Part One

The cabin was long abandoned. It was a decayed structure, having been claimed by the woods over time. Assortments of mouldering plants and creeping vines had acclimatised to the decaying wood exterior, eventually giving it a dusky appearance that made it all but invisible amongst the tall foreboding trees that surrounded it. The only hint that it was there was the cracked and dappled windows, now little more than shards of glass in holes from which birds and other creatures emerged or disappeared into. Through here one could peek inside and see that the interior was scarcely better, long having been stripped bare by thieves and vagabonds. Now only the animals made their home here, various nests and carcasses littering the floor.

It was inside that a small fair-haired boy, was huddled, his clothes ragged and torn, trying to stay as quiet as possible, the occasional sob wracking his small body.

Years ago when Edwin had been smaller and younger, even more so than he was now, he had ventured this far into the woods with his friends. They had said the house was haunted by a lady who had died from grief when the soldiers had come and taken her only baby away from her many years ago, during the war with the elves. She had supposedly hung herself from the very rafters that loomed above him now. But the legend was that her soul had stayed behind, refusing to move on to the netherworld, and still awaited the return of her long-dead child. And that if she caught you near the house she would steal your spirit too and make you like her.

His friends had tried to scare Edwin with these stories. But in spite of his youth, unlike the other children, he had never been frightened by stories. After all, why else would they be called stories and legends if there were any truth in them? He knew that spirits and maegic didn’t exist north of the Luorismere. He had even surprised his friends by going up to the house door and knocking upon it, something none of the other children had ever dared to do. After he had done this the children had made a game of it, trying to get as close to the house as possible to knock on the door before their bravery failed them. All after Edwin had proved there was nothing to be afraid of.

He had never been inside it, however. And now he was frantically reminding himself that the stories weren’t true; that maegic wasn’t real. That there was nothing to be afraid of.

And yet the house felt angry, almost menacing, to him, like he had awoken something long forgotten within its peeling walls. As though he should not be there. But where else could he go? If he left, the bad man and his comrades would find him and do to him what they had done to Ferric. And even if he could avoid them, he could not return home. Not after what he had done.

Edwin lived close to a village called Milddemoor, which had laid its foundations upon the fringes of the old forest. It was called Varenore by some of the older villagers, woods feared by most, and rightly so for they were inhabited by elves, strange creatures and stranger folk who established discreet settlements within. From what Edwin knew, which was marginally little, the elves were inhuman protectors of the forest and intolerant of outsiders, though it was said it had not always been so. They had once allowed humans passage through the forest and even permitted them entry to the fabled Heartwood where they made their home. That had been long ago, however.

The forest itself stretched far and wide, its influence supposedly extending towards the seas to the east and the west and further still to the south where it bordered upon the edges of the Luorismere. The forest acted as a divider between the Arandarim and the Luorismere, an ominous barrier which no sane man dared to pass through.

According to the village elders, human presence was abided in the forest no longer because of the lasting enmity left behind from the Elven war; a conflict that had taken place centuries ago. Rumours about what had sparked the war were vague. Some said that the elves had slaughtered a hapless settlement like Edwin’s on the outskirts of the forest in cold blood. Others said that the elves had been provoked into attacking when humans had started to cut down the elves’ sacred trees. Regardless of what caused it, war had happened. The war had lasted decades and riven the two races apart, with attempts to reconcile by both sides always ending in vain.

Edwin had once wondered why the Emperors would wish to campaign against the elves when they kept everyone safe from the bad spirits that tried to steal through the forests. One of his friends, the son of the village apothecary, had told him that his father had said the Emperors only wanted to invade the forests because the elves were wicked; that they devoured children in the night and were worse even than the spirits they kept at bay. Another of his friends had told him the Emperors wanted power and control of everything and that the elves were the only things standing in their way. These notions, coupled with dozens of others, had all seemed confusing to Edwin and finally he had stopped wondering about it.

Milddemoor itself was not large. It consisted of a small variety of buildings, mostly shored up by elm, cedar and spruce wood which were purchased from distant settlements, since none dared cut down the trees of the old forest. Many of the buildings served as homes to the denizens of the village, as it was not a well-travelled route thus making trade rare and the paths quiet. However on certain days, when the village was abustle and traders came to visit, smoke would layer the air with a musty odour and the babble of laughter and music merged with the sounds of the forge as the blacksmith hammered away. It was on days like this that it became easy to forget how forlorn and empty Milddemoor was the rest of the time.

