Broken Wings – Chapter One

The sun would rise soon, the horizon glowing a faint pink. The delicate colour outlined the trees to the east, throwing them into silhouette. Razakiel stirred the dying ashes of the fire and was rewarded with a feeble flame that breathed into the darkness. He added a few small sticks and the weak flame slowly embraced the wood as if trying to decide whether it had the energy to burn them. As the glow grew stronger, Razakiel ringed the tiny fire with larger pieces of timber, leaving an area in the middle free of flame. As the fire took hold, he carefully placed three flat, smooth stones like bricks, blackened from repeated use, in the centre of the fire.
      He stretched as he waited for the stones to heat. The predawn chill had lent his weary muscles a certain stiffness, and as he tensed each one they ached in that pleasant way only hard-earned pain can. Razakiel lazily took out his mess kit. It nested neatly together: a square cup and square bowl tucked tidily within a small cooking pan, a fork and spoon within the bowl, and a tidy leather pouch to keep it all together. Unpacking, he filled the well-travelled metal cup with water from a skin and balanced it on the hot stones at the centre of the fire. By the fire, strips of meat from last night’s dinner were hanging from a frame quickly lashed together from twine and straight sticks. Salt and smoke had reduced the strips to dry jerky overnight. He took one of the strips and tore away a mouthful of the now-tough and smoky meat. Chewing slowly, he sprinkled dried tea leaves into the bubbling cup and sat back to let it steep.
      Razakiel grimaced as he sipped the hot tea, waiting for the sun to rise higher. The brew was bitter and boring, but hot; and the mornings were chilly this far north. He had no sugar in his packs; for given the choice of carrying salt or sugar in water-proof vials, salt may save his life. Anyway, if the salt got wet, it could be dried out as good as new, the sugar would just rot. By the time he rinsed the cup, the sun was finally peeking over the horizon, slanted lines of gold cutting the landscape between the loosely scattered tree trunks. He took a battered, leather-bound book from his packs.
      In his lap the journal fell open to where a narrow strip of leather marked a page. Stretched across the two pages was a beautifully inked map. Accurately rendered maps were a rare commodity, especially of wildernesses like this, but this map was accurate and a work of art. Delicate ink lines flowed and twisted, thick and thin with exacting control. Razakiel picked up a narrow pencil, the pressed core encased between two pieces of wood secured with glue made marks as permanent as ink but was far easier to store and carry, even if the quality of the marks was poorer and the lines not as fine.
      He slipped a short bone-handled knife from his boot and sharpened the pencil to a fine point, working quickly and carefully to not crush the fragile charcoal point. Slipping the tiny knife back into its sheath, he examined the map. Before resting the night before he had marked his position as best as he could reckon it, and according to the scale, if he travelled north for the best part of the morning, he should reach the river. Using the pencil like a pointer, he traced the river as it flowed north east towards the sea and tried to decide where he should head next. Three days ago, Razakiel had descended from the World Crown Mountains. He had travelled north over the unchanging landscape, heading for the forest, but had no idea where he would go from there.
      There was not a single civilization marked on the great expanse covered by the map. The terrain was mostly wooded rolling hills reaching in every direction. To the far north, jagged peaks soared high above the trees, protecting the lands from the snow and frozen seas of the frigid north. To the south, the World Crown Mountains separated the northern reaches from the temperate central plains. To the east and west, the trees petered out to cold, sandy shores. He knew that there were elves living out there somewhere, they drew the original this map was copied from; but that was before the Cataclysm of Dragons closed the few passes that had been created through the World Crown Mountains. The nomadic populace of the north had been cut off, and few travellers had risked traversing the World Crown. Those that had, never returned.

