Chapter One
Ruskin pulled his pony off the path and headed deeper into the wood. As he pushed through the crystal morning dew that lay thick on the undergrowth, drenched his leggings. He didn’t mind, he often came this way and found the dew of the morning refreshing.
After a while the woodland thinned out to stop at the edge of a small ravine. This was Ruskin’s favourite part of the island. Not many fellow islanders travelled this deep into the forest.
Here steep cliffs lined a wide valley carved out of the bedrock by a mighty river. That was thousands of years ago. Now the flow of water was reduced to a thin trickle that weaved its way round moss covered boulders.
A splash of blue in amongst the valley rocks caught his attention, and he pulled closer to the edge to get a better view. A thin rolling mist obscured his view and, at first, he couldn’t make out what it was. Then he saw the arm – a pale limb that bent itself around a stone. Ruskin pulled the reins of his pony causing the animal to veer sideways and leapt down, his feet crunching into the brown leaves beneath.
The old man lay twisted among the rocks below. A dark crimson stain haloed his head, the blood soaking away into dry gravel. Staring down at the body Ruskin tried to place some kind of recognition on the battered and bloodied face. A cold realisation shot through him as he made the identification – this man was important; not just in his village, but in the whole of the Tennarian nation.
He scanned the cliffs searching for a way down. The sides were sheer, too dangerous to climb. He looked back at his pony, which stood patiently pulling at clumps of woodland grass. A length of twine hung from the saddle. Fetching it Ruskin returned to the cliff edge where he slid the rope through his hand and chewed his lip as a surge of worry entered his thoughts.
Truth was, what could he, just a normal tradesman do to help the old man – the great Sagemaster Nemora? Surely nothing. He should go back for help. Others would be better able to deal with this situation than he.
It took but a second to make up his mind, and deciding to leave, he turned to walk back towards the pony. He took one step when the leaves at his feet leapt into the air, swirling upwards around him until they were spinning wildly round his face. Frightened, he tried to step through the leaves, then backwards. The leaves stayed with him, swirling even faster.
He started to set off in a panic when a high-pitched whisper filled his ears.
“Wait!” the whisper screeched. “Who are you?”
Not knowing what else to do he simply answered back “Ruskin… Ruskin Ravenshead, but who…what are….”
The whisper interrupted him “Don’t leave, I am close to death, you must come down to me.”
Ruskin realised the Sagemaster was doing this. Surely he couldn’t still be alive. Remembering the importance that the Sagemaster held among his people, Ruskin knew he had no option but to obey.
“Okay”, Ruskin answered to the leaves. “I’m coming.”
Instantly the leaves fell down to the ground, not floated down as if the wind had stopped allowing them to zigzag slowly back to earth, but suddenly as if a great hand had flattened them.
Trembling from the experience, Ruskin went back to the cliff edge. Below, in exactly the same position as before, lay the Sagemaster, except that despite all his limbs being smashed his left hand was now held upright and was waving him down. Even from where he stood, Ruskin could hear the sound of grating bones.
He swallowed hard, and finding a broken stump, secured the rope and threw the other end over the ridge. The rest of the ancient tree had crashed into the ravine and lay scattered all the way down the slope. He held on tight and lowered himself over the edge. He was thin, and the arduous daily task of sewing leather had put iron into the muscles of his arms, but even so, the descent was difficult and by the time he’d reached the bottom his arms and legs burned like fury.
Little sunlight reached the bottom of the valley, and a deep silence seemed to seep out of the large boulders of mudstone scattered around. Some of these were huge - a testament to the might of the river that once flowed here.
Peering through the gloom he could see the Sagemaster some distance away, his fractured arm waving as a broken branch might wave in a low breeze. Crossing the stony base of the valley was treacherous, and Ruskin had to pick his way round and over the different sizes of stone. Here and there lay pools of water, green with algae, which managed to add some colour to the dull shades of grey.
He reached the spot where the Sagemaster lay. Up close the damage was hideous. This was no mere fall from the cliff. Anxiously chewing his lip, Ruskin looked round the valley, but there was nothing else around. He looked back down.
The old man’s robes, previously blue and gold were soaked with blood. Ugly, livid red burns scorched one half of his face and most of his beard and hair had been burnt away. It took a while for Ruskin to realise the old man wasn’t breathing and that he was already dead. He stared at the suspended arm and wondered what kept it upright.
He leapt when the lips on the face split apart and words, harsh and whispered, slowly emanated through broken teeth.
“I can feel your presence,” the Sagemaster said. “You are one of the locals.” It was a statement rather than a question, but Ruskin answered it anyway.
