A Fire Before The Drey

A FIRE BEFORE THE DREY

The Journey of Three Friends

JASON DANIEL COVEY

CHAPTER 1

A chill wind rustled the mighty evergreens, and pine needles fell like snow. Through dusk's orange light, an owl streaked along to higher branches, establishing a hunting perch, while faint music from the local village ghosted through air. Three mountain cats kept pace for a time, dashing away to find easier prey.

And all this while he endured, pressing on despite anguish and chaos, numb defiance filling his heart, acting as both salve and bitter poison. Of course, he did not consider spirit or emotion; instead, he buried his failures deep inside and found a simple joy in his task.

So, he carried the heavy wood bundle upon his shoulders, upright and unthinking, ignoring the bark as it scratched his skin. He narrowed his focus, navigating through rough woodlands, avoiding sticks and stones and cracks in the land. Finally, his cabin came into view, a humble structure painted uniquely green; the last civilized settlement before the Drey.

Just past the cabin proper, at the stone fire pit dug into the earth, Grayson Roselimont let the wood fall. Its collision with rock and dirt muted several fast, unnatural sounds, and he brushed sweat from his brow before surveying the land.

Grayson was an imposing figure, big and tall, fair-skinned and freckled, with a full beard and wavy brown hair. Callouses covered sizable hands, and bulky muscles flexed through clothing. And though hulking, there was a measure of grace in his movements, denoting an ability for flowing motion greater than most.

He took the animal skin ranch hat from his head, removed the matching long coat he wore, and tossed both onto the cut tree stump that often served as a chair. Twin hatchets lay one at each side, carried in a well-oiled sling, and he drew the left, cutting the bundle bindings before tossing many logs into the pit.

After throwing a match to start the fire, he walked measuredly toward the cabin, detecting more stealth movements, not reacting to any of them. They would soon assault him, though he guessed not until he gave them a compromised target.

Drullats -- bastardized, demon-possessed creatures, part werewolf, part elven kind -- lurked about. Stalking him. Craving blood. And they would have it too, though it would be theirs.

At the cabin's backside, Grayson returned the hatchet to its holster. He stepped onto the porch, making a blatant show of it, and dropped the sling next to the door. Then, turning his back to the forest, like he was about to go inside, the Drullats made their move.

Rushing to attack, close now and moving at insane speed, four Drullats enacted killing blows, unleashing knives and spears, swift slices and stabs aimed for Grayson's back.

Diving to his right, rolling along the weathered plank porch, he came to his feet and snatched the walking stick leaning against the wall. Forged from the rare and perhaps supernatural Steeltree, the stick incurred no damage when it met the collective attack, sparking brilliantly when the blades rebounded from it.

The Drullats circled him. Grayson waited no longer to give them his counter. Advancing with incredible speed, he struck the middle Drullat with the stick's butt-end, crushing its chest. Blood gushed from its mouth, and it crashed against the cabin wall, collapsing to the floor.