* * *

The sun was a little more than half-way over the horizon when Razakiel buried his fire and picked up his packs to move on. He orientated himself north against the rising sun and pointlessly checked his compass. The ancient heirloom swung lazily, but pointed true. The compass lid was stamped with a simple design, a perfect circle raised from the background and a smaller circle depressed off-centre within. He checked the compass more and more as the morning passed, the trees growing closer and obscuring his way. Drawing near to the river, the trunks crowded towards the water source. It was past midmorning when Razakiel broke the tree line and stood on the river bank, squinting upwards, he would guess the time to be about eleven o’clock.
      The river was swift and shallow; the rocky bottom a collection of stones larger than a man’s fist, smoothed by countless years of water buffing them to a silken sheen. He knelt and refilled his waterskins in the clear running water, then he drank deeply, using a cup carved from a straightened horn that he carried on his belt, a gift from his mother when he accepted the post of Templar-Emissary to the wood elves.
      The water was cold, running too fast for the sun to grant it any warmth in its path down from the mountains. Settling in the lush grass by the water’s edge, Razakiel took the map out again and carefully measured how far he should have traveled. Dodging trees along the way had skewed his travel time, but the map was incredibly accurate.
      He was still at a loss as to where to go next, so Razakiel sat in the grass for a little while longer, just letting his mind wander. It was late summer, the trees not yet begun to turn to autumn colours. The spring flowers had already passed, it was the time of grass, the air rich with the scent. Further south, the grass plains would have already dried out and the farmers would be calculating how long they could leave the stalks to dry and still have time to reap the fields for hay. Here in the northern wilds, where the summers were cooler, the grass did not dry out but stayed lush until the winter frosts nipped them back. The warm sun, rich scent, and isolated quiet were like a sedative, and Razakiel found himself starting to drowse.
      A shimmer of movement on the other side of the river caught his eye. Like a mirage, a silver wolf melted from the tree line, watching him as it approached the water. The beast was huge, standing perhaps a full foot higher at the shoulder than the wolves south of the mountains. Never before had Razakiel seen any creature of land or sky quite this colour, not simply white, but something ethereal and glowing.
      Instinctively he froze. He did not want to make any movement that might startle or aggravate the beast before him. He had heard of wolves from winter climes that were white, evil, and possessing fell powers; yet the palpable aura of evil that such wolves would exude was notably lacking from the stunning creature before him.
      Razakiel knew he could suppress that sixth sense about him, the one that detected evil like a change in the weather, but he was not ashamed of who he is and made no apology to those who could detect such ability in him. As he observed the creature, it occurred to him that the wolf was watching him just as intently from across the water, and Razakiel was filled with intrigue. Where did this wolf come from? Were all wolves this far north so large? So white?
      The wolf’s eyes were the same dark green as the depths of the forest, and sparkled with mysterious intelligence. There was a fire about its eyes, like valuable emeralds and darker than sapphires. The beast’s eyes never left Razakiel’s as it moved to the water’s edge, and as slowly as a glacier lowered its head to drink. Absurdly, Razakiel felt as though the wolf was sizing him up, and wondered where such a thought came from. This creature, stunning though it was, was just a wolf; surely it was not that intelligent.
      Even as its pink tongue dipped into the crystal water, the wolf’s eyes remained locked on Razakiel’s. When it had drunk its fill, the massive wolf turned and melted back into the trees as if the man on the other side of the river was inconsequential. Just like that, it was gone.

