Book One: The Reckoning

Fleeting as the wings of a gull

Kerenthal Almerant skidded to a halt in front of a dusty shanty, gasping for air. He slid behing a rain barrel. Away in the east, he could hear barking in the distaance and shouts of, “Loose the dogs! He went west!”, or “Runaway! Catch him! NOW!”, but they did not worry him. He would be safe as long as he clutched the Thread of air that shielded him from their eyes.
They were nearly upon him. The captain of the guards, for guards they were, was dressed in ragged blood-red leathers. His thick black beard shook as he barked orders. “Murtrow! Get to that forest! You, there! The new recruit! Run ahead! By Kharon, he shall not escape!” he screamed. He stormed into the hut, throwing furniture around the unoccupied building. “RELAS! GET IN HERE! WE’RE PRYING UP THE FLOORBOARDS!” he bellowed.
Ker sweated through eight hours of intense searching, sitting beside the rain barrel. When it finally became obvious that there were no runaway slaves to be found for a thousand strides in any direction, the captain ordered his men home. As they prepared to leave (which did not include putting the hovel back together), a runner sped down the road, calling for a Captain Baren.
The captain shouted, “Over here, you spawn of a jellyfish! What have you to report?”
The runner made his way over to the Captain, dodging the wreckage of the shanty. “Captain, my lor- my lord,” said the messenger panting, “I beg to report that Baron Larenas has ordered your return immediately on a matter of the utmost importance. It appears as- as if my Lord the Baron’s wife has been spirited away.”
“Blast and thunder! The Baron can wait whilst we return. Tell him we are on our way, and that you are to be beaten for being slow! And get moving!”
The runner saluted, bowed hastily, and sped down the road. Captain Drenath barked orders, gathering his men and dogs up, and began the march eastward. The Captain’s beard glistened in the evening light. When they were finally down the road, Ker could finally breathe normally. He loosed his shield of Air and dashed into the nearby woods. The exhaustion of holding a Thread for nearly an entire day was beginning to tell on him. He made a small, smokeless fire from green brushwood, and caught and cooked a rabbit. After eating, he fell into a heap on the forest floor, and slept like the dead.
***

I: Revelations

Ker woke quite groggily sometime the next afternoon to the sound of the jays chirping in the oaks around him. He quickly felt for his Thread even before he looked around. He sat up with relief when he sensed it just beyond his consciousness. He drew upon its power as he relit his small fire. A gentle breeze blew through the tinder, sparking it into flame. Ker sat back in ecstasy.
“Three years!” he cried. “Three years of mindless bondage! Teseria, it feels good to hold a Thread again.”
He set to heating up what was left of the rabbit from the previous night, feeding the flames with the power of the Thread Ker thought over his escape as he was downing the rabbit. After three grueling years of servitude, he had finally gotten a chance to get out of there when a merchant’s caravan had arrived to sell provisions to his keepers. The rear wagon was left unguarded, as it was empty at the time. Ker and three others had slipped into the wagon at night. One of these, however, was a spy of sorts, planted there by the keepers. Going by the name of Jerin, he had gained the others’ trust. He betrayed their locations to the keepers that night. Two were caught. Ker was able to get out and cling to the underside of the wagon. The caravan left the next morning, none knowing Ker was under it.
As they passed the outer pastures of the slave camp, Ker had sensed the tingle of a Thread nearby. He dropped off the wagon, quckly bonded the Thread, and used it to create a screen so that he would not be seen. Soon after, he had heard the baying of the guards’ dogs, and bolted cross-country until he had found the shanty.
Ker finished devouring the rabbit, and put out the fire. He gathered up the rabbit’s bones, skin, and the sharp rock he had used to skin it, and set off through the forest. As he headed roughly west, the trees began to grow closer together, and the undergrowth grew thicker. The path became almost nonexistent, and Ker had to beat the undergrowth aside with a branch so he could walk through it. Morning passed by with only the rustling of the leaves to keep him company. Ker did not spot a single deer, or even a fox the whole afternoon. He ate a brief meal on the move, from a patch of blackberries he came across. He used the Thread to bend the plants aside so that he could pass, and the stand opened up into a wide clearing. He could see a small stream running through the far side, near the trees, and a few scattered patches of ironwood.
Ker crossed the clearing, picking up a dead branch of ironwood to use as a club. As evening drew on, he approached the cool, clear stream. He knelt down to drink, and to splash water on his face. The cool water felt marvellous, after a long day in the hot sun. He washed his face, and ran water through his hair. As he stood to move on, he noticed that it was nearly nightfall. He crossed the little stream, and made his camp for the night about fifty paces back into the woods. He spent the time until dusk gathering the sweet berries produced by the feracil tree, which he had been fond of in his youth. He stoned a grouse, and began making a fire.
Ker roasted the grouse and ate it with a paste of the feracil berries, sitting before the fire. He sat long into the night, looking at the stars, and basking in the night air. Just before he fell asleep, a bit of an old poem floated into his memory.

