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Chapter 1

Christopher crouched low to the ground. His bare arms pressed against the cool, damp moss, giving him goosebumps. The crisp morning air tossed his curly locks about. He held his breath and crawled noiselessly forward. Peering through the dense fog, he scanned the area around him. The dark pines got in the way of his view and made it even harder to see. Because of the early hour, very few forest animals were awake. All was quiet and still in the wood.

At last, the muffled crunch of other creatures stepping on dead leaves broke the silence. Christopher’s head slowly turned to the left, where he saw a small herd of deer approaching. His prey had arrived. He hastily reached for his bow and singled out one of the stragglers that was limping behind the rest. As he slipped his weapon off his shoulder, he accidentally bumped his quiver. The noise of the rustling arrows made his target look up. Christopher froze. The deer glanced around and then continued to eat.

He let out the pent-up air inside his lungs. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he strung his bow. It was an old bow, given to him by his step father five years ago. He was only ten at the time, and he had treasured it ever since he had received it. Its arrow shelf was raw from extended years of use. The bowstrings were aged and worn, but he hoped they would last until he was done hunting.

He finally strung it and aimed for his quarry. The strings were pulled taught and he was just about to release them when--

SNAP! The bowstring broke and whipped Christopher across the face. He fell to the ground, startling the deer. The herd bounded quickly away. Christopher, now lying on his back, snarled and felt his face. When he brought his hand away, it was sticky with bright red blood. He shouted loudly, scaring even more animals away. His cry had no purpose; it was entirely out of anger. He felt as if all that he had been working for was lost. He realized that now his family would have no meat at all during the winter months. His anger slowly turned to fear. He imagined how angry his step father would be when he came home with nothing. No, not angry. Furious.

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Christopher was still for several moments. He became calm once again; he sighed and pushed himself up. He peered at his newly deceased bow, took it with him, and slowly made his way to a small creek. Because this autumn was warmer than most this year, melted snow was still flowing from the mountains up higher. He scooped freezing water onto his face, not only cleaning his cut but numbing it as well. Christopher drank another scoopful of the cold liquid and gazed at his reflection. Emerald eyes stared back at him, and he ran his fingers through his curly, dark brown hair. He was tall for his age; he was even taller that his step brother, Freed, who was sixteen. He sighed once again and turned to grab his backpack. As he moved, something caught his eye.

A small, green crystal was sitting at the bottom of the creek. It glowed unnaturally under the frigid water. It was not large; only the size of his thumb. He reached right into the icy flow of water to get it. The crystal was not cold like the creek; in fact, it felt warm to the touch. As he held the crystal in his palm, Christopher thought it was getting warmer and warmer. He decided it was just his imagination.

Then his hand got burned. He dropped it. When it hit the ground, the crystal stopped glowing and turned a dull emerald. More cautious now, Christopher reached out and poked the rock with his finger. Nothing.

Confident that it would not hurt him again, he grabbed the strange crystal, slipped it into the bag that was over his shoulder, and began his trek back home.

Chapter 2

It took most of the day to get to the edge of the wood. Like the morning, the forest was calm; yet creatures were awake and calling to each other. Jays were flying overhead; squirrels scurried up trees. A young doe, pursued by her secret lover, bounded through the trees, right in front of Christopher. He breathed in a breath of cold mountain air and stood in awe of the landscape. He had seen the view a thousand times before, but every time he looked upon it, he was amazed by its beauty. He remembered what his mother had told him: “Take in everything you see; savor every moment, every emotion, for it may be gone before you come upon it again.” He heeded her words and took in as much as he could. The orange sun was just about to set on the horizon. From the top of the mountain, he could spot the valley down below. Thin lines of smoke curled from tiny houses in the town of Markenor. As he looked about, he noticed the trees had turned shades of yellow gold, bright red, and dirty brown. Hundreds of leaves swirled around in the light breeze.

Christopher knew he would not be able to make it down the mountain before it got dark, so he set up a small campsite for the night. Dropping his bag under a nearby oak tree, he trudged off the trail to gather firewood. It didn’t take him long to find some. Within minutes, he had a reasonably warm campfire. He crouched down next to his bag and pulled out a small pot, some dried vegetables, and ground up spices. Since the trail he had walked was right next to the creek, he simply strode a few paces and filled his pot with water, then set it on three rocks positioned over the fire. He got the water boiling not long after. He threw the vegetables and spices together and stirred them with a wooden spoon he had brought along.

Leaving his cooking meal alone, he sat back down by his bag and rummaged through it. He pulled out the crystal he found earlier that day. As he held it in his palm, it glowed, yet it did not burn him like before. A strange sensation came over him. He felt energized; it was like lightning was coursing through his veins. He felt like he could run a mile without stopping for breath. The crystal also gave him a heightened sense of the world around him. Every smell, every sound, every flicker of the flame. He was aware of it all. He could even feel the individual footsteps of an ant crawling up his arm. He stared in wonderment at the stone in his hand. “What is this?” he thought aloud.

He held for a moment more, then reluctantly slipped it back into a leather pouch in his bag. After his meal, Christopher stretched out on his back and gazed at the stars. Slowly he was overcome by drowsiness. His eyelids drooped lower and lower every time he blinked. Soon, he was deep in sleep.

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She was the most beautiful young woman Freed had ever seen. Her wavy brown hair went past her shoulders and down her back. She looked like she was far away, and he could not see her face because she had her back to him. From what he could see of her, she was wearing an olive green dress over her small form that went down past her knees. A light wind caressed her hair and played with the edges of her gown. Something in him urged him to get closer, and as he made his way across the meadow, she turned. The first thing he noticed about her was her bright green eyes. They sparkled brightly for a moment, then they changed to an expression of confusion. Her ruby red lips moved as she spoke.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Freed moved closer. “My name is Freed...I thought I was the only one out here.”