* * *

Razakiel pondered on the wolf, enjoying the sun for a few more moments. It was unusual for a wolf to be moving alone, especially during the day. Having had no better idea since crossing the World Crown Mountains, he decided to head in the direction the wolf left. A fiendish incursion could have destroyed the pack and driven the wolf to move in the daylight. He was willing to concede that the connection was tenuous at best. The wolf looked uninjured and, apart from an expected suspicion of the intruder, it did not seem all together disturbed. Yet, it was better than sitting in the sun for the rest of the day.
      Razakiel looked up and down along the river, the water was shallow but wide and fast, and he had no interest in getting his feet wet this early in the day. No bridges or fords immediately presented themselves, so with a faint sigh he pulled off his sabatons and greaves, rolling up the legs of the light leather pants underneath.
      Wading across, Razakiel breathed carefully as he navigated the slippery river bed. Top-heavy from his over-sized pack, armour hugged to his chest, the playful tugging of the fast water tried to steal every footstep out from under him. He reached the far side without incident and released a final pent up breath in a brief prayer of thanks, before drying his feet on a soft cotton cloth and replacing his armour. Standing, he settled his packs comfortably again and moved towards the last place he saw the wolf.
      Approaching the tree line, a single arrow erupted from the branches and landed quivering at Razakiel’s feet. Years of training had granted him enough self-control that he did not leap backwards, but his eyes darted to the trees, scanning for the source of the arrow, muscles tensed. The branches swayed innocently in the light breeze, not a single sign betrayed the shooter.
      Mindful of the trees, he pulled the arrow from the soft ground and the rich soil clung damply to the tip. The arrow was made of straight pale wood, the arrow head elegant and narrow with three long and slender barbs. The barbs were wickedly sharp, and if it were not for the delicate and elegant craftsmanship, it would appear to be an entirely cruel weapon. Surprising, the tiny span of distance that lay between effective and diabolical. Spinning the shaft slowly in his hand he counted the feathers on the fletching. Three flights, spiralling towards the end of the arrow, feathers dyed a cheerful yellow.
      The feathered flights were designed to stop the shaft from wobbling in the air and three was more than enough for deadly accuracy over hundreds of yards. He spun the shaft again, the spiral formation was unusual. Spiralled flights on the end of a brutally short crossbow bolt was a favourite of assassins. The spin imparted a whole new level of accuracy on the shot at the expense of distance. At a guess, Razakiel estimated that the spirals on this arrow would give you the accuracy to shoot a man through the eye at a hundred feet even if fired from a shortbow.
      Razakiel thoughtfully stroked the downy-soft yellow feathers and considered that whoever the shooter was, they could have targeted any chink in his armour and shot him dead instead of planting this warning before his feet. The yellow may look cheerful enough, but the wood elves living in the temperate woodlands south of the mountains used yellow as a warning. Colourful arrow flights made for effective and silent communication in the forests; red meant imminent danger, while blue meant that the coast was clear, and black meant “do not trespass here”. Simply put, a yellow arrow meant watch out, and the interpretations ranged anywhere from “you’re not welcome here” to “I dug a pit to trap dinner, watch where you step”.
      Razakiel slipped the beautifully crafted shaft into his small quiver, the arrow was two full inches longer than the wood elf arrows he stowed there. He carried a beautiful longbow of dark stained ash, a parting gift from the wood elves, but he used it only occasionally for hunting, and therefore kept few arrows. If someone was trying to tell him to be careful, he was going to be, but thinking back on the time he spent with the wood elves as long as he was respectful of forests ahead of him he could not imagine himself in danger.

* * *

The shade of the trees was cool, and Razakiel immediately missed the warm sunlight. Ahead of him the trees crowded closer together and he could see that passage was going to be slow. The undergrowth was sparse, not enough light filtered through the thick canopy for much more than moss to grow here. He patted his compass and decided to head north until something happened to change his mind. Moving through the trees he could sense movement on either side, at the far corners of his vision, flickers of green and brown were darting between the trunks.
      Standing perfectly still amongst the ancient trees, Razakiel’s eyes darted back and forth, imagining the flickering to be an illusion of his own movement. The movement did not stop when he did, but no matter how he tried, he could not see anything between the trees. Silently, he berated himself for becoming paranoid and continued on his way.
      Weaving patiently through the trees, checking his compass to stay on his heading, the sunlight and the sound of the stream was soon left behind. It grew dark quickly under the oppressive cover of the trees and Razakiel quickly lost any sense of time. When he could not see more than a few tree trunks ahead of him, he wondered if he should stop for the night.
      Continuing on until he found a tree he thought he could climb, Razakiel pulled himself up onto a heavy branch and tried to climb high enough to find the sky beyond. He knew he was heavier than an elf, especially in his full plate armour, but the way the branches bent dangerously beneath him, threatening to tumble him back to the forest floor, was almost sentient, as if the forest itself wished to defeat him. He was cold and hungry, but the trees were too tight for a fire and Razakiel wondered of pushing into the forest had been a mistake.
      Razakiel carefully climbed down and settled on the forest floor, his back against a tree trunk. He drank, ate, and warily removed his armour, swapping the plate greaves and gauntlets for boots and soft leather gloves. Reaching upward, he tossed a few leather straps over a nearby branch, hanging the sections of plate from the tree so the beautiful elven mithril would not have to sit on the ground during the night. Underneath his main pack are two thick rolls, buckled in place by thick leather straps. Unfastening the larger of the two, Razakiel shook the roll out to reveal a generous travelling cloak. The cloak was designed as if to fit two people inside and is made from the fur of a massive black bear. The undergrowth is soft, despite the gloom, and Razakiel decided to forgo the padded sleeping roll. He wrapped the cloak around his body, fur in, and lay down.
      He woke, stiff from the cold, and had no idea how long he has slept. It was pitch black, Razakiel could not see his own hand in front of his face. The forest was unusually quiet, not a bird nor insect nor animal is making a sound. A light breeze stirred the leaves high in the trees but even that slowly died and silence descended. Razakiel lay motionless in the silence, listening to his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The entire world seemed to hold its breath, waiting. The silence was finally broken by the lone howl of a wolf in the distance. The howl carried far in the stillness, and like a release, the forest burst into life again. The hoot of owls echoed off the tree trunks as they began their hunt, insects chirped into the darkness, and small nocturnal creatures scurried through the dead leaves and undergrowth in search of food.
      Softly through the night came the sound of voices, a melodious chanting. As the chanting rose, the voices were joined by the pounding of deep drums. The beat echoed through the ground, and Razakiel could feel the rhythm resounding through his body, reverberating against his breastbone. Shortly, sweet voices were raised in melody alongside the sound of chanting and drumming. Although he strained, Razakiel could barely make out the words. They seemed to be singing in Elvish and he could catch a familiar word or two, but did not know if it was the trees, the distance, or his weariness making so many of the words sound completely unfamiliar. Soon, the effort drains him and the sweet harmony and the rhythm of the drums lulls him back into sleep.

