A Song Of Freedom || A YA Fantasy story for Lovers of SJM and Sabaa Tahir

Prologue

There was the sound of crying and screaming, echoing around the hills of Windsong valley. Mothers and fathers calling out against the howling wind and the sound of explosions for their young. But above it all, there was the ominous thump of the Tindal soldiers hard iron capped boots.

At the back of the village, a mother crouched down and reached for her young child. Holding the girl close she knew the soldiers would find them, the hills were too open and steep to attempt any kind of flight. She knew her only option. "Eliza" she whispered, "I love you. Whatever happens, remember that. Your Father and I love you more than you could ever imagine."

A melody, or a chant began to flow from the woman's lips, and you could almost see the sound, swirling around the child. There seemed to be no distinguishable words involved either. It was as if she had transformed into something ethereal, emitting a sound so meaningful it didn't need words. It was what we will call a song, a song of protection, of love. And as she sang it grew in power.

Outside the sounds of pain and grief grew loud as the battle drew to a close. At the bottom of the house the woman and girl could hear the sound of orders being given to search the house, and to kill any villager on sight. Time slowed as the cold metal footfalls drew close. And as the song finished, Mother looked at daughter with a kind of pain the girl could not even begin to understand. For the child there was nothing else, all the hurt and pain of outside vanished as her mother stood and faced the door, ready to face down a Tindal soldier for the first and last time. "Eliza" her mother whispered. "You must find your grandmother, she will help you. She lives just over Wirtlot hill. She will explain everything. Don't be scared sweetie, nothing will hurt you." She glanced back to see her little daughter for the last time.

The door flew open in front of her, and her head whipped back around "GO!" she screamed and engaged the soldier in what she knew to be an already lost fight.

With tears in her eyes, the girl scrambled out the small window by her Mother's bed. She was a mere eight years old, so it was an easy fit. Below her, the evidence of a battle lost showed itself. There were people weeping beside the lifeless bodies of their lost fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, friends and partners. It was a terrible sight. On the temple steps there was the body of the village priest, terror streaked across his cold colourless face. And all around, there was the nightmarish sound of the soldier's boots against the cobbled streets.

Running through the streets she felt like a ghost, not a single person or animal even acknowledged her presence. But this did not deter the child. Her mother had said to go over Wirtlot hill. So over Wirtlot hill she went. She ran right to the edge of town before she stopped to catch her breath. Puffing she took in her surroundings. The soldiers had raided this part of town a few hours before they reached hers, the houses were burned and charred. No one had escaped. Behind her she could hear the survivors of the fires being hauled away from the bodies of their loved ones, to be taken away to serve in wealthy Tindel homes.

Slowly, the young girl turned her back on her home and began to make her way up the tall hill.

...

It had been mid-afternoon when she had fled the village, now around five hours later the sun had almost disappeared, but then in the last few rays of sunlight she had left, the shaky legged girl saw something that at her level of desperation, she couldn't believe. There was smoke, fireplace smoke. Running forwards a few metres, she saw steps, leading down towards a small cottage. The child faintly recognised it from a few years back when she had visited her grandmother. The few other times she had seen the old woman it had been at her house in the village. Trembling with relief and exhaustion, the small girl wobbled down the steps to the house.