According to Oswyn the forgemaster, an old but wiry man who the villagers said had helped found the settlement long ago, the village had begun as little more than a cluster of messily built houses. They had served as living quarters, he had said, for the local militia who had acted as a vanguard during the war, guarding the borders against the invading elves.

“A complete and utter waste of time that war,” the blacksmith had grunted absently as he hammered away at his forge. “The elves never gave a spit about the north or south, and were content to stew in their forests until the Upheaval.” He brusquely told Edwin in between his work that when he had first arrived in Middlemoor many years ago, the only problem that arose with the buildings was shoddy workmanship and pesky vermin taking up residence in them. There was not a sign of damage wrought from a battle or conflict – just a few weather-beaten hovels, long abandoned.

Edwin hadn’t been sure what to make of this. He recalled a group of traders from the northern cities that had passed through on their way towards the south. They attested to patches of land that still bore the scars caused by the wear and tear of battle, and the rotting bones of fallen soldiers that were still strewn through the fields which bore resemblance to both elves and man alike. Testaments, they had said, to a war that had ruined the land. However, when Edwin informed Oswyn of this, he had pointed an un-tempered sword-end in his direction, his coarse beard bristling, and declared gruffly, “Aye, I remember those traders. It’s unwise to hear what a man has to say and accept it as a truth, boy.”

He had then told Edwin of traders that had come through Milddemoor that claimed the streets of the city Malaris were paved with gold. That fortune and opportunity were as easily found as the stars in the sky and that even the beggars were wealthy as lords. Snorting derisively, he went on to say, “Have you ever tried to find a star during the daytime, boy? What good is gold to me if it’s everywhere? What is it worth if everyone has it? And why would there need be beggars in a city so richly laden?” And when Edwin had tried to protest, the blacksmith had merely shaken his head. “No, I will hear no more of it. I can’t be abiding by your nonsense all day. Off with you boy!”

And Edwin, for fear of invoking the wrath of the blacksmith, had scampered away to his home that was situated upon the edge of the village. Unlike the other structures, Edwin’s house had been built by his father alone, who had travelled there with his mother from a place called Darrowbrook to seek better fortune. Made from an oak tree that grew on the edge of the forest, his mother had once told Edwin the story of how his father had found the tallest tree he could find and spent a day and a night cutting it down, and a further day and night hauling it back.

“He had heaved and wheezed,” she said to a wide-eyed Edwin. “Straining his back to bring this heavy burden to the village, but as strong as your father is, his patience is not as great. After carrying it for so long and Milddemoor still not in sight, he let the tree fall to the ground and decided to build our home where it fell.”

His father was no carpenter and as such, the house was not large and poorly made. It was a cramped building with a single room and an attic, in which his parents slept while Edwin and his sister slept downstairs. They were never allowed in the attic and only usually permitted to stay inside during the winter and on particularly cold days. From the outside the walls and roof seemed in a constant state of disrepair, the wood gradually deteriorating as each season passed. Sometimes during the night, Edwin could hear the sounds of insects and other small things skittering across the walls and under the floors, a problem that seemed to aggravate his mother thoroughly. Despite this, he loved his home. The reason for this was the pastures that grew adjacent to it.

His mother tended to the fields in the spring and the summer, growing all kinds of crops and produce. It was in these pastures that Edwin and his sister would spend a lot of their time, hiding amongst the shrubs and flowers his mother sometimes planted or in between the crops, much to their mother’s exasperation. On other days, usually when their mother was in a bad temper, they would venture out into the community or to the forest in search of adventures or treasures or to make mischief. And in the autumn, his father would journey out to the village or another remote settlement to purchase some fat pigs or perhaps a cow for the winter. Sometimes they had even been permitted to go with their father to the more distant towns, where they would meet strange people with strange customs and see stranger creatures.

