New Horizons

Chapter One of “The Elder Ones: Earth Splitter”

The Nair River flows forth from a deep underground lake in the Dragon’s Spine range along a path meandering through the mountains along a floodplain toward the Western Ocean. It finds itself a popular destination for anglers living in the regions around Buulan Fortress and the Denarr docks. This day is no different. The sun shines bright in the early hours of the morn, even though it peeks over the horizon by no more than a narrow margin.

On a small jetty jutting out a quarter of the way across the great river, which flows at a slow pace, stands a solitary figure flanked by two large woven baskets. A single basket holds enough fish to feed a small village for three days. The tails of the catch squirm as the bass and mackerel and the occasional carp as these creatures take their final breaths.

The man between the baskets is stocky for one born under the Kulvaan sky and his gut is more akin to a barrel than the stomach of any man. Fat fingers grasp a thin, yet sturdy pole made of black pine. A smile lies across his face. His burned lips crack and peel from the long years of his routine. He does not seem to pay too much heed to his job, and it is not until the harsh shimmer of something metallic in the water floating toward him draws his attention. He notices the river runs a pale red, and he realises something is amiss.

To elaborate, The Nair River, one of the largest and mightiest across all Terrus, flows with such abject laziness, it seems a wonder it does not stagnate. The waters now entering the tremendous delta of the third greatest estuary of Kulvaan began their journey within the enormous underground reservoir serving as the Nair’s source near five weeks prior to this day.

The fisherman places his pole on the ground and retrieves his long and well-used net. A mighty sword, which appears too heavy to be buoyant, floats toward him with a casual ignorance of the laws of physics. This is no random sword, and anyone with a modicum of historical knowledge would know otherwise. The grip and half of the crossbar of the weapon catches in the net. The fisherman tugs on the metal handle and, in an instant, he finds the blade rather weighty, and this adds to his confusion.

After much cursing and many strained huffs and a bucketload of sweat, the pompous angler drags the sword to shore and lays it in a place where he can get a good look. The sword itself is an unremarkable weapon to the eyes of the fisherman. What he does not realise is the weapon has a long and convoluted history marking it as perhaps the single most legendary blade outside the divine Fang. To most of Terrus, this sword is nothing more than a bastard blade. The Foe Sword, many call it, but to the people of Aylaan, it goes by Tha Claidheamh an Nàmhaid and serves as the greatest relic of a bygone age, crafted by the great smith Mór. The skill of Mór remains unequalled amongst smiths of Aylaan, and until the day comes when one bests her, Mór holds the seat of highest honour in the Hall of Smiths located in the city of Sorcha.

‘Who’s your owner? You’re something mighty, I’ll say. Now, why were you in the river?’ the fisherman says as he inspects the plain handle of the blade.

He places so much focus on his investigation of the sword, his greed and blindness are so great, he does not see the two large bodies float downriver amidst the blood-soaked waters. One body, pale-skinned and clad in dirty rags, lives no more. Almost all the blood in this body now flows downriver, emanating from a deep cut across the throat. A second body bobs a short distance away from the first. This body, dark-skinned with dark hair and an impressive bushy beard, is quite alive. Dents pockmark his armour and where there are pieces which are either broken or lost, the scarred skin of the man sits exposed. The man takes in slow breaths to conserve the last of his energy. With a weak wave of his hand, he starts to drift toward the shore.

Several gulls and other birds cry out overhead in the calm, blue sky. The porcine angler looks around to ensure no one sees him or his new prize. When he feels confident no one is near, he begins to drag the heavy weapon to his oxcart. The biggest issue he sees lies not in the movement of such a large weapon, but how much effort he needs to lift it onto the tray of his transport. He has a firm belief he can sell this blade for a fortune in Buulan. He huffs and chuffs as his face turns a bright pink from the effort he exerts.

At the shore, the dark-skinned man rolls out of the water. He is weak and ill fed, but he somehow musters the strength to first push himself up onto his hands and knees. He coughs up a fit and his blood stains the white silt beneath him a dull crimson. The sun burns what skin is visible on his body. He endeavours to lift himself to his feet and when he does so, he finds himself uneasy. After he spent the better part of a month on his hands and knees as he crawled through the darkness alongside the Nair, even the mightiest man will lose the will to find their feet. Even so, he manages to stand and anyone who sees him will find he is near eight feet tall.

The gleeful fisher cackles as he hauls the second barrel of fish to his cart since he figures he is due for a big payday. He pauses at the back of the wagon to leans down to get a better grip before he hoists the half-load of fish up beside another barrel he already loaded. He pants with a smile before he freezes up. The sword is not where he left it. He feels for it in case he moved it by accident.

‘Where is it? Where did it go?’ he cries out.

The sound of metal on metal calls the fisher’s attention out of the bed of the wagon. He turns around, though not with any great deal of speed. His eyes widen. He gasps when he sees the large, ebony-skinned man standing before him with the tremendous sword in hand. The metal seems to gleam with renewed vigour.

‘Who are ya?’ the large, dark man asks.

‘Please don’t hurt me. I didna mean it, I swear. I though it were a gift from the Great River for one of its humble servants,’ the fisher babbles.

The large man takes a deep breath and nods in the direction of the oxcart. Though the vehicle is old and pieces of the wood bloat in places, it seems sturdy.

‘This yer wagon?’ he says.

‘Yea it is. And, and I can take you anywhere in a hundred leagues, just don’t hurt me,’ the fisher says.

The larger man relaxes with a groan and the tip of his sword embeds itself into the ground with a soft thunk. He peels off his broken gauntlets, the metal splitting apart as the leather straps loosen.

A shame to lose these, he thinks to himself. He speaks his next words out loud. ‘Do ya know where the nearest dock is?’

‘Nearest dock is, um, Denarr. Near the mouth of the river. You can’t miss it. In fact,’ the fisher says and turns to look parallel to the Nair. ‘You can see it from here. It’s about six leagues, as the gulls fly of course.’

The scarred soldier peers into the distance and sees the faint outline of buildings and ships on the horizon. They stand out like towers against the endless stretch of blue beyond.

‘Can ya take me there? And for the love of whatever god ya worship, tell me yer name,’ he says.

‘Oh! Dagur of Heidrun and the son of Orvar. I can do my best to take you as far as I might. It’ll cost you a small fortune though,’ Dagur says and tries to sound tough.

The man with the sword growls and stands upright, as much as it pains him to do so. Muscles in his back flex and bulge against sagging skin. The soldier tightens his bare hand against the hilt of his weapon.

‘Payment ain’t happening. Yer gonna take me for nothing, ya hear me? Else this blade is gonna make its way into yer gut,’ he says.

‘At least tell me your name. I’ll call us even then.’

‘Aeron. My name is Aeron. Now let’s go.’

Dagur races to the front of his cart and mounts it quicker than his stocky frame might suggest. Of course, he must save himself from a fall out of his seat. Aeron rolls his eyes at the sight and hauls himself into the back of the cart. The wood creaks and groans under his mass, whilst the metal frame squeals against the newfound weight bearing down.

With a whistle and a crack of the reins, Dagur’s oxen starts to plod on to Denarr in the distance. The tranquil flow of the river and the rolling waves of the green hillocks make for a serene scene. About a hundred leagues south of Aeron’s location is Buulan Fortress, and it is the place he knows the King would retreat after the massacre of Druusys. For now, Aeron plans to return to Aylaan to recover his strength and plan his next. He bases this on the fact he believes all remains well in his homeland.

Always in the back of Aeron’s mind during the slow trip are his thoughts on what befell his companions after his sudden departure from them. Whatever fate they encountered, the one conclusion Aeron comes to is they still live. The sun is not cruel enough for it to be otherwise.

Aeron smiles and his thoughts go to his immediate future. Vengeance is on his mind now. For too long he left Aylaan to its own devices. He decides no more being idle. Duke Aeron plans to return to Aylaan and take his rightful place as the leader his people deserve.

• Chapter 2 – The Heart of Wilderness