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SUMMARY: All that we see or seem...

Chapter 1

The Hunt










RESHAL ANDARRO SWORE AN OATH UNDER HIS BREATH AS HE FELT THE coldness of the mud beginning to seep through the stitching in his boots. The recent storms had made the narrow valley almost impassable, mudslides and fallen trees having destroyed many of the trails his father knew. He eyed the ominous clouds that still hung overhead. The sooner they were home the better. A few paces in front of him, he could hear the rhythmic sounds of his father's sword as it hacked a path through the dense foliage. He fingered the leather pouch that hung at his waist, empty save for a few barely-ripe berries. His stomach made a noise like one of the animals they had failed to catch. The harvests in the south had been poorer than expected this year and Governor Mabon had decided that his troops should be fed before the rest of the city dwellers.
His parents had moved to the frontier twelve years ago, when Reshal was five years old, enticed with promises of better wages and more opportunities than the Adraean Heartland had to offer. By the time they made the journey from Adraea to Kordain, his father's arranged apprenticeship to a silversmith had failed to materialise but they decided not to return to the capital. His father said it was because he enjoyed the challenge of building a new life in an exciting land, but Reshal suspected he had simply been too proud to return empty-handed to his hometown.
Bracing himself against a tree trunk with one hand, Reshal strained against the mud, freeing his boot with a loud squelch. It hadn't taken him long to realise that there was nothing glamorous about living on the edge of civilisation. The Governor had been given free reign to appoint the local arbiters as he saw fit and the captain of the town guard was rumoured to be courting his daughter. For a craftsman like his father who was both honest and lacking connections, it was nearly impossible to do business without suffering harassment by the city watch or the local guilds. For Reshal, staying indoors was the best way to steer clear of the street gangs or overzealous guards. As a result, his childhood had been relatively quiet, spent mostly in his father's shop learning the family trade or poring over his mother's books. Up until her death she had worked as a scribe, writing letters or copying Imperial edicts from her sickbed which had to be circulated around the city. She had died with a pen in her hand. Reshal remembered at the time asking why they weren't returning home to bury her.
His father's response crystallised the isolation and hopelessness he felt at that moment; ‘This is our home now son. For better or worse. This is our home.'
Abruptly, the sound of his father's blade ceased.
"Boy! Come here. I want to show you something."
A few paces ahead, Reshal's father stood in front of a large tangle of vines and branches, his shirt and hair soaked from sweat and rainwater.
He had the features of an older version of Reshal, though he was not as lean. Green eyes shone in a round face, framed by tawny curls of hair that poked down from the battered old cap on his head.