* * *

Razakiel woke with a start, the curious squirrel on his chest squeaking and bolting up the nearest tree. He sat up slowly, watching the squirrel scold him in chitters and squeaks from the relative safety of a high branch. Reaching for a waterskin, he rinsed the taste of sleep from his mouth, spitting the water against a nearby tree trunk. Faint green light filtered through the trees and he worried about how long he slept. The stiffness in his muscles could simply be from the cold, but Razakiel felt he had stopped early in the afternoon yesterday, and believed that it must be late morning already. Since he woke, the movement between the trees had been ever present, but he tried to put it out of his mind.
      He took the mithril plate down from the tree one piece at a time, wiping the inlaid patterns of platinum and gold with a soft buffing cloth, and checked for errant wildlife before putting each piece on. With his gear secured, a cake of honey biscuit in hand, he checked his compass and began making his way north again. The biscuit was made from honey, grain, and dried fruit, and was dry and sweet and good for travelling. Munching thoughtfully, he considered the sounds he had heard in the night. It was impossible to tell which direction the sounds had come from; if only he knew that then perhaps he could find people out here in this forsaken wilderness.
      Pushing north, he carried on past the point when the light failed and he could barely see a few feet in front of his face. Stumbling, foolish, he spied something in the trees. Pausing, having learnt to ignore the constant movement about him, Razakiel concentrated on the pale form moving through the trees ahead of him. The trees are too thick and he could not make out what it was. Pressing himself between the trunks, no matter how quickly Razakiel followed, he was losing the ghostly form.
      A sick feeling in his gut stopped Razakiel short. Eyes straining, he examined every tree trunk, every gap between, ludicrously looking up into the branches. The ghostly white form was gone and he had no inkling of how long he had been stumbling after something that wasn’t there. He fumbled for his compass, but could not make out the needle in the dark. Collapsing to his knees in frustration, driving the black soil between the delicate inlays of metal in his armour, his lips pulled back in a snarl.
      Razakiel closed his eyes, nostrils flaring even as his mouth relaxes, deep furrows in his brow betraying his struggle to rein in his rampant frustration. When the mood finally passed, he opened his eyes slowly, a firm set to his lips and brow. Opening his tinder box, Razakiel struck a tiny flame to light his oil lamp with a long taper. The compass needle shook until it found its bearings and Razakiel cursed under his breath. Following this mirage through the trees had pulled him off course, for an unknown number of hours he had been heading north-east.
      With a snort of disgust, Razakiel silently berated himself for being so stupid. He settled more comfortably in the undergrowth and tried to think rationally. Setting the lantern firmly amongst the tree roots, he slowly shed his armour, too tired to hang it, leaving it neatly set upon a piece of soft buckskin on the ground. He wrapped his travelling cloak around himself to ward against the cold and leaned against the tree trunk. Taking out his battered leather-bound journal, he let it rest in his lap, open to the map.
      He did not know where he was, and he had not known his location for almost two days, since he left the river bank. Honestly, he did not even know if it has been two days. At almost midday he had first entered the forest, and there had been a period of “night” and one of “day” since then. However, the darkness had far outweighed that of weak sunlight. In the stillness of the forest the flame of the lamp barely flickered. He picked it up and rearranged the shutters, the mirrored insides of the cylinder reflecting the light downwards as he positioned the map directly underneath.
      Razakiel looked at the tightly packed tree symbols that represented his current position. The forest stretched over a hundred miles from side to side, and was tens of miles deep. It would not have been much ground to cover over open terrain, but thick forest was slow going. Suddenly, he missed the warmth of the sun, the cool glow of the moon. Snapping the journal shut again, Razakiel extinguished the light with clipped motions. The darkness swallowed him and he lay down to try and sleep.