These were some of the memories he had of his father. His most recent memory of his father now was him leaving one autumn not long ago as anticipated. Only this time he had not returned. When Edwin had asked his mother when he would be coming back, she would be evasive with her answers, telling him to run off and play or fetch something from town or do his chores. Despite this, sometimes after dusk when Edwin lay awake at night, underlying the scratching sounds of termites, he would hear quiet sobs from the attic, and the cold realisation would creep across him. His father wasn’t coming back. But why? Was he in danger? Had Edwin done something wrong? He didn’t understand. His confusion soon turned to bitter resentment of his father. At how he could have abandoned them despite everything. The resentment would eat away at Edwin continuously. He would shirk his duties and act hostilely towards people who tried to help or offer him a measure of comfort. And as the seasons dragged by, his resentment and hatred came to bear down on a new target.

His sister, young as she was had not understood either. After their father had not returned she would throw tantrums, wailing incoherently for his return, for she knew no words and could not openly express her feelings. At least, at first she had. But she quickly forgot about the man who had once looked after her, who had named her. She returned to her normal, happy, juvenile self. And this had infuriated Edwin. At how she could so easily forget memories which had once evoked such joy in himself; how she could disremember the man whom he idolised. Whom he loved.

As time went on, he came to begrudge his sister and her happiness. He gradually stopped playing with her amid the plants and bushes, and when he went exploring thereon he went unaccompanied or with some of his friends, leaving her behind. He hated that she alone was cheerful while he and his mother were wrought with grief and sorrow, and as the seasons passed his resentment grew steadily in animosity until he could stand it no longer.

That had been how it happened. He and his friends had found her, alone, exploring the woods, for what he didn’t know or care. He had wanted her to suffer as he did, so they had played a trick on her. It had not meant to get out of hand. He had not intended to cause any lasting harm.

Another sob shuddered through him, his face buried in his knees. He had fled – like a coward. He had been too afraid of what he had done, too horrified. He could not withstand the force of his sin. Even now, the image of what he had done was still vivid within his mind, imprinted upon his vision no matter where he looked. Whilst his friends had gaped in shock, he had torn through the woods blindly, haphazardly. He paid no heed to the buckthorn brambles and acacia branches that scraped his arms and knees raw, having no concern for where he was going. Energetic as he was however, Edwin could not outrun his guilty conscience which kept stride with him no matter how fast he ran. It roared in his ears like a great beast, goading and angry, wearing down the poor boy’s strength with its accusations, declaring him a weakling for not facing his fate boldly. Before long, his breathing became shallow and choked and his strides slowed to a stumbling gait. He had collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face as the gravity of what he had done coalesced around him like a cloying fog until he could scarcely breathe.

He knew not how long he had knelt there, wallowing in his remorse, but eventually he had been jerked out of his dark ruminations by the sounds of heavy feet crunching through twig-laden forest floor. Looking up, he saw a tall cloaked individual, a bow and quiver slung across their back, dressed in dark green and brown leather, and the hooded face of a man he thought forgotten. The man was a forest ranger; a hunter of little renown save in Milddemoor. Identifying himself as Ferric, he lived alone in a small hut inside the forest itself, and as such he was recognised solely because he knew the surrounding area and woodland better than anyone else. And whenever Edwin had gotten lost while exploring the woods it had been Ferric who had found him, as he had now.

Ferric had not spoken. According to the villagers he rarely did, and as Edwin had never heard him speak he believed them. He had surveyed Edwin with his shrewd brown eyes for a moment before extending a grubby hand towards the boy, and Edwin, wiping his tear-streaked face on the back of his sleeve, had taken it. Ferric rarely ventured into the village itself except to trade supplies, so Edwin did not doubt he had simply found him by chance. He did not hesitate to wonder at how fortunate he was to have been found – or if indeed it was fortunate that he had been.

They stole their way through the wilderness, Ferric cautiously so with Edwin doing his best to keep up. Darkness had long since fallen, making it difficult to see save through the openings and partings between the leaves far above, where the waning moon cast her lazy light across the forest floor. What struck Edwin was the silence. Aside from the occasional snap of a twig or rustle from a nearby thicket as a wild creature ambled its way through the night, there was an unnerving silence that permeated the air. There was no birdsong; no chirp of insects nor a stirring of leaves in the wind, despite that Edwin felt a breeze wafting gently against his face. The trees stood stolid and stoic, like an unsettling audience, refusing to shift in response to the forces of nature, as though the trees themselves existed outside of it. The very notion filled him with a sense of dread.