Path of Glory: Book One of Boundary's Fall

What is he doing? Jeran wondered, peering down from his hiding place above the stream. From his vantage point, he had a beautiful view of the surrounding countryside. In the distance, the mountains of the Boundary stretched across the horizon, their dark stone absorbing the afternoon light. Sunlight glinted off several snow-capped peaks, the brilliant white contrasting nicely with the dark mountains. South of the Boundary, the land rolled. The season's first wildflowers dotted the hills, which were green with new spring grass.

A stream snaked through the hills, twisting back and forth through the valleys. It passed below Jeran, cutting a line of blue through the otherwise green landscape. From his hiding place, he could hear the quiet babbling as the waters flowed southeast to join the mighty river Alren. Jeran had been coming here to swim when he stumbled upon the stranger.

Below him, lying motionless along the stream's near bank, was a boy. Not just any boy, but a boy Jeran did not recognize. Living as he did in a small farming village close to the Boundary, Jeran did not often see people he did not know. Seeing anything new at all was rare. Squinting his eyes, he crawled forward, trying to get a better view.

The stranger lay at the edge of the stream, bare-chested. His head hung over the water, his left arm submerged nearly to the shoulder. He was motionless, so still that Jeran thought him asleep, or perhaps dead. After a few moments, the stranger jerked his arm, splashing water high in the air. He scanned the nearby bank frantically, but did not find what he was looking for. Uttering a quiet curse, the first sound he had made in all the time Jeran had been observing him, he resumed his original, immobile position.

The stranger intrigued Jeran. Finding a stranger in this part of Alrendria was rare enough, but finding one doing something so peculiar was rarer. Jeran was desperately curious to learn what was going on. He leaned far out over the edge of the embankment. By the time he felt the ground giving away beneath him, it was too late to do anything about it. In a shower of dirt and pebbles, he fell down the hillside.

The fall was not a long one, nor was the slope so steep that he risked serious injury. Nevertheless, overwhelming fear filled Jeran. Before, he had been a silent observer, watching from the safety of concealment. Now, his presence betrayed, he no longer had the security of anonymity. The stranger had certainly heard the ground crumble above him, and he must have seen Jeran tumble down the hillside.

Not having met many strangers in his life, Jeran had only stories on which to base his opinions. The strangers in stories were trouble more often than not.

Jeran finally stopped his descent, arms flailing desperately as he regained his balance. Rolling quickly to his feet, he found himself standing only eight hands away from the stranger. The young man no longer reclined along the bank of the stream, staring into the water. He was now on his feet, crouching low, a stick grasped tightly in one hand, as if preparing to attack.

The stranger was head and shoulders taller than Jeran and more heavily muscled. Long rips ran down his dirt-smeared breeches, and the once-white shirt on the ground was in a similar state of disrepair. The stranger's hair was golden-brown, and though unkempt, it hung to his shoulders in tight curls. Its color matched his almond-shaped eyes perfectly. Those eyes stared warily at Jeran.

A large scar was visible on the stranger's shoulder. It looked like a burn, and, as Jeran stared at the injury, it seemed to take shape, appearing like a bird in flight. For a brief instant, he wondered if burns, like clouds, often had shapes you could see if you looked close enough.