Chapter One by Charles Betts

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Heading north, the rocky slopes of the valley soon become thick with trees. In summer the sunlight only breaks through in patches, casting the woods in deep shadows. But when this story began winter was well under way, painting a very different picture throughout the valley. The pale sky was clearly visible through the long, bare branches, highlighting the woodland floor a harsh silver. Mist hung on the air, obscuring the view through the most distant trees, which appeared as hazy, spectral figures, their shadowed forms fading ominously in and out of sight. An icy stream trickled downhill, winding its way around roots and boulders until it finally reached its destination at the River Asta far below. Throughout most of the winter these parts of the valley were silent apart from the constant glassy murmur of water. At time though the sounds of human habitation would carry through the still air; distant snatches of conversation reaching the attentive, wary ear of a lone fox, or the tuneless whistling of a traveller winding its way throughout the woodland paths.

On a cold afternoon as the year was reaching its conclusion, the frozen atmosphere was snapped back into life by a sudden flurry of wings as a wood pigeon was startled from her nest. As its noise faded into the distance, a dull thud echoed among the trees, repeating rhythmically as it jarred through the silence. Before too long it had ceased once more, and was shortly followed by the loud cracking of a branch being torn free. With casual efficiency Garin cut the twigs from the branch with light downward axestrokes, and threw it gently into the almost full wicker basket. His breath steamed on the icy air as he stepped up to reach a final good-sized limb from the fallen tree. With strong, evenly placed swings he soon cut it free, and the flow of the stream returned as the sole sound of the valley. Garin wrapped his cloak tight around him, pulled up his hood and lifted the basket of firewood to his chest before stepping over the shallow water and setting off home. The route back was familiar enough for him that he could let his mind wander as he picked his way around the undergrowth.

Soon he would be leaving this life behind, trading this simple and honest existence in for something altogether more exciting and dangerous. He would be leaving the country in fact - an idea which both thrilled him and filled him with apprehension. In reality he knew that life over the border could hardly be that different, as it was barely a border at all. His occasional visits into the lowlands had only been remarkable to him in the way they were so un-remarkable. The land was flatter there, and there was a greater variety of peculiar accents, but otherwise life appeared to go by much the same as it did here. But now as the date of his departure approached, Garin looked back on these memories as romantic glimpses into the unknown. He knew the greatest change would not be an issue of nationality, but one of environment - he had never stayed in a city before, well at least not since he was six years old.