“Yes, I am but what…”
“Listen,” the grated whisper came quicker. “My time is short – very short. I remain linked to this body by spell alone, even though all the demons of death are howling round me and clamouring for my soul. There is no time to explain. I have been attacked, attacked by a force greater than any I have ever known. It came from afar – I was not prepared…I did not have time to use the spell…” the voice trailed away became weaker, and then fought back again. “Listen, you must not stay here. Once we have finished you must run – run tell the village and…” his voice failed again.
Ruskin looked round briefly then back down at Nemora. He flinched as the lips wrenched open again with a crack.
“There is too much to tell,” the Sagemaster continued, “but this is my only chance. I have learned all of my knowledge over a long lifetime of study – of Alchemy and Lore, but the greatest power of all is handed down from master to apprentice only at the chosen time of his passing. I was not expecting to die this day…but…” the voice started to trail away and Ruskin bent closer to listen.
“Ah,” Nemora continued, “…that I have to pass it on to one so unworthy, for I do not know whether the power of the spell will kill you.”
Ruskin personally knew Nemora’s apprentice. He sought to reassure the Sagemaster. He spoke to the corpse not being sure whether it could hear him. “This is no problem, great master, for I will pass it on to Threeteal, your mage apprentice.”
“No!” the voice came as a rush of decaying wind through the part opened mouth. Ruskin could smell damp and mould on the exhumed words.
“You cannot pass it on; you are not strong enough to release it. Threeteal is a good boy but he is nowhere near ready – in fact, none of them are. I have no idea what will happen and how the power will progress from you, but I have no choice.”
Ruskin wondered what he would be expected to do with this thing, but he didn’t get a chance to ask, as with a massive rush something plunged into the deep recesses of his mind. He got the slightest glimpse of letters burning with an orange flame etched into his consciousness. Then with a small explosion it sped away, flying into a part of him he didn’t even know existed. The booming thud and flashing lights threw him to the ground, his hands clasped tightly round his head. It took him a few seconds to realise he was screaming.
Eventually, his vision cleared enough for him to clamber shakily to his feet. His elbow ached where it had caught the edge of a rock. He rubbed it and approached Nemora. Whatever part of the corpse that had spoken to him was now gone, dragged back into final shadows. The suspended arm of the body now lay broken across the rocks. The face, so damaged, nevertheless exuded the peaceful persona exhibited by all corpses, no matter how they died.
Ruskin, shaken by what had just happened, stood staring at the body wondering what he was to do next. He instinctively knew he'd been given the most powerful protection of his people and it was not his right to have it. With all the confusion spinning round his head, he looked up.
He froze.
The riverbed here was straight so he could see some distance down the valley. There, far off in the gloom of the forest something came towards him, something nearly as tall as the walls. Thin and gangling, it lurched side to side as it lumbered forward.
On top of a skeletal body rested a tiny head, and even from where he stood Ruskin could see that the eyes sparked with an argent flame. As Ruskin stared the thing leaned back and roared – emitting a noise that careered down the canyon like a massive wave – a shimmering wall of sound rushing towards him.
He had just enough time to dive behind a large boulder before the wall hit, smashing into and around the rock with a sound so deep, so penetrating, that it threatened to reduce his insides to liquid. He retched for breath, fighting with lungs flattened against his ribcage. A red mist rose up behind his eyes and it felt as if his head would explode with the increasing pressure. A bright orange light flashed through darkness of his vision and his vision cleared. The sound wave flew past, but the creature that had emitted it was still there.
Ignoring the agony in his knees and elbows, Ruskin crawled across the stone carpet that lined the riverbed until he made the rope. Then, without even daring to look round, he scrambled up the cliff, fear pumping strength into his arms and legs. Just as he breached the top, another great roar erupted from below and another crushing sound wave shot by just missing his foot as he threw himself over the edge.
Wasting no time, he jumped to his feet and raced towards his pony. As he ran he risked a look down the valley, but couldn’t see enough to tell if the thing was still down there or not. His eyes shifted back to the forest. One of the trees was moving, a tree with long, dangling limbs. Another of those things was coming for him, racing through the trees.
He made the pony and clambered on its back. The pony reared in defiance at being treated so roughly. Ruskin wrestled with it shouting words of encouragement - this was not a good time for the pony to misbehave! Finally, he got the thing under control. Behind he could hear the crashing of trees, the snapping of dry twigs. By the forest, it was close! The hair stood on the back of his neck as he expected to be grabbed at any moment. The pony sensed its impending doom and shot through the trees at a speed Ruskin didn’t even know it was capable of.
A flash of silver smashed into a tree just to one side of him sending branches and splintered wood flying through the air. Ruskin ducked as a branch the size of his leg, flew past.
The pony kept running, making the main path towards Breezenhald, just as another silver flash ignited trees and bushes all around him. Expecting to be killed at any moment, Ruskin riding as fast as he could sped out of the forest and down towards the town.
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