“So did I...” her voice trailed off. Freed waited for her name, but she did not speak. He came closer once again and he was surprised when she did too. She swiftly stole to his side and looked deeply at him with the precious stones she called eyes. Her expression was now confident, and he was not afraid to touch her. He lightly placed his hand on her shoulder; she did not flinch or draw back.

“What’s your name?” Freed whispered.

“Freed...” she replied.

“What?” He looked at the young woman. She was staring at him like he was far away.

“Freed...” she repeated, and he realized she was calling to him. He wasn’t moving, but he was getting farther and farther away. His whole world was fading, but he could still hear her voice. In fact, it was getting louder.

“Freed...”

“Wait! No! Stop!” he screamed.

“FREED!”
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Freed woke up confused, and found he was being shaken awake by his father, Arcate.

“Freed! Wake up, boy!” Arcate was acting strange; he was usually an easygoing man, but now his voice was strained and he looked stressed. “Get dressed in your armor, son, and meet me downstairs as soon as you’re done.”

“Why-”

“Freed, there’s no time to explain now. Do as I say.” Arcate shut the door behind him as he left. Not wanting to make his father even more angry, he quickly slipped into his clothes. Then he nervously put on a light mail shirt and his leather bracers and greaves. He was worried, but he tried to keep himself calm as he joined his father downstairs.

Arcate spoke in rushed sentences. “Son, go to the stable and fetch the horse. Then go grab the saddle, and under it, there should be some shields and swords. Bring them to me.” Freed wasted no time getting outside. The night was not yet over. Getting around outside was not easy; it was so dark he could have been blindfolded. He tripped multiple times on his way. Every time he fell he scrambled right back up, not even noticing his bleeding chin. Unlocking the stable door, he made out the shape of the old mare, awake but perfectly calm, standing in her pen. He felt his way around the stable until he came to a bale of hay with the saddle on top of it. Just like his father told him, there were three shields and three swords under it. He anxiously saddled the mare and went back to give the weapons to his father. Freed knew something was wrong when Arcate gave him a shield and a sword back.

“Freed, remember how I taught you how to defend yourself in an emergency?” Arcate asked.

“Yes,” said Freed, “is this one of those emergencies?”

“I’m afraid so,” Arcate paused. “Darabris’ men are here to take over Markenor, and I want you to stay safe, so I need you to leave with Ammet and Drakhen into the woods.”

“Into the woods!” Freed exclaimed, “Are his men going to fight you or something?”

“Possibly, but I don’t know for sure what they want. At this point, we don’t know what could happen either, so fleeing into the woods is the best option for you-”

“But Father! I can fight! You taught me how! I can help defend Markenor,” Freed continued, “and what about Christopher? Aren’t you worried about him? What if he came home and we were all dead?”

“No, son. You must stay safe. And as for Christopher, he’s probably better off than you and I.” Arcate became quiet. “That is all I have to say. Now get on that horse and find Ammet.”

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Despite the fact that Freed knew he could prove he was a man and could fight, he obeyed his father’s will and reluctantly jumped on the horse. He made his way around his house, which also doubled as his father’s blacksmith shop, and into the center of town. Torches were being lit, making the atmosphere more warmer and brighter. The men had just started to crowd in the square and were all facing the same direction. Near the south end of town, there was an army of Darabris’ men, Freed guessed roughly one hundred, approaching. Then something obscured his vision. Freed grunted, pushed back the shaggy blonde mop he called hair out of his face and searched for Ammet and his father. Ammet, being the only boy in Markenor that had dark hair besides Christopher, was not hard to find. He was also dark skinned; unlike Freed, who was as pale as a candlefish scared out of its wits.

“Good, you’re here,” Ammet breathed out a sigh of relief, “I thought something had happened.” Before Freed could say anything, Ammet had noticed his questioning gaze. “My father told me to leave without him. He decided last minute that it was best for him to stay.”

“Frankly,” Freed replied, “I don’t want to leave either.”

Ammet looked down. “Yes, we could have helped.” He paused. A soldier near the front of the army had pulled out a scroll of some sort and was reading it aloud. Freed strained to hear what he was saying, since Ammet and he were near the back of the crowd of men.

“-people of the town of Markenor for committing these detestable crimes: refusing to pay taxes, not giving ten percent of their monthly income to the king’s men, and engaging in trade with other cities without permission from the king. Therefore,” the soldier announced, “the king has been so gracious to give you a choice between your deaths: die defending your town, or die in the prisons of Drallea.” An uproar came from the crowd. Ammet turned to back to his friend.

“We have to stay and fight.” Freed nodded and pulled his sword out of his sheath. The crowd was getting louder by the second, the air filled with the voices of men who took pride in Markenor, and they were not going to give it up so easily. The army before them drew their swords and charged. With a clash of metal against metal and shouts of men all around, the two groups met. The fight for their town had begun. Instantly Freed was alert and ready to strike. He lifted his sword and his voice joined the crowd as he spurred his horse forward.

The battle had not lasted five minutes when Freed noticed several men fall. Good, honest, hardworking men he knew from childhood fell. He had no time to feel any remorse for them, though, for a soldier on a horse came at him from the left and struck. Lifting his shield, Freed blocked the attack, and swung his sword randomly from underneath. Surprisingly, the soldier was struck and landed on the ground, where he was trampled by one of his fellow men. Freed realized he was now near the edge of town. Darabris’ men were pushing them back. He tried to get closer to the center of Markenor, but it was no use.

“Freed!” Ammet was calling to him. He glanced around and found him crouched behind a wagon being used as a temporary barrier. Ammet waved his arms frantically and shouted, “Freed! Behind you!”

Before he could turn around, something struck him in the back of the head. Everything went black.

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