Legend of the Wildfires

CHAPTER ONE - TROUBLE ON THE HOMEFRONT

The sun rose the same way it would on any day, yawning over the horizon and breathing light into the valley. Goat herders were always the first to greet the day and like clockwork, would quickly be followed by wood cutters and farmhands. Sharing the crisp breeze and blue light of the early morning, they would work until noon, at which time the vendors would wake from their slumber and finally shuffle along the dirt road to the towns trading post.

Reed-water was a small, outer city community like any other, poverty stricken and quite unremarkable. It had been founded over a century ago, amid tribal warfare and built deep in the wilderness of Orinloth, the most rural of the twelve realms. The town sat atop a large hill, the poorest of citizens edging ever further down the slope, living out their days in dilapidated shacks and barns. It was a small community in which everyone knew their neighbour, making privacy and secrecy rare commodities. The daily rituals of the crier making his rounds, the sound of axes biting bark, herders whistling in the distance to the scramble of cattle and merchants arduously trading what wares they could profit from, were all too familiar to the townsfolk; no less to Arclan Halnighar.

Yet another day, he thought, his eyes squinting as reality pulled him from a dream. Scattered beams of light broke through the cracks of the panelled walls, the sun forcing him awake as if a hungry child in the morning. Irritated, he laid there a moment, still and quiet like a corpse. Oh, he sighed and opened an eye. No such luck. Arclan felt his days blur in a maelstrom of melancholy, for the unchanging dullness of the town weighed heavy on his heart. He found comfort in the hope of escape, but it would not be this day. Get up, he thought, a promise is a promise.

Yawning obnoxiously and rubbing the burn from his eyes, he pulled himself up from his scratchy straw mattress, while the sounds of the town filled his ears. Arclan looked around his tiny empire; the attic would fail to impress a vagrant, measuring less than the length of two average men and the width of a portly six. Standing upright was a struggle, save for young children, and the jamboree of cobwebs was unsettling. Only a half dozen items decorated the space, kept in conditions that vermin would struggle to call home. A bed with no linen wrap hugged the far wall adjacent the entrance, on its belly a single pillow, frayed and alone, an air of sadness about it. Arclan's coat and boots sat crumpled in the corner while a makeshift table rested in the centre, an old red scarf neatly set on top. Simple things for simple folk. Poor folk. Placing his feet on the floor, he felt cold, warped wood. The harshness of the regions soaking, freezing winters had deformed it over the years, every knot and buckle a testament to Reed-waters survival. Arclan huffed into his hands. A promise is a promise. Get up.

Still groggy from waking, Arclan tried to remember something about his dream. He knew it had been interesting, miraculous even, but save for this he could grasp nothing. Stiff and achy he slowly rose to his feet, a strange smell taking him by surprise. A moment passed before the faint scent became foul stench. With a pinched nose he frantically searched the room, soon realising that the scarlet heap on his table was not the scarf he had first assumed. Rather, it was the remains of his best friends latest gift, some sort of bird, unrecognisable in its butchered state. Its feathers were plucked so precisely that if it had not been for the scarlet trail strewn across the floor, he would have believed it breakfast left for when he woke. 'When I find that beast-' he began aloud but cut himself short. The image of a playful puppy formed behind his eyes, tearing through leather bound shoes and sheepskin gloves, gleeful, innocent and heart-warming. Chuckling to himself, he disposed of the carcass promptly.

Arclan made his way to the pantry, taking pairs of plates, butter knives and a plethora of spices. He carefully prepared several meats and bread, slathering the latter in oil. He placed four pieces of meat on one plate, along with two pieces of the oiled bread and on the other he placed half that number of each, cautious not to waste anything. Half rotten, leftover carrots sat clumped together, unwanted from the previous night. I have a better idea for you.