Chapter 3
The next day, Lazar packed himself a small daypack. He wanted to go investigate what it was that had scared him off the previous day.
"And where do you think you're going?" His mother asked him,
"I'm going to meet Dmitri at the arena. He wanted me to help him practice combat,"
"Really, why can't you be more like him? Why can't you practice your magic like he practices combat?"
"I told you, bards will have their own place in this war in due time,"
"Sure. While your cousins are all off fighting for our freedom, your freedom, you're just going to sit here on your lazy bum and pluck strings all day. Really, what am I going to do with you?"
"Goodbye, mom," he told her, not wanting to be drawn further into this argument again.
Ever since he first picked up the lute, his mom had always been on his case, asking him why he chose that soldiering path and not something more honorable, like a mage or a paladin. To him, he loved music, and to learn how to manipulate those simple notes, to play chords and marches that could heal and renew the spirits of his allies, that would be his true reward for fighting against the encroaching Empire infidels.
Again, he floated down the path, back to the Dead Thicket. Goodness, how he hated that place. Several times, he questioned why he was willingly going back, questioning if the corpse had really coughed, or if it was just an animal, the rest of it plain tricks of his mind. The place was scary enough that it left you paranoid, thinking that a beast or something was hiding in every bush, waiting to jump you and steal your life for itself. The trees grew gnarled, dark and twisted. Again, he went to the place where the light failed to reach.
Carefully, Lazar made his way through the thick, stiff brush, scanning the ground to make sure he was on the right path, or trail, for lack of a better word. He didn't like the place. Not one bit. The air was heavy with heat, despite the lack of sun. Slowly, he retraced his path, searching for the signs of his passing in the previous day: trampled grass here, a broken branch there, a node of chamomile distinctly severed from its roots. So far, he seemed to be on the right track.
Before long, he managed to find his way back to where he was when he had heard the noise. Carefully, he maneuvered himself through the thick foliage again. He braced himself for what he might see. Taking a deep breath, he pushed aside the remaining branches and entered into the clearing.
Nothing.
There was nothing there except for the grass. Only wilted grass told the story of how something, someone, had been lying there the previous day. He walked around the clearing, searching for any clues. He looked through the tall grass, through the brush only to find nothing. Slowly, he turned his attention toward the dark canopy. The last thing he saw were two parallel streaks of glowing green.