Through the mists of the wood
Bearing the Keldrea he shall come;
Beloved of all free people he shall be,
The Woðërun, Peacebringer.

Ker drifted off into sleep on the wings of fantasy.

... The maiden lifted a slender finger toward Ker.
“You are the Woodrun. You are not ready yet, but the time will come...” she whispered. The image shimmered once, then was gone.

***

Ker awoke the next morning with a nasty hole in his back. He stood up slowly, stretching, til the cramp was gone. After a light breakfast of some more feracil berries, he set off again. The forest gradually grew thinner as he went on, and continually brighter. Finally, at about midday Ker passed the last trees on the outskirts and saw the open fields of Berensa before him. Wheat and corn stretched as far as he could see. In the distance, among the corn, was a small house. Ker made his way toward it.
After many scrapes and falls from tripping over abandoned farm implements, Ker arrived at the shanty. Its thatched roof, squarish walls of daubed mud, and large windows made him think of his childhood home, before Baron Larenas’ slavers had picked him up. Ker walked up and knocked on the oaken door.
The door flew open. Before him stood a largish, balding man with a thick grizzled black beard. His face was quite ruddy, and he had thoroughly calloused hands. His left eyebrow looked as if it had been singed off. “Who the blazes are you?” he said, in a deep bass.
Ker replied, using his childhood nickname. “I am Thal Kereonic. I am looking for work,” he said, “if you need it.” Ker desperately needed money, or at least a few tools.
“Thank Elthan you be come. You be just in time. I ha’ been needing a blacksmith for weeks, or at least an apprentice. Can ye forge at all? Oh, I be Javrel Marthan, by th’ way.”
“I used to help out my father on the farm,” Ker answered. Ker’s family’s farm had been quite large, but his father had done all the smithing. “The day I send out for a smith is the day that my cows fly away and eat the stars from the sky,” he had said. “I’ll be glad to help you. I have just one question, though. If I make things on my spare time, will you let me keep them as my fee?”
“Gladly. Ye’ll be findin’ the forge out behind me humble shack. I have a list of things that be needin’ repair. Can ye read?” drawled Javrel.
“I’ve been schooled in it, yes, but I am by no means a master,” Ker answered.
“Then it be settled. Can ye start work today, Thal?” the farmer asked.
“Of course. Do you have a bit to eat?” Ker queried.
“Oh, yes, I do be getting ahead of myself. All of your meals, and your lodgings I do be providin’. Leave when ye be wantin’, just tell me aboot it first. I’ll fetch ye a plate of cold chicken and pickles.” Javrel said, dashing off onto the house. “Just do be sittin’ yourself down at the table oot back,” he called. Javrel brought out a plate which Ker hungrily wolfed down.
Ker spent the ensuing weeks living in relative comfort. In addition to making and repairing dozens of hay hooks, gate latches and tools for Javrel, not to mention making nearly a thousand nails, he managed to make a small knife, bound in bone sand strips of rabbit hide, and a short, but heavy, sword. He received three meals a day from Javrel, and a pallet of hay in the corner of the kitchen.