane, her mind wondered to other things.
As he went to sleep, Arnoan heard Freor proclaim that he would keep look out the entire night for anything amiss. The night was an uncertain prospect for Arnoan; he was still thinking about what had happened in Aallane. Out here, they were isolated by leagues from the closest town and would be easily taken by a small squad of warriors.
He decided that tomorrow he would convince Freor to form a plan to leave; in the midst of unrest and a potential war zone, they could not stay here. In the morning, he would see to it but for now it was time to sleep.
It was a vain attempt to delay fate, for neither Freor nor Arnoan knew that it was far too late.