* * *

It was dark when he woke again, it was always some type of dark in the forest, but the forest was in motion around him and the songs of the birds sounded like day-time birds. He unrolled himself stiffly from his travelling cloak and shook away the loose dirt and leaves before rolling it up tightly and buckling it into place under his pack. With no set goal in mind, there was no point correcting his course now, so he began making his way north again. There were whispered voices on the wind, at the barest edge of his hearing. Just the fragments of words playing hide and seek amongst the big trees.
      He whistled through his teeth tunelessly to stop himself from straining to catch those words. He knew that they would always escape his hearing, all he could do was block them out, keep his mind from chasing itself fruitlessly. Gradually, along with the rising sounds of the birds, the forest grew lighter and it was easier to move between the trees.
      Something brown and green slipped between the trees to his left. Razakiel did not bother look, there would be nothing there, just the mind-bending constant motion. He thought he had acclimated to it. Mentally shaking himself, even if there had been something there, he would not have been able to spot it. All his years with the wood elves had taught him he could not spot a wood elf moving through the forest unless they wanted to be seen.
      Trying to distract himself, he checked his compass periodically. Razakiel occasionally corrected, but mostly remained on the right course without it. As the day wore on into the monotony of tree, tree, tree, another tree, his mind started to wander, replaying for him the conversation that led him here.
      He was kneeling before High Sentinel Isyndal; the High Sentinel’s right hand woman and Razakiel’s direct command, Sentinel-Commander Katerinn standing slightly behind the leader of the church. Isyndal was speaking, but the words seemed like they were coming from a long way away. He cursed in his head; that man’s lips are moving, why don’t I understand a thing he is saying? He did understand, but the truth of it was he wished he didn’t. If only he could have been struck deaf in the moments before this audience with the High Sentinel he would have welcomed it.
      The High Sentinel’s words of death and pain were grossly out of place in these elven halls, where the beautiful spring sunlight sparkled against the trees and flowers. How could the sun keep shining so brightly? Had it no respect for what had happened here? The High Sentinel touched his shoulder, but Razakiel refused to look at him. Around him, a dozen elven heads were bent in sorrow. He rose, the world around moving in slow motion, and he found the only words he had to say since the High Sentinel first addressed him. “Tell me where to find them,” was all he would say.
      There was an elf standing in his path. Razakiel stopped suddenly, jerked brutally from his painful musings. The elf did not appear to be threatening him directly, in fact he seemed quietly amused by the Sentinel-Templar’s expression, but Razakiel knew that the rapier at the elf’s hip and the bow held loosely in one hand could turn deadly before he could breathe.
      The elf seemed short, Razakiel could not be certain, but this elf was surely no taller than his own six-foot and seven inches. Clad in brown and green-dyed leathers, the elf had a tattoo three elongated hollow diamonds below his left, the mark of a ranger – a warrior of the forests – his hair a rich and earthy green.
      ”Holy Warrior,” the elf announced in his native tongue, “you trespass on our lands.” Razakiel turned his palms outward, holding his arms slightly away from his body.
      ”I am sorry; I have become lost in your lands.” To an elf, his ‘clumsy’ human tongue would never carry the right accent, never pronounce the words quite right, but his accent was well practiced. Even so, he could see in the elf’s eyes a quiet surprise at his fluency. The elf seemed to be sizing him up, as if trying to come to a decision.
      ”Sadly, Holy Warrior,” the elf spoke again. “It is not my decision whether you will survive your journey through our lands.” Though Razakiel understood the elf, but some of the words were unfamiliar, the accent different to the one he was accustomed to. It was not unpleasant, quite the opposite, but suggested a regional difference in dialect. “So I leave the choice in your hands: you may continue your wanderings,” the elf gestures to the forest, “or you may